Tea & Fics

Five, six, no, seven guards just for the gardens, all with armour and all with weapons of various dangers.

His boots, made from soft leather, carefully pressed down on the frostbitten ground, trying to prevent any crunching, his large brown eyes flicking upward as he heard some of the guards engage in idle chit-chatter.

Spotting a window with a candle lit up, Eddie swiftly moved in the shadows, climbing the side of the castle with ease, jumping over the balcony, peering into the room to see if he could sneak in.

Nobody there.

He slowly pried the large balcony doors open, just enough for him to slip through; making sure to close the door behind him.

He seemed to be in somebody's bedroom; large, lavish designs circled on the maroon coloured curtains hiding the bed, drawings of various people were scattered across the desk, and Eddie couldn’t help but be a little impressed by the person's skill.

It was then that the door to his left opened; a bathroom he hadn’t spotted. A man stood there with wide eyes, frozen as he stared at Eddie.

Eddie then lunged for him, grabbing him and slamming him against the wall, hand over his mouth and dagger to his throat.

“I suggest that you don’t scream,” he hissed, his eyes boring into the man’s, “and tell me where my uncle is,” he spat through gritted teeth, blade starting to dig into the man’s neck, causing him to whimper and grip Eddie’s arm in panic.

“I don’t know anything about your uncle!” the other man protested, his large hazel eyes staring down at Eddie, “who the hell are you?!” he was panting in panic now.

Eddie scoffed, his eyes recognising the man before him.

He almost didn’t recognise the Prince out of his fancy robes, without that stupid crown on his head.

“No, people like you never do remember people like me,” Eddie hissed, “now tell me where Wayne Munson is,” he growled, his free hand currently grabbing at the Prince’s luscious hair, pulling his head back, ready to swipe at his throat if he tried anything.

The Prince stilled at the name, a flicker of recognition going through him as he tried to peer under the hood of Eddie’s cloak.

“H-He’s…in the prisons, below the kitchens,” the Prince’s chest heaved in worry when Eddie scowled at the information, his blade cutting into his neck slightly, allowing a little blood to trickle down his skin.

“Take. Me. There,” Eddie ordered, hand still tangled in the Prince’s hair, moving his dagger so it was pressed harshly against the Prince’s back, “NOW!” he snapped when he felt resistance from the other man.

“You honestly think I can just take you there with all of my guards?!” the Prince argued, his face curled up in frustration.

“Listen, Steven,” Eddie sneered, “I don’t particularly care how you do it.” he pressed the blade harsher against Steve’s back. “I want my Uncle back,” he hissed into the other man’s ear, causing Steve to shake a bit in fear.

“A-Alright!” Steve glanced around his room, his hand shakily pointing to his bookshelf near his desk, “The big blue book with the gold on the spine, push it in, it will lead you to the corridor with the infirmary and the kitchens,” he explained, yelping when Eddie pushed him toward the bookshelf.

“You’re coming with me, Steven,” he explained with a deep chuckle. “You think I’m dumb enough to leave you here alone?” he grabbed Steve’s hand and pressed it to the book, the shelf moving like a door, leading to a spiralling stone staircase, illuminated by small lanterns with flickering candles sat inside them.

Steve grunted, slowly walking down the stairs, trying not to slip as he had little movement; Eddie’s hold on him was tight, and he was sure he was going to have bruises on his arms tomorrow, if he lived.

“Even if we get there, I can’t guarantee that you will get your Uncle out,” Steve whispered, shaking as he opened the door of the staircase, revealing a long corridor.

“You’re letting him go, whether you want to or not,” Eddie jabbed the handle of his dagger into his back, “move, now.”

Steve grunted in pain.

Eddie tightened his hand in Steve’s hair, pulling whenever the man looked like he was about to scream to his guards.

“H-here,” Steve gestured to the door, his face screwed up in pain as Eddie pulled his hair again, “he’s in the first cell,” he gasped and stumbled when Eddie shoved him into the prison, shutting the door and leaning against it, letting Steve go.

“What?” came the deep voice of his Uncle, making Eddie’s heart skip a beat, and he felt like breaking into tears. “Eddie,” the older man whispered and weakly reached through the bars to touch his nephew’s cheek. “You’re alive!” he smiled, his eyes sparkling with tears.

“I’m getting you out, Uncle.” Eddie smiled softly at him, allowing his Uncle to pull his cloak hood down, revealing his long mane of messy wavy hair.

“You were a knight,” came the angry voice of Steve and Eddie rolled his eyes as he looked to the side at him.

“Well done, remembered me did ya?”

Steve frowned heavily.

“You were banished.”

Eddie looked away from the Prince, ignoring him in favour of looking his Uncle over, his heart hurting at the state of him, his body thin and malnourished, his hair unwashed and greasy, his eyes tired, his wrists and ankles scarred from the shackles that had been placed on him.

“You’re hurt.” Eddie’s voice was soft, but his eyes were filled with anger as he gripped the bars of the prison, his knuckles turning white.

Wayne waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter; I’m just happy to see you,” he smiled warmly at his nephew, his eyes flickering to Steve, who was standing there unsure of what to do.

Eddie fished around under his cloak, pulling out one of his lockpicks and knelt down before the prison door.

“You can’t just do that!” Steve protested and went to stop him, but the look Eddie gave him made him freeze in his place.

“Go ahead,” Eddie growled, “give me an excuse.” he gripped the hilt of his dagger.

With a loud ‘SHINK’, the door unlocked and Eddie embraced his Uncle, holding him close.

“Putting people away for protesting,” Eddie grabbed Steve by the front of his clothes again, his eyes alight with fury, “you will allow us out of here, and you will keep your mouth shut, do you understand?”

Steve was gripping onto Eddie’s wrists, terrified that if he let go, the ex-knight would somehow kill him.

“I’ll come back for you, and I will not even allow you to realise what the hell is happening if I so much as hear that you have sent guards after us,” Eddie threatened, “nod if you understand.”

Steve gave a short nod, his eyes large and shaking as he looked at the other man.

Eddie scoffed in annoyance and pushed him away.

“Lead us out.”

~*~

“Ed,” Wayne smiled when the younger man placed a hot wooden bowl of soup in front of him, a big wooden spoon that Eddie had made himself sat next to it.

“I’m sorry it’s not anything…better,” Eddie sighed, “could only afford carrots and tomatoes this week,” he then grinned when he watched his Uncle happily slurp the soup down.

“Good, is it?” he chuckled, Wayne, sniggering, nodding his head.

“Very,” he then watched as Eddie threw more logs onto the handmade fireplace, “are you not eating?”

Eddie paused, his teeth pulling at the skin on his bottom lip.

“I’m not hungry,” Eddie mumbled, reaching over to his bedside table and grabbing his dagger, slipping it back onto the belt on his thigh; his cloak soon followed, hood up, boots strapped up.

“Ed, please don’t do anything stupid,” Wayne sighed into his spoon, “You’re already on thin ice with the Prince,” he reminded him, making Eddie grit his teeth.

“The Prince knows shit!” he snapped, his eyes softening instantly when he noticed the worried expression on Wayne’s face, “When they banished me, they told me that it was because I was too considerate, too understanding of the so-called criminals they had in their prisons,” Eddie laughed bitterly.

“Banished for being kind, that’s a new one,” Wayne commented with an eyebrow arched, his heart squeezing at the sight of his gentle nephew so angry and hurt.

“They stripped me of my knighthood and took all the money I had earned…I can’t even feed you properly and I…” Eddie cleared his throat, his eyes tinging, “You took me in when my father abandoned me; I can’t even repay you properly.”

Wayne stood from his seat, pulling the younger man against him tightly, his large, wrinkled hands gripping at the cloak.

“You have nothing to prove to me, son,” he said gently, “you are you, and that is all I could ever ask of you,” he added, “and you don’t need to repay me; having you with me is enough.” he placed a kiss on his nephew’s forehead.

Their little moment of comfort was disturbed by a heavy knock at the door.

“Hide,” he nodded to the bathroom, Wayne quickly disappearing.

Eddie removed his cloak and dagger, pushing it under the bench, before he pulled the door open, frowning when he saw guards from the royal court standing before him.

“Edward Munson?”

“Who wants to know?”

The guard's aged face creased as he glared at the man before him.

“Are you Edward Munson?”

Eddie nodded, his arms crossing over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe.

“You are to have a meeting with the Prince later this evening.” The guard pulled out official papers, handing them over to Eddie, who looked over them with wide eyes, confused.

“This doesn’t tell me why,” Eddie stated, his eyes narrowing at the guard, who just scoffed at him.

“The Prince doesn’t have to explain himself to somebody like you,” the guard snarled, “you either show up, or you will be in prison,” he smirked slightly when he saw the flame of anger burning behind Eddie’s eyes.

Eddie looked down at the paper again, his fingers tracing the signature Steve had signed, his eye twitching.

“Fine.”

~*~

Eddie pulled at his clothes, disliking the fact that his Uncle had put him in ‘fancy’ clothes.

It was too tight around his neck, too small around his body, and he felt like he was suffocating.

He looked down at himself, feeling strange and out of place, though he were in fact more in place than he’d ever been in his life wearing a fancy tunic like this.

“What is your purpose here?” came the voice of a door guard, and Eddie handed him the official paper, his large brown eyes showing how vulnerable he felt without his cloak and dagger by his side to hide.

“Ah, Eddie the Banished,” the guard smirked, shoving the paper back into Eddie’s chest, “surprised you’d have the guts to show your face around here, flowers.”

Eddie nearly bit through his tongue at the nickname, a name that everybody had given him once they found out why he was being banished from the castle, because he was too gentle, too nice, too caring to the criminals.

He wanted to cut this man’s throat; he really wanted to see it.

“Are you going to let me in, or are you going to keep the Prince waiting for his guest?” Eddie spat, his hands curled into fists, his nails cutting into his palm.

The guard bit back his own comment, stepping aside and allowing Eddie through.

“Enjoy yourself, flowers.”

Eddie paused, his eyes staring at the guard as he passed him, fingers twitching as he pictured himself drawing his dagger from his thigh belt and stabbing it deep into the man’s neck.

“I will,” he simply replied and walked into the main entrance, instantly feeling the cold from how the entire room was modelled in marble and stone, his arms rubbing at his sides to make himself warmer.

He had not missed this.

“I assumed you would have skipped this meeting.”

Steve’s deep voice made him look up, his knighthood training kicking in, and he instinctively stood straighter, his eyes watching as Steve came down the staircase in his finery with gold accents across his white outfit.

His jacket vests a matching midnight black with his gloves; his perfectly styled hair looked soft, but his hazel eyes looked sharp and irritated.

“You broke into my family’s castle, held me hostage and made me aid you in breaking out a prisoner,” Steve muttered, standing a few inches taller than Eddie; he used it to look more intimidating.

“You put him in that place for protesting,” Eddie snapped, “which is something that you and your family said was our right to do.” he tilted his head at the prince, his eyes looking him up and down.

“Quite possibly too dressed up for a meeting with a banished,” he arched his eyebrow at him.

Steve glared at him, his gloved hands curling into fists as he led the man into one of his offices, slamming the door shut.

“It may interest you to know that I have several meetings in a day, so this outfit was not for you,” he narrowed his eyes at the man, shrugging his white blazer off of his shoulders, hanging it on the back of his chair, leaving him in a white dress shirt and his black vest.

“It doesn’t interest me, Steven,” Eddie rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and leaning his back against the wall.

“You will address me correctly!” Steve snapped.

“Oh, forgive me,” Eddie replied sarcastically, placing a hand on his chest. “I do offer my most sincere apology.” he then crossed his arms back over his chest again.

Steve desperately tried to keep his composure, wanting to be the bigger man, to not fall for Eddie’s words and give him the reaction he was clearly hoping for.

“You have put me in a difficult position,” Steve sat down on his seat, fingers linked and his legs crossed, “you involved me in your little crime the other night,” he arched his eyebrow at Eddie with annoyance written all over his face.

“Wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t jailed my uncle for using his rights,” Eddie snapped, watching as Steve moved one of his gloved hands to drum his fingers against the desk.

“Irrelevant,” Steve shrugged, a single curl of his hair falling against his forehead, jumping whenever he moved his head, “you were seen,” he scowled at Eddie, watching as the other man slowly started to form a confused expression.

“I’m sorry?”

“Correction, we were seen, and now there’s a selection of people that think I’m in cahoots with you,” Steve’s voice was full of venom, his eyes never moving from Eddie’s, making the older man feel quite unnerved.

“So, you’re being blackmailed, I guess?” Eddie scoffed, his head shaking angrily, “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Steve smirked slightly.

“Congratulations on getting something correct for once in your life,” Steve remarked, placing both hands on the desk as he got to his feet.

“Does it make you feel like the big man, talking to me like that?” Eddie stepped forward. “I was a knight for you and your selfish family, for six years!” he shouted. “I think I deserve some respect from you, Your Majesty,” he growled.

“Six years of you treating our prisoners like they’re like the rest of the kingdom, you mean?” Steve shook his head. “They were in prison, Edward,” he shook his head, “they were scum.”

Eddie gritted his teeth, his hands unable to stop themselves as he grabbed Steve by his fancy vest and angrily slammed him against the wall.

“So, my uncle was scum?” he snarled, “for fucking protesting?!”

Steve grabbed hold of Eddie’s wrists in shock as he almost hit his head against the brick wall.

“My uncle has done everything for me; I will not have some privileged little boy badmouth him!”

Steve gripped the other man’s wrists tighter.

“I meant no offence to your uncle,” he clarified, “I meant the people who murder, who steal, who harm,” he added, his heart hammering in worry as Eddie’s anger remained on his face.

“And yet you put him in the same place,” Eddie slammed Steve once more against the wall, before finally releasing him, needing to take in air from somewhere else.

“Edward.”

“Eddie,”

“Eddie, if you don’t let me talk, then all three of us, me, you and your uncle, could be in danger!” Steve snapped, trying to bring the conversation back to its original purpose.

“Who saw us?” Eddie asked through gritted teeth.

“Multiple guards,” Steve sighed, running his gloved hands through his hair, making it stick up in awkward angles.

“Banish them then?” Eddie replied, not understanding what the issue was.

“I already thought about that,” Steve replied with a sigh, “but unlike your banishing,” Steve’s hazel eyes met Eddie’s, “it isn’t that simple considering the amount of guards who actually saw us,” he tapped his finger on the desk, “my father would rather disown me than lose some of his best guards,” he muttered, closing his eyes as he felt a jab of rejection.

Eddie’s face fell a bit, looking Steve over with a frown; the papers always presented the Royal Family as a close and kind family.

After a moment of silence, Eddie stepped closer again, making Steve tense up a bit.

“If it’s worth anything to you, my father isn’t the best either,” Eddie felt a bitter taste on his tongue speaking about his old man, “there’s a reason why I’m living with my Uncle.” he offered an understanding expression to Steve, who found himself smiling a little at the attempt to make a connection.

“You get to escape yours,” Steve replied, his boot now tapping against the floor, “I serve mine.”

The choice of the word ‘serve’ made Eddie look at him differently, like he was seeing the prince in a slightly more sympathetic way.

“Anyway,” Steve cleared his throat, “they are threatening to tell my father if I do not pay them more money,” he cleared his throat, “I don’t think they realise that the riches of my family stay in the hands of my Father until he dies,” he explained with a slightly exhausted voice, rubbing at his face.

“You don’t have money?” Eddie asked with a tilt of his head.

“I do, just not a lot,” Steve mumbled, “my father just gives me enough for the month, barely more than your average family earns,” he licked his lips, “I’m not trying to sound like I know the struggles of my people,” he quickly stated, realising how he might be sounding.

“So, he keeps you on quite the tight leash?” Eddie’s remark made Steve scoff out a laugh.

“You could say that,” Steve puffed out a sigh, his youthful face looking quite the sight in the gentle flickering from the candlelight in the lanterns scattered around the room.

“Why did you request my attendance today?” Eddie rubbed his temples, having a horrible feeling he was already putting things together.

“I need you to help me kill the head guard.”

Eddie froze, his eyes wide.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

“If we take out the leader, the others will drop the blackmail; they’re cowards without him.”

Eddie felt ill.

“I’m not alright with this,” he pointed out, his hand resting against his stomach as his anxiety began to spike dramatically, “they haven’t threatened me?”

“Oh no, they want to frame you for a crime to get you in jail,” Steve gave him a concerned look, “they want you out the way so they can get to your uncle,” he explained with a slower, more gentle edge to his voice, knowing that the man before him was close to bolting out the door.

“They told you this?”

“No,” Steve shook his head, “I overheard them; the idiots seem to forget how sound echoes around this castle, especially through the vents,” he then leaned his head into his hand, resting his elbow on the desk in thought, “why do they call you flowers?”

Eddie froze, his eyes looking away instantly, and he felt his face burn.

“They like to imply things,” he replied simply.

Steve watched him for a moment, still confused but could see that the man was extremely uncomfortable with his question.

“I apologise,” Steve rubbed at his neck, “I didn’t mean to offend you with that question…I just overheard them call ‘That Munson Man’, flowers.”

Christ, now even Steve was feeling awkward.

Eddie felt like jumping from the top floor, or to be swallowed by the one he was standing on.

But he was also terrified that Steve could figure out what it meant, his heart almost stopping when he realised just how the guards were going to possibly get him in jail.

“Shit,” Eddie felt his panic get to its limit, and he instantly placed a hand against the wall, gasping for air, startling Steve, who rushed to his side in concern.

“Eddie?” he frowned, his hand hesitating a bit, before it came down on the man’s back, his other hand soon following when Eddie’s legs seemed to give way, “Eddie!” he grunted as he lowered the man to the floor gently, his eyes searching Eddie’s face as he watched the man struggle for breath.

Steve quickly rushed to the small bathroom, grabbing a cup he’d used earlier and filling it with water, before handing it to Eddie, kneeling on the floor before him.

“Drink it!” he urged, “try to breathe slowly, okay?” he nervously watched as Eddie’s shaky hands brought the cup to his lips, taking loud gulps of the water, almost spilling it as he then tried to control his breathing, his gasps filling the room.

“Eddie,” Steve placed a hand on his shoulder, making the man look at him, “follow me, okay?” he then took a deep breath in.

Eddie tried to follow.

“And out, through your nose, this time,” Steve instructed him, demonstrating what he meant, even though Eddie was smart enough to know.

The older man followed shakily; Steve and he continued these techniques for a while, only stopping when Eddie stopped almost choking on his own breath, his large, chocolate-brown eyes already shed a dozen tears by the end of it

Steve pulled his glove off and placed two of his fingers to Eddie’s pulse point, checking to see if his heart rate had properly slowed down.

It seemed to spike for some reason, before finally slowing down.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Eddie whispered, feeling embarrassed by his sudden panic attack.

“You can’t help feeling this way,” Steve frowned, extremely confused why the man was apologising, “my mother used to suffer from the same thing,” he pointed out, “I used to help her like this,” he added.

Eddie’s hand was still curled into his shirt where his heart was, his eyes showing sympathy for the young Prince.

“You must miss her?” he asked, not sure if the late Queen was a part of the problem.

“A little, but that’s mostly because of the memories I have of her when I was a child,” Steve got to his feet, pulling his glove back onto his large hands, Eddie’s eyes following the movement.

“I thought the Queen was kind?” Eddie frowned, his throat sore from his attack.

“She was,” Steve replied, “when I was a child,” he repeated, and then offered his hand out to Eddie, who looked a little surprised before he took it, backing up instantly when he noticed how close they were to one another.

“If you wish to tell me what that was all about,” Steve began carefully, “I will listen,” he whispered gently, making Eddie want to squirm and hide into the cracks of the walls.

“If I tell you, you’d want me to be in jail.”

Steve, who finally let go of Eddie’s hand, looked at him in both confusion and worry.

“Eddie?” Steve folded his arms across his broad chest, leaning against his desk with a serious expression on his face. “I just asked you to help me kill a man; I think I can handle whatever it is.”

Eddie scoffed nervously.

“People like me are treated worse than killers though,” he muttered sadly, his eyes finding the floor incredibly interesting.

“I don’t understand.”

Eddie shook his head.

“You don’t have to, it’s not something people like me go around screaming about,” he looked at the flickering lantern for a second, “I will help you,”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“You’ll help?”

“I’ll help,”

Steve, filing their previous conversation away for a later date, smirked a little to himself, holding his hand out to Eddie.

“Partners in crime,”

~*~

“Back again, flowers?” the guard, Thomas, smirked at the door, making Eddie’s anger spike dramatically.

“Fuck you, His Majesty requested me back” Eddie snapped, slapping the papers into the guard’s hand.

“Relax, flowers,” Thomas chuckled in a patronising tone, his eyes looking Eddie up and down like he was dirt on the bottom of his shoe.

“Thomas,”

The guard jumped at the voice, turning around to see Steve standing there in slightly more casual clothing, but still dressed up enough to look presentable.

A black velvet tailcoat with recently polished gold buttons was perfectly fit for him, showing off his broad shoulders and chest, his gloves were white this time, to go with his trousers, his boots were the same as the other times Eddie had come back.

They must be his favourites.

“Your Majesty,” Thomas stood to attention, his eyes a little wide with concern.

“If I hear you bothering Mr Munson again, I will have you removed from your post and put into a lower position,” Steve’s face was stone, “is that clear?” he waited for a few moments, Thomas remaining quiet, clearly a little surprised by the threat.

“Is. That. Clear?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,”

Steve approached the doorway; his eyes still trained on Thomas.

“Apologise to my guest,”

Eddie’s eye snapped to Steve.

“I apologise,” Thomas said through gritted teeth.

“’I apologise, Mr Munson’,” Steve corrected him, using his height to his advantage, making sure to seem as imposing as possible.

“I apologise, Mr Munson,”

“Come on in,” Steve slowly looked away from Thomas, his eyes filled with something that Eddie had never seen on the Prince’s face before. Eddie looked at Thomas with a small, but very smug, smile as he made his way into the palace; following Steve into the same office that they had been meeting up in for the past few weeks now.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Eddie exclaimed when Steve shut the door, making the prince turn to look at him.

“Regardless of the situation, my guards are supposed to be kind to guests,” Steve explained with a shake of his head, “I won’t have him being rude to you,” he then gracefully approached the desk, leaning on it like he’d done many times before.

“Thank you,” Eddie replied quietly.

Steve simply waved his hand at the thanks.

“Forget it,” he smiled at Eddie and the older man felt that annoying rumbling in his chest again, one he hadn’t felt for many years now.

“Now,” Steve sighed, “our target, William, will be on a solo perimeter duty around the gardens in a couple of days,” he reached behind him and showed Eddie a detailed plan of the gardens.

“Now I know you already climbed through our gardens,” he gave Eddie a look, “but since we were spotted getting your uncle out that same area- “

“It’s best to think of a different route,” Eddie finished his sentence, leaning in to look at the rough sketch of the grounds, appreciating the fact that things were labelled and colour coded.

“Exactly,” Steve then used his little finger to point at the rough drawing of the Clock Statue that stood in front of the towering hedges, “behind this statue is a tunnel that I made myself,” he huffed slightly,” I like to get away sometimes and I use this statue to escape,” he explained briefly.

“You?” Eddie asked with disbelieving eyes.

“Yes me,” Steve laughed a little at Eddie’s expression, something that caused that rumble to return to the older man again, “You’re skinnier than me, so…” he looked Eddie over for a moment, “you should be able to fit just fine,” he mumbled, his hazel eyes lingering for a moment.

“I did used to be a Knight,” Eddie pointed out, his elbow playfully nudging Steve’s.

“Yes, but you have always been one of the skinnier Knights,” Steve grinned, “skinnier doesn’t mean weaker, by the way,” he quickly added, his head turning to look at Eddie, their faces a little closer than either man was expecting. Silence fell around the room for a moment.

“Can I ask you something?” Steve cleared his throat a little awkwardly, “when you had your panic attack…” he licked his lips, “I asked you why the guards called you flowers,” he saw the instant panic start to return, “I want to know,” he admitted, feeling curious but guilty at the same time.

“Um,” Eddie rubbed at his neck as he backed up slightly, not noticing the way that the sparkle seemed to dim in Steve’s eyes.

“Eddie,” Steve rolled the garden plans up, neatly putting them back on the desk behind him, “Eddie,” he repeated in a softer voice, approaching the man with careful steps like he was trying to coax a cornered animal out of its cage.

Steve reached out, tentatively touching Eddie’s wrist, watching the other man’s face carefully as his fingers slowly curled around it, his own heartbeat almost deafening him.

Eddie watched Steve anxiously, his lips pressing together to stop himself from biting the skin.

The rumble was still happening in his chest, still letting him know that he was in a lot of trouble.

“It’s okay,” Steve whispered, his other hand coming up to touch the side of Eddie’s face, making sure to keep eye contact, more frightened to touch him so tenderly than he was to kill one of his guards, “it’s okay,” he repeated, his forehead inching closer and closer until it finally pressed against Eddie’s, making the other man let out a breath he didn’t even realise he’d been holding.

“You know,” Eddie replied quietly, his eyes shut tight, “you know why they call me that,”

Steve hummed in affirmation, his small sigh brushing over Eddie’s skin.

“You can say it,” he tried to reassure his friend, his hand squeezing his wrist in a comforting manner, “please,” he added, his eyes watching Eddie’s face scrunch up in fear, looking down when he felt him shake slightly.

“Before I say anything,” Eddie whispered, “you have to know…you have to know that I tried to fix it, I tried to change myself,” he was trying not to cry, Steve could hear the ache in his voice.

“Eddie,” Steve went to continue speaking but Eddie had reopened his eyes, rendering him speechless.

“I…prefer the company of…men,” Eddie cleared his throat, once, twice; trying to pull away from Steve, but the prince kept his forehead pressed to his.

“Please, say it,” Steve whispered, his eyes searching Eddie’s desperately.

“Steven,”

“Edward,”

Eddie let out an annoyed huff, his eyebrows pulling together a bit as he stared back at his friend, his eyes slowly starting to widen as he did so, his hands gripping at Steve’s arms.

“You…” Eddie looked at Steve like he’d just revealed that he could do magic, “you’re the same as me,”

It wasn’t a question and Steve allowed a small smile to appear on his lips.

“I would also, be called flowers,” he whispered, his teeth pulling his glove off his hand, so he didn’t let go of Eddie’s wrist, using his newly bare hand to hold the other man’s face, “is this, okay?” he asked quietly, a little unsure of his actions.

“Yes,” Eddie answered quickly, closing his eyes again, too anxiety ridden to even look at him anymore.

“As much as I hate to admit this,” Steve whispered, “I…” he hesitated, just as new to this as Eddie was, “I find myself thinking about you, all the time,” his voice was breaking as he spoke, fear taking over as he realised that anybody could walk in and he pulled away to shove a chair under the door handle, before returning to Eddie, who looked utterly lost without his touch on his cheek.

“Me too,” Eddie mumbled, his large doe-like eyes watching how the candle lights hit Steve’s hazel, “I thought it was because I wanted to hit you,” he tried to joke, his laugh falling quickly as his heart squeezed painfully in his chest, the rumble of want still there.

Steve removed his other glove, gently cupping Eddie’s face again, “may I kiss you?” he whispered, his voice still thick with fear.

“Steve…” Eddie wanted to run, he wanted to escape and hide and never return.

Steve could see the sheer panic in Eddie’s eyes and stroked his cheeks with his thumbs.

“I will not do anything that you are uncomfortable with, I am not a barbarian,” he pointed out, smiling warmly at the other man, trying to calm them both down.

“Don’t!” Eddie grabbed Steve’s wrists as the Prince went to pull away, making the royal look at him puzzled.

Eddie pulled Steve back toward his body, “don’t leave me,” he whispered, vulnerable.

Steve rest his forehead back against Eddie’s, his nose brushing against the other’s.

“I fear I am horrifically taken with you, Eddie The Banished,” he chuckled, though his tone was filled with dread and realisation that they would have to hide their relationship forever if it went that far.

“Then you and I are the same, Your Majesty,” Eddie replied, before he finally gave up and brushed his lips against Steve’s, making the royal jump a bit, before their lips pressed a little harder, their hands gripping little tighter onto each other’s clothing.

Steve didn’t know how they would ever have this relationship continue, but as he hungrily pressed Eddie against the wall of his office, he couldn’t seem to find a single care, his entire soul being consumed by the man in his arms.

~*~

Eddie had been staring at the fireplace for ages now, biting and picking at the skin around his fingers, feeling like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

His uncle was watching him, concerned that his nephew had been acting stranger than usual, his constant visits to the palace was also something he’d been noticing.

Whenever he even approached Eddie about the issue, his nephew would just shrug him off, a look of fear and anxiety washing over his face.

“Ed,” Wayne announced himself gently, as to not scare the younger man.

Eddie looked over his shoulder, smiling a little.

“You going somewhere?” Wayne asked, eyeing the dagger on his thigh and the cloak covering his upper body.

“Yeah,” Eddie replied in a careful manner, “I…have somewhere to be,” he stood from his stool, his eyes not able to meet his uncles, “I’ll be back a little late tonight…um,” Eddie ran his fingers through his hair, clearly stressed, “there’s some left over soup in the pot above the fireplace,”

“Son,” Wayne grabbed Eddie’s shoulders, “are you in some sort of trouble?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“I’m not, I’m just overthinking things, again,” Eddie forced a chuckle out, “as usual,” he added with a passable cheeky grin.

Wayne’s eyes narrowed at him a little as he tried to read Eddie’s face, something that he’d done since Eddie was just a chubby little toddler, running around in his cloth diapers, a blanket around his neck like Lucas the Brave, the most famous Knight at the time.

“Are you sure?” Wayne placed his hand on Eddie’s cheek, making their eyes meet.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Eddie then pulled Wayne in for a strong hug, his face buried in his shoulder, “I’m sure,” he repeated, pulling away, smiling at Wayne, before shifting his hood onto his head.

“Remember, there’s soup in the pot,”

~*~

Sticks and branches kept getting stuck in his hair, his hands all cut up as he crawled through the hedge tunnel Steve had made with his own body during the many times he’d snuck out of the castle.

Eddie let out a sigh of nerves, his eyes darting around as he stayed in the tunnel, trying to spot his target.

He watched many knights walk through the gardens, his fingers itching as they brushed over his dagger, eyes narrowing instantly at the sight of curly blonde hair, piercing blue eyes filled with arrogance and ego.

William Hargrove.

Eddie looked up toward Steve’s bedroom, waiting for his signal, his breath coming out in shaky rasps as he got into a crouched position.

Steve, on the other hand, was peering out of his curtains, his eyes well trained on William, hand ready with a match and candle.

As soon as the blonde knight entered the back quarter of the gardens, a place that had always been quiet and out of sight, Steve struck the match and light the candle, placing it in the window.

Eddie caught sight of the candlelight, his legs pushing him as he used the shadows to hide, his hood over his head so even if he was seen, his features would be obscured.

He peered into the back quarters of the garden, watching William stand in his designated position, ready to stare into nothingness for a few hours as usual.

Eddie readied his dagger, fingers tingling as he quickly ambushed the knight, his dagger instantly piercing the man’s neck, blood spurting out when he pulled the blade away.

Eddie had killed before; he had been a knight for years.

But this was different, this was for him, for Steve...for his uncle.

William gasped for air as he stumbled to the ground his eyes locked onto Eddie the entire time as the hole in his neck leaked his life out.

Eddie moved closer to the man’s body, his chest heaving as he pulled the man’s face close to his by his bloodied blonde hair.

“All that ego,” he whispered to him, “all that training, and you couldn’t track the banished?” he hummed, amused, before shoving the dying man’s face onto the ground, watching him, making sure that he did in fact die, “not bad for a flower, huh?” he gripped the man’s face, trying to control his anger as he needed to leave the scene.

Steve, watching from his bedroom window, felt his lips quirk upwards, surprised by the amount of attraction he felt for Eddie in that moment.

It made him frown and clear his throat.

He focused on his part in the murder, throwing down a rope as Eddie began running towards the castle, light and quiet on his feet.

As he helped Eddie through the window, he couldn’t help but pull the man in for a passionate kiss, his hands instantly tangling in Eddie’s messy curls, tongue already exploring the ex-knight’s mouth.

“Steve,” Eddie whispered into his mouth, his hands also tangled in Steve’s hair, “I did it, he’s dead,” he looked terrified and that made Steve’s eyes soften, his lips pecking at Eddie’s to try and give him some gentle comfort.

“You were so quick,” Steve said with an impressed expression, “never seen anything so…tempting before,”

Eddie blinked owlishly for a moment, before a grin somehow made its way onto his face.

“Tempting, your Majesty?”

Steve’s fingers stroked his jaw and then under his chin.

“My dear Edward, you looked divine,” he chuckled deeply, making Eddie shiver as he captured the Prince’s lips hungrily, his blood stained clothes slipping from his body as Steve also disrobed quickly, only pulling away to shove a chair under the door handle once again, before grabbing a hold of Eddie and pushing him onto his bed, caressing the other man’s face so softly that Eddie felt his heart squeezed painfully once more.

“Have you done this before?” Eddie whispered, looking up with far too innocent eyes for a fresh killer.

“Not with a man,” Steve’s fingers traced Eddie’s cock, “have you?”

Eddie’s body jumped with pleasure, moaning lightly as he shook his head, “never, that….that goes for both” he confessed, rolling his hips up into Steve’s fist, his mouth hanging open as he gazed up at Steve with a dazed expression.

“I may not have done anything with a man, but I am certain that I can make this good for you…for us,” Steve reassured him, squeezing Eddie’s cock a bit, making the other man have to cover his mouth with his hands to stop the moan echoing around the room.

“Steve,” he panted, “please, just…do it,” he was already, incredibly aroused and flustered and terrified of everything, he just wanted Steve to be with him in that moment, to be close to him.

Steve happily obliged, sucking his own fingers and stretching Eddie’s backside out so it would be less painful for him, watching in stunned fascination as Eddie’s face contorted in pleasure and pain.

Eddie reached downward, cupping Steve’s cock, gently circling his hand around it and pumping him, capturing the other man’s lips passionately as they quietly moaned int each other’s mouths.

“This is incredibly uncomfortable,” Eddie’s voice came out a little shaky, his laughter being the cause, making Steve pause and just watch him. Eddie looked beautiful like this. “I remember reading something a few years-“ Steve was cut off when Eddie suddenly let out a loud moan, his head thrown back into the soft pillows as his hips lifted off the bed at the sudden curling of Steve’s fingers.

“I’m suddenly thankful for the forbidden selection of Literature I have to sort through,” he chuckled, making Eddie whine as he panted against Steve’s arm, his teeth lightly biting at him. “Don’t burn them this time, we…we could use some of them,” Eddie’s lips pressed against Steve’s wrist softly, his eyes closing in bliss.

“Duly noted,” Steve whispered, adding a third finger, watching in utter fascination at the reactions Eddie was having. “S-Steve, please!” he had to cover his mouth, he was getting too loud and the servants would hear, the other guards would too.

Steve had to stop for a second to clear his mind because for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what Eddie was saying please for.

“Get inside of me,” Eddie panted his hand moving to the back of Steve’s head and crashing their mouths together again, the jolt of which sent several books toppling to the floor, thankfully on the rug so the noise was dimmed.

Steve quickly situated himself between Eddie’s legs, his eyes unable to stop themselves from drifting all over Eddie’s body as his former knight sat up on his elbows to watch.

“Don’t be nervous,” Steve whispered, his hand stroking Eddie’s thigh tenderly once he spotted the other man trembling a little.

“I just killed somebody, I think I’m good,” Eddie huffed out, slightly red in the face at the absurdity of the situation he was in.

Steve shouldn’t laugh, he shouldn’t have found Eddie’s comment even remotely funny, and yet he found himself having to bite his bottom lip in order to shut himself up.

“Your Majesty, you should be laughing!” Eddie shook his head at him, his lips curved up into a teasing smirk.

“Ugh,” Steve rubbed at his face, “okay, for future nightly activities,” he sighed, “you aren’t allowed to call me that, ever,” he made an unimpressed face, his hand still stroking at Eddie’s thigh.

“Okay, no Majesty in the bedroom,”

Steve looked at him with a pointed look.

Before he brushed his lips against Eddie’s again, making the other man practically hum.

Eddie let out a pained moaned when Steve began to push into him, making his entire body freeze, his fingers tugging a little too hard on Steve’s hair.

“Are you okay?” Steve whispered, pulling away from Eddie’s mouth to look at him, making Eddie wanted to crawl under the covers.

“Just a new…experience,” he shivered a bit when Steve brushed his nose against Eddie’s, before lightly pressing a sweet, comforting kiss to his neck.

“Focus on my mouth,” Steve prompted, his lips decorating Eddie’s skin with light kisses, his tongue licking up his neck occasionally, hoping that this was a good enough distraction.

Eddie was focused on Steve’s mouth regardless; it was exceptionally difficult to be focused on anything else when the man above him had the prettiest mouth he’d ever seen.

When Steve’s hips finally pressed against him, he let out a loud, long moan.

His mouth quickly being covered by Steve’s hand as his mouth was still busy on Eddie’s neck.

“You have to be quiet, my love,” Steve’s words brushed over his neck so sweetly.

“My love?” Eddie gasped against the palm of Steve’s hand, the Prince’s hips had hit something rather delicious, making his eyes roll to the back of his head, his teeth biting around one of Steve’s fingers.

“Are you not?” Steve whispered, groaning into the bedsheets near Eddie’s head.

Eddie’s arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, pulling him closer to his body.

“If you will-“he grunted, his legs lazily resting around Steve’s waist, “if you will have me,” his hands stroked at Steve’s cheek, their breath mingling as the Prince moved to press his forehead against Eddie’s.

“I will always have you,” Steve whispered, his voice then broke as he moaned, his head dropping onto Eddie’s shoulder.

“And I, you,” Eddie replied, shaking as he felt a fire burning in his stomach, his breathing wild as he tried to keep eye contact with Steve, but found it impossible as he let out a small cry, releasing on his own stomach, squeezing around Steve.

The Prince followed suit, quickly biting down on Eddie’s shoulder as he came, shaking and hips stuttering as he gripped his bedsheets tightly.

“Steve,” Eddie whispered, trying to calm him down, his hand cupping Steve’s face, “Steve, breathe,” his legs didn’t move from around Steve’s waist, needing to be as close as possible.

Steve chuckled through his panting, his face alight with sweat and happiness, lips swollen from their kisses and his eyes showing the loved-up daze he was in.

It was a sight that made Eddie want to cry.

“I love you,” Eddie couldn’t even stop it from leaving his lips, his hands still cupping Steve’s face as the Prince’s hazel eyes widened a fraction.

“Eddie,” Steve brushed his nose against Eddie’s again, “I love you too,”

The knight fell apart in his strong arms, his arm thrown over his face as he tried not to cry too much, his heart hurting and his mind exhausted from the years of trying to pretend to be somebody that he never was.

He was loved; somebody was in love with him.

“Oh Eddie,” Steve cooed, not in a patronising way, but in a way that showed that Steve knew exactly how he felt, having had to hide himself as well, possibly even more so being Royalty.

“I can kiss you,” Eddie rubbed at his eyes, “and hold you and-“ he kissed Steve gently, “though it’s in secret, I finally have somebody,” he offered a watery smile, trying to show Steve that he wasn’t sad, these were tears of joy.

Steve winced as he pulled out of him, wanting to pull Eddie into his chest, his hand comforting the back of Eddie’s head.

“How is this even normal?!” Eddie exclaimed, causing Steve to look at him confused, “I just killed somebody and I’m crying like an idiot because I’m in love with you..” he pressed his face into the crook of Steve’s neck, breathing in his scent.

“Don’t worry yourself with that,” Steve whispered, stroking Eddie’s messy curls, “just focus on me…on us,” he smiled softly when Eddie pressed several kisses to his neck.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Eddie was now grinning against his skin.

Working with Reed…was something else entirely. It was a learning curve, understanding just how the man’s brain worked. Even to this day, you weren’t sure you understood it. Even when things went perfectly, when test runs on prototypes worked out better than you could’ve ever imagined, Reed was never satisfied. Something could always be better, be improved, as if his brain was factoring in the hundreds of thousands of possibilities that could occur and alter your data. You made it work, though–with patience and understanding–you managed to find the best way to work around Reed’s faults and work with him, to support him.

What was supposed to be just a job in the Baxter Building became so much more. Through it, you gained a family you never thought quite possible.

Reed’s wife, Susan Storm, was another one of the brightest minds that you had ever encountered. Kind, compassionate, but fiercely loyal and unafraid to step up to the plate when a challenge arrived, when the people she loved were threatened. You admired her and everything she stood for, the way she carried herself day in and day out. And since the day you had arrived at the Baxter Building, she welcomed you with open arms, as if you had always been part of the family.

Ben Grimm was the most talented pilot you’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. The perfect counter to Reed and his panicky mind at times, having known the man long enough to understand his quirks in a way you could only hope to. Ben was always kind, always open, always ready to lend a hand or be a shoulder for anyone that needed to listen.

Johnny Storm…was the bane of your existence, in the best way.

“Wrong address, sweetheart. The modeling agency is two blocks down. I could escort you over there, if you’d like?”

Those were the first words the hot-headed younger brother of Sue Storm had said to you, passing by you in the lobby of the building on your first day, a wink thrown in for good measure when he’d spoken.

Having followed Dr. Richards' work long enough, which meant knowing bits about his personal life, you were well aware of the reputation that Johnny Storm carried. The papers and magazines, talk shows and gossip blogs, all called him a playboy simply because he’d never been in a long-term relationship but was still a ladies man. You never saw him like that, though. All you saw was a brilliant guy, a lover of space, even if that passion of his was sometimes overlooked because of his ‘love for women’.

And, oh, how you wished his empty, blatant flirting with you didn’t bring a blush to your cheeks every time, or make your heart skip a beat, but it did. Every single time, it did. You weren’t blind: Johnny Storm was objectively handsome and much too charming for his own good, and you decided right then and there that you would use every ounce of your willpower to ignore his empty flirts. You didn’t need to become another girl hopelessly in love with the heartthrob of the Fantastic Four, even if your heart ached when you saw him with anyone else.

Those four had become important to you in ways that you would never be able to describe, but Sue always described it best: a family. 

That’s why when four of the closest people to you in life went up into space for Reed’s exploration mission, and came back cosmically changed forever, you never left their sides. They were your family, and family stuck together, no matter what.

“Reed,” your comment was cautious, hands stilling at your work station in the lab of the Baxter Building. Glancing over your shoulder, Reed was hunched over the machine he’d built in just a day, specifically to monitor the health of the baby growing inside of Sue’s stomach, as Herbie rocked back and forth beside him. “You’ve scanned Sue a thousand times at this point-”

“That’s an exaggeration. I’ve scanned her 123 times-”

“That’s not the point,” he glanced over at you then, looking away the second he saw the pointed look you were throwing at him. With a sigh, you abandoned your work, leaning back against the table behind you to watch him fret over the device. “We have run every test possible, scanned for every data point that links back to the fluctuations in your DNA from the cosmic rays we noted years ago, and we’ve gotten nothing. Your baby is okay.”

“There are still more tests to run,”

Another sigh escaped past your lips, and you allowed yourself to hang your head with a shake.

Since the moment Sue had announced her pregnancy, he’d been like this: even more on edge than usual. Baby-proofing the kitchen, smoke detectors in every single room and hallway, baby gates around every corner, it was getting insufferable. A sweet gesture, overall, and a testament to how much he loved and adored Sue, but exhausting to everyone else that had to be in his presence.

“Fine, but I’m not breaking the news to Sue that you want to scan her…again,”

“I already told her to meet me down here before dinner for another scan. We can adjust the parameters tomorrow. I want another data set from today’s scan at the current parameters to compare the changes with,” Reed never looked in your direction, still fiddling with the machine in front of him. “You’re staying for dinner, yes?”

“I’m making it,” was the response you shot back to him, powering down your workstation in the lab and rising from your chair, crossing the room to stand in front of him. “Apparently Sue has been craving spaghetti, and requested my family recipe.”

“You can’t argue with a pregnant woman,” Reed muttered, just loud enough for you to hear, but he still never looked up. “I’ll see you up there for dinner, then. There’s a few more tests that I want to run.”

“You also have a meeting at 5:45 and one at 6:15,” you shot back to him as you turned to leave the lab, checking the desk calendar lying beside your work station. There was a hum from the man, the smallest acknowledgement you were going to get, so you set your sights on Herbie and waved him forward. “Come on, Herb. An extra hand in the kitchen is always nice.”

As much as you thought of the Fantastic Four as your family, you never stayed for dinner often. You always tried your hardest to uphold the lines between your work life and personal life, not wanting to blur them completely (though, you were sure you had already blurred them enough for it to be too late). There had been plenty of times over the years where you’d stayed for dinner, usually once a month at this rate.

Sue always invited you, and you never wanted to disappoint her, and you gave in often. Ben had a way of wrangling you into saying yes before you were ever given the chance to speak at all. Reed had only asked once, asking you to stay back for the dinner months ago in which they announced to you that Sue was pregnant.

Johnny asked every day. You said no, most of the time, but when you did stay for dinner it was usually because those captivating, bright blue eyes were staring into your soul and pleading with you to stay.

Speak of the devil: there he sat at the dining room table. Clad in a white t-shirt with their logo resting over the pocket and the blue pants of his suit, a weird sight given that you had been in the lab with Reed all day and didn’t think any of them had left to attend to any ‘hero’ work.

You didn’t say a word as you strolled past him into the kitchen with Herbie on your heels, simply plucking the box of Lucky Charms from his hands as you swooped past. It was impossible not to smile to yourself at the scoff of indignation he let out at your actions.

“Hey-!”

“You’re going to spoil your appetite,” you shot back at him, throwing him a smirk over your shoulder before slotting the now closed cereal box into the cupboard where it usually sat.

Herbie beeped out a set of beeps that, over the years, you had come to understand. This time, he was agreeing with you, pointing out some facts about how eating out of the box lacked moderation, and would in turn actually spoil his appetite. You gave the little robot a fist bump for that, something that Johnny shot the little helper a glare for.

“Come on, Herbert, you’re supposed to take my side on these things!” There was no real malice in his words as he got up from the dining room table, rounding into the kitchen as you took the pots and pans that Herbie had gathered for you, setting them out along the counter where you needed them. “Baby, you didn’t tell me you were staying for dinner.”

When you told yourself that you weren’t going to fall into the trap that was the charming and charismatic Johnny Storm, you weren’t prepared for two things.

One: when he got comfortable around someone, he could be an even bigger flirt. Pet names were constant. Baby, sweetheart, honey, doll, love…you name it, Johnny called you it. Constantly. So constantly you were sure the blush on your cheeks was a permanent staple. He’d even once called you his little flame–that had been met with the tip of your heel being dug into his foot.

The second thing you weren’t prepared for: touch. Johnny Storm didn’t understand personal space, not when he was comfortable around you. If you were in the room with him, he was standing less than a foot from you, and you always knew because you could feel the warmth that radiated off his unusually hot skin. His hands would always rest on your arm, your elbow, right at the bottom of your lower back.

Moments like this in the kitchen were normal, and yet they still fried your brain. That simply little pet name, and Johnny’s warm hand ghosting over your lower back, before coming to rest on your hip. Clearing your throat, you gently pried his hand from your body, shooting him a look as you moved around to get the ingredients for dinner, hoping your flushed cheeks didn’t give you away.

“When your pregnant sister has cravings for my personal family recipe spaghetti, I’m required to oblige her,”

“I asked you to make this for me two weeks ago and you refused,”

Johnny followed close behind you, like a little puppy following its owner. You tried, and failed, to contain your smile at his actions. The media might paint him as some sex god (you weren’t going to lie…if he wanted to be, he could be) but you saw him for what he was: the epitome of a little golden retriever at times.

“Well you aren’t a hormonal pregnant woman with super powers,” you shot back at him, taking the opened jar of spaghetti sauce from Herbie’s hand and dumping it into the pot on the stove top, turning up the heat on the boiling pot of water for the noodles Herbie had laid out for you.

“No, but Johnny is a hormonal guy with super powers, who adores your cooking,” bumping his hip with yours, Johnny stole the wooden spoon from your hand with ease, dipping it into the simmering sauce to stir. With that same ease, he leaned down just slightly, leaving a kiss to your bare shoulder that felt as if it had left a brand into your skin. “Johnny also happens to just adore you, and loves when you stay for dinner.”

You had given up on the blush by now. He’d surely seen it enough over the years with his incessant flirting, there was no use in hiding it. Bumping your hip back with him, biting into your bottom lip in a failed attempt to conceal the smile spreading across your lips, you stole the wooden spoon back from him.

“Johnny also talks in the third person too much, and is an insufferable flirt half the time,” he dipped his hand into the sauce, coating his fingers in red as you whacked lightly at his hand, forcing him to withdraw as quickly as he’d dipped in. “What have I told you about doing that!”

He’d laughed, one of your favorite sounds, as you glanced over at him with a bright smile, unable to truly stay mad at him…ever.

That was, until he dipped his sauce-covered ring finger and middle finger into his mouth to lick the sauce clean off, eyes never leaving yours and a smirk curling up on his lips. It forced you to swallow the lump that had formed in your throat and look away as quickly as you could, feeling a different kind of heat swelling in your body: yeah, Johnny knew exactly what he was doing.

“Not sure, baby, that look you’re giving me right now doesn’t scream that I’m insufferable-”

“Oh, that’s exactly what it’s screaming,” you shot back, even with the ghost of a smile pulling at your lips as Herbie readied the garlic bread on the counter behind you. “If you’re not going to help, you can leave this kitchen. I don’t care if you live here.”

Johnny rolled his eyes in response, hopping up onto the counter next to the stove where you worked. You caught the box of noodles he knocked over before they could fall to the ground, shooting him a look as he held his hands up innocently, dumping them into the boiling water pot.

“You basically live here, too,”

“I don’t-”

“Yeah, because you keep refusing the room that Sue prepared for you,”

He…wasn’t wrong. Two years ago, Sue had transformed what was previously the guest room into a room that looked like it had been built just for you. Your favorite color on the walls, a matching quilt set on the bed, and she’d offered it to you. A place to stay, to live, given that Reed sometimes had you in the Baxter Building until the oddest hours of the morning.

You declined, still desperate to keep that line between your work life and your personal life separate, as tempting of an offer as it was. Sue wasn’t slighted by your decision at all, instead offering it to you to use whenever you needed to. There had been times in which you had taken up that offer, a few changes of clothes tucked away in the room on the odd chance that you’d need them.

“This place is your home, not mine,” you didn’t look at Johnny as you spoke, simply shaking your head as you stirred both the sauce and the noodles in their respective pots. “I’m Reed’s assistant, I’m not family-”

“Stop it,”

Even with the heat that rolled off Johnny Storm, every time his bare skin touched your own it sent a shiver straight down the length of your spine. His hand curled around your jawline, thumb and index finger pinching at your chin to force you to look up at him, to gaze into those intense blue eyes and the look on his face that had morphed so quickly from playful to serious.

“Johnny-”

“You are family, whether you like it or not,” the statement didn’t surprise you, it wasn’t the first time in your four years of knowing him that Johnny had said something like this to you, or anyone on the team for that matter. It always made you feel warm inside, though, to hear him say it, to see that loyalty and love for the people he cared about shine through in his words, such a stark contrast to the way the media sometimes portrayed him. “There’s not a thing I wouldn’t do for you.”

That was new. He hadn’t made a declaration like that to you before.

It was something about the look in his eyes as he said it–so genuine, so soft–that had you melting into his touch. His hand curled back up to your cheek, thumb just barely caressing the apple of your cheek, leaving a trail of heat with every swipe of his finger against your skin. Your heart betrayed you, fluttering in that moment like it always did.

These moments used to be few and far between. You didn’t know how else to describe them besides just calling them moments. Over the first few years of knowing Johnny Storm, there were small moments where that empty flirts verged on the edge of something different, something raw and real. But in the last year, they happened more often than they didn’t. Johnny wasn’t pictured out with as many women anymore, wasn’t brazenly caught flirting with anyone with legs and a pulse at events. And in moments like this, even in front of his family, he’d touch you, caress you, speak to you in a way that felt so genuine, that felt like it was real. Like the flirting was no longer just empty, meaningless fun.

That line between your work and personal life might have been a muddled mess, but the line between being Johnny Storm’s friend and something entirely more was practically non-existent now.

“You say that to all your women?” you quipped back, trying to hold your own, even as you were melting inside and your voice came out as a whisper. The playful look on Johnny’s face returned in a second, his fingers instead pinching the cheek he’d just been so softly caressing.

“Never, honey. Those words are reserved for my brother-in-law’s pretty little assistant,”

In typical Johnny fashion, he was able to dissolve and ruin whatever the moment was in an instant with his usual ‘charm’. Swatting his hand away, you returned your attention to the food on the stove in front of you, smiling to yourself as Herbie beeped out a popular song you’d heard on the radio behind you.

“You always have a line, don’t you?”

“Hey, you know what you signed up for, being friends with all this,” he jokingly motioned to his body, and you caught sight of the smile lighting up his face again as you laughed incredulously at his actions. “As part of the package deal, being friends with me, you are legally required to attend movie night in the living room with me after dinner.”

You hummed in response, even if you were smiling the entire time just from listening to him talk.

“This sounds like an impromptu movie night-”

“All of our movie nights are impromptu, babe-”

“I saw earlier that channel 2 is playing The Sound of Music tonight,” you shot back at him, finally looking up at him with an expectant look on your face. “That’s what I want to watch.”

Johnny groaned, throwing his head back and knocking it against the cupboards with a wince on his face. You couldn’t help but chuckle at his overdramatic antics, as usual.

“But channel 3 is showing Psycho!”

“And you dipped your hand–which, god knows where that thing might have been–into my sauce for dinner,”

Johnny opened his mouth to speak, before mulling over your words, and effectively shutting it with a nod.

“You know what, if it gets you to have a movie night with me, then I’ll take it,”

God, you adored this man, more than you should. More than you wanted to. In his presence, especially now, you were pretty sure the smile on your face was a constant, that it would never leave, as you laughed at him once more. 

Finishing off the special blend of additions to your sauce, giving it another swirl with the wooden spoon, you brought it up to your lips for a quick taste. Satisfied, you held one hand under the spoon to keep it from dripping, holding it up toward Johnny.

“Alright, give it a taste,”

His eyes stayed locked on yours, that familiar intensity and warmth in them keeping you locked in place, holding your breath, as he took a quick slurp from the spoon. Smacking his lips together, running his tongue out along his lips, he gave a definitive nod.

“As always…perfection. Though, I expect nothing less from you,”

Before you could retort to his cheesy comment, his hand reached out, eyes still locked on yours, as he cupped your chin once more and ran his finger over your lips. With the slightest of glances down, you saw the small spot of red on his finger, the remnants of the sauce he’d so gently just wiped from your lips.

Glancing back up to those blue eyes you loved more than you cared to admit, you caught the way they finally glanced down at your lips, before looking away as if to not get caught.

“...am I interrupting something?”

As if Johnny had burst into flames and burned you, you jumped away from him immediately the second you heard the voice of Sue Storm across the room. You never even looked back up at Johnny, or turned around to look at the woman by the dining room table, just stared down into the sauce pot as you continued to stir it and the noodles.

“Actually, sis, you very much are interrupting something here,” Johnny called out across the room, and you could see him gesturing with his hands between you both from the corners of your vision.

“Johnny,” you rolled your eyes, glancing over at him with flushed red cheeks from what had just transpired. “Sue isn’t interrupting anything.”

“She kind of is. We were kind of having a moment here-”

“Johnny, we were not having a moment,”

You very much were having a moment, but you weren’t admitting that to him. His ego burned hot enough, no need to stroke the fire.

Sue laughed, rounding into the kitchen as she stopped by Herbie, thanking him and taking the garlic bread tray from him to pop into the oven he had preheated.

“Johnny, why don’t you go get cleaned up for dinner and stop bothering the poor girl. Bad enough I’m making her cook for me, she doesn’t need you hovering,”

The man let out a sigh, muttering something mocking toward his sister, as he threw himself off the counter with dramatic flair. He wasn’t done making your heart race, though, his hand curling around the back of your head as he planted a kiss directly to your hairline, before he disappeared from the kitchen with a pat to Herbie’s head.

The pots on the stove were forgotten as you turned around, simply watching him disappear with an incredulous look on your face. Quickly, your eyes shot to Sue, who was watching you with a smirk as she leaned against the island counter.

“There was nothing happening there,”

“I didn’t say there was,”

“But you’re giving me that look,”

“I’m not giving you any kind of look,” the blonde laughed, stepping up beside you to take the wooden spoon from your hand, tasting the sauce herself with a happy little sigh. “Just…enjoying watching the show from the sidelines, waiting for one of you to make a move.”

“Sue, there’s no move to make. He’s just…he’s Johnny,”

“And Johnny is my brother,” she shot back with a grin. “And Johnny has never been like that with someone, just with you.”

You didn’t get to respond, before Herbie cut in with another series of beeps. Your eyes shot wide as you listened to what he was saying, cheeks flaring an even brighter shade of red as Sue choked on air, laughing to herself at your side.

“HERBIE! THAT’S SO INAPPROPRIATE!”

❤︎

It had been two weeks, and Reed had somehow managed to scan Sue a total of 142 times, now. Sometimes, you wondered how she was able to put up with his hovering, the hovering that had gotten exponentially worse since she announced she was pregnant.

“I’m not getting clear imaging,” Reed called out from the other side of the lab, the only sound in the room being the incessant beeping of the machine he’d built to monitor the baby, and the solder iron in your hand as it worked away on the small device in front of you. You shook your head at his comments once more, adjusting the eye protectors resting on the bridge of your nose as little sparks jumped up as the last piece of the triangular device was finally attached. “I’m going to have Herbie recalibrate this, I don’t like the data output I’m getting, I want a clear image on the next scan. Is the second bridge device ready?”

“Just finished fixing the soldering on the stand, so it should be good to go,” you shot back, tossing your eye protectors down at your workstation, lifting the device carefully and carrying it over to Reed’s station, setting it down with the matching device. “And, once again, you really don’t need to scan the baby again.”

You were met with silence, unsurprisingly. Until, the workstation down the room set off its alarm bell, a familiar tone that had you stand up straighter where you stood.

“New deep space transmission,” there was a hint of elation in Reed’s tone as he said it, quickening his pace across the room with Herbie hot on his trail. “Let’s identify the origin, then record it for further analysis.”

Quickly walking back over to your workstation, your eyes drifted to that desk calendar sitting next to you, and to today’s date: a poorly drawn flame, and the time “2:15” scribbled in a barely legible handwriting that you recognized instantly. Even if you hadn’t, the terribly drawn heart with your initials in it scribbled in the corner would’ve given it away.

“Your analysis is going to have to wait, Reed,” you called out with a sigh, knowing you weren’t the one who put this meeting on the calendar, but you sure knew who had. “You have a 2:15 incoming.”

“2:15? What 2:15?” Reed never even looked in your direction, focused on the new transmission. “You didn’t tell me there was anything on my calendar.”

“Well, I didn’t put this one on the calendar myself, but you must have cleared it at some point…”

Just then, the elevator doors to the lab popped open with a familiar ding sound.

“Ah–Reed!”

Good god, Johnny Storm was trying to kill you. You weren’t even sure if that was an exaggeration at this point, because you wouldn’t put it past him.

Blue looked good on him, it always had, but the navy blue button up he was wearing was doing nothing for your mind that was screaming at you to “keep it professional.” It didn’t help that the first few buttons were already undone, giving a slight peak to his chest. The white chinos–those were the nail in your metaphorical coffin. They had no right to be that tight, and he had no right to look so damn good in them.

“Ah…that 2:15,” you tried your best to conceal your laugh at Reed’s comment across the lab. “Johnny, do we have to today?”

“Johnny, do we have to today? As if I didn’t ask to put it on the schedule,” the blonde man in question mumbled mockingly to himself as he slid up to your side at your workstation as you laughed at his antics. One of his hands grabbed the back of your neck, tugging you closer before you could even think about it, pressing another kiss to your hairline. Suddenly, you felt like you were back in the kitchen weeks ago. “Darling, have I ever told you how breathtaking you look in your lab coat?”

“It’s a white coat, Johnny, it’s nothing special,” you deflected, taking just a short glance up at him before you had to look away, already knowing you were as red as the table beneath your hands.

“But the girl wearing it is-”

“Johnny, do you want to have this meeting or do you want to flirt with my assistant?”

You hung your head with a groan, even as Johnny laughed at the comment from his brother-in-law. His arm slung around your waist, hand settling on your hip as the heat that rolled off his body enveloped you for a moment, letting yourself lean into the side hug he gave you and the squeeze to your hip, before he was gone.

“There’s enough time in the day to do both! No, I had some thoughts about the new suit designs,”

“There are no new space suit designs-”

You glanced over at the pair as they met face-to-face in the middle of the lab, Johnny holding up the sheet he was concealing behind his back.

“You finished them years ago…they have dust on them,” Johnny deadpanned, letting out a sigh as Reed took the design sheet from him. “Look, I get it. You’re going to be a father soon, you’re scared-”

“I’m not-I’m not scared,” Reed cut in immediately, and you could hear the anxious undertone that overtook him immediately at Johnny’s words. Without even having to be summoned, knowing how his brain worked after all this time, you simply shrugged off your lab coat and stalked over to the pair, taking the design sheet from Reed’s hands without a word and placing it on his chalkboard full of equations. “I’m-I’m busy, Johnny. I’m busy. I’m busy, there’s a difference.”

“He means busy on his pace to scan Sue at least 200 times before she gives birth,” you shot back, sending Reed a bright smile that he frowned at, clearly seeing that you were siding with Johnny here. “Not terrified of becoming a father at all, those two things definitely don’t correlate.”

Johnny laughed, smile bright, and it only brightened the one on your face, a tug somewhere deep in your chest pulling on you when he locked eyes with you. Reed snapped your attention back to him in an instant, running a hand down his face as he gestured in Herbie’s direction.

“Just handle the new deep space transmission, please, instead of ganging up on me with Johnny,”

You laughed, heels clicking against the floors of the lab as you joined Herbie’s side as he waited for the transmission to be scratched into the record. There was a woosh of air, the air beside you heating up instantly as a hand found its way to rest on your lower back.

“Have you listened to it yet?”

The smile on your face softened as you glanced over at Johnny, who was staring down at the record in front of you both with pure excitement in his eyes. Beyond the physical moments, his flirtatious moments, these were the moments that had your plan to not fall for Johnny Storm splitting at the seams, if it hadn’t already.

“Seems to be a lot more of the same, just another complex signal,” Johnny left your side, the heat going with him, as he leaned against the blue table behind him. Herbie took the record from its place, rolling over to Johnny to hand it directly to him. “You’re more than welcome to take it with you, give it a listen.”

He twirled the record in his hands with a grin, absentmindedly reaching out to scratch the top of Herbie’s head. That simple little action elicited a giggle, hand coming up to cover your mouth as Johnny glanced up at you with a smirk.

“What’s so funny?”

“Herbie isn’t a dog, and yet you treat him like one,” you explained, stepping up just in front of him and grabbing his hand lightly, stopping the twirling of the record in his hands. “Also, you do know you aren’t supposed to get your fingerprints all over these, right?”

It was Johnny’s turn to laugh as he spun his hand, catching it in his palm and bringing it up to his lips, leaving a scorching hot, but gentle, kiss to your knuckles, sending a shiver straight through your bones. He didn’t even have a retort to your comment, just simply held your hand in his, thumb stroking along your skin, while your entire body flushed with a feeling you wanted to ignore.

“Johnny, what have I told you about flirting in my lab? I need my assistant, we’re trying to run a test,”

The moment was gone in seconds, your hand dropped from Johnny’s as he raced to the other side of the lab, following closely behind Reed and tossing the record onto the closest table.

You could only shake your head with a laugh, walking beside Herbie to join them, knowing Reed would be mumbling to himself the rest of the week about this moment and how much Johnny liked pissing him off.

“Cool! I got time,”

Reed didn’t roll his eyes as you and Herbie joined them back at your workstations, but you could see how much he wanted to. Holding the device you’d just finished off in his hand, you watched in the same awe you had for four years as his arm stretched across the length of the lab, placing it right back beside your own workstation.

“Bridge teleportation test one,” grabbing the notebook lying beside the device that contained your notes on the project, you flipped to a new page, prepared to note down any disparities that occurred during the test, as Reed placed an egg on the newly soldered stand. “Movement of organic matter six meters.”

Johnny grabbed the protective glasses beside the work desk, about to slip them on, before Reed took them with no hesitation and slipped them on himself. The blonde turned to you with an incredulous look that simply drew a laugh from you.

“Those are his pair, you can’t touch his pair,” you teased the man, who simply shot you a wink in return, as you both took the pairs that Herbie was holding out to you both. Johnny gave the little robot a quick fist bump.

Such a simple action that still had you grinning in childlike adoration at the side of his face.

Reed gave you a simple look, confirming you were ready. You gave him a nod, as he took hold of the switch to activate the device.

“Let’s run it,”

The whirring of the machine sounded, three silver beams of energy emitting from the device and encasing the egg within a sphere of energy. There was a shift in the room as that energy grew, as the hum of the machine filled the air, before there was a simple POP–and the egg was gone.

One glance from each of you over your shoulders was enough to confirm that the egg was, in fact, sitting on the opposite platform. Completely untouched and intact.

“It worked!” Johnny exclaimed, gesturing toward the egg.

That’s when the power to the building cut out.

It wasn’t surprising, given the notes you both had taken. The amount of energy that needed to be funneled through the device in order to channel enough energy to actually move organic matter without hurting it was sure to be beyond the energy limits of the Baxter Building. A full power outage…not what you were expecting. Not that you could write that note down in the pitch black of the room.

“Johnny,” Reed’s voice called out in the dark, steady with no hint of any emotion you could decipher in it. The man in question came to life beside you, body engulfed in flames, the flame resistant fabric of his specially tailored clothing working overtime to keep him from being stark naked. He stood with his hands on his hips, and even from the side you could see the smirk curling up on his lips. “Could you reset the breaker?”

You’d known Johnny long enough now, been his friend for enough years, to know him. Know him better than a colleague should. The instant dip in his smirk to a frown was clear, the tension in his broad shoulders, as he tossed his glasses down onto the table. He didn’t spare either of you another look, crossing the room to grab the record.

“Other way-”

“I know,” Johnny snapped, beside his flame engulfed body was on the other side of the lab, flipping the breaker as the electricity of the building roared to life again. The second it did, he was in the elevator, doors shutting without another word.

Neither you nor Reed spoke for a moment, simply looking down at the bridge teleportation device on the table in front of him.

“I’ve upset him,”

Reed didn’t phrase it like a question, he said it like a statement. Both were true, though. Reed always knew when he had upset Johnny, but never how he had really upset him.

You took a deep breath, nodding, as you scribbled a note in your notebook before turning on your heels, stalking back to your own workstation.

“Well, he went out of his way to put time on your calendar just to talk to you about the suits, and you did dismiss him…” you trailed off as you reached your station, eyes flickering back down to that desk calendar beside you. You couldn’t help it, letting your fingers lightly trail over that little heart with your initials, smiling to yourself, wishing it meant more than what it did mean: nothing. “Johnny loves space, he only got to go up once before…this all happened. You can’t blame him for wanting to go back.”

It was quiet for another moment in the lab, before Reed spoke up again.

“You know him well…better than I think I do,”

The flush in your cheeks was inevitable at that, embarrassment flooding you as it was easy for you to read between the lines of what Reed was trying to insinuate.

“I-I just listen to him. I always listen,”

It was quiet again.

“Go check on him,” was all Reed said. “If there’s anyone he’d want to talk to right now, it’s you.”

You wanted to argue, to save the crumbling bits of that wall between work and personal, but even you knew it was too late for that.

Johnny’s bedroom door was just two down from the guest room Sue had offered you years ago, a bathroom being the only thing that separated them. Ben’s room was at the other end of the hallway, along with the nursery where the soon to be baby Richards would sleep.

You may not have stayed in that guest room often, but you’d been in these hallways enough to know it like the back of your hand. To know it like it was your own home. 

There were countless nights, before you’d make the short walk back to your apartment, where Johnny had coerced you into movie nights in his room. He’d never try anything, never push you into something, always leaving the door open to make sure you knew he wasn’t bringing you upstairs for some alternative reason. His room was just quieter, and felt more private. It gave you the chance to see the side of Johnny that the world didn’t get to see.

The space lover, who spent his life dreaming of being an astronaut, of going into space and seeing the stars. He was a thrill-seeker, always wanting to live his life on the edge, to find joy in those rushes of adrenaline. But beyond it all, just a good man. A man who had an entire collection of records lining one wall of his room, organized from his favorite records to his least favorite, even though he claimed there wasn’t really a least favorite. The world got to know the Human Torch, but in  the confines of those four walls, you got to know Johnny Storm. The second you did, you knew your heart was fucked.

You found him in a spot you’d found him in before: leaning against the floor to ceiling windows of his room, staring out at the spaceship he hadn’t stepped foot in for four years. Your heart broke slightly from where you stood in the doorway, able to see the longing that was woven into his frown, that shone through his eyes that never strayed far from the Excelsior.

“You know,” with a few steps into the room, standing beside the record player, you lifted the needle to stop the replay of the foreign language from the deep space transmission that played on a loop. Johnny looked over, a soft smile overtaking his frown at the sight of you, as you kept your own voice soft and light. “I don’t think deep space transmissions are the right background music if you’re going to stare longingly out your window.”

Johnny laughed in a huff, turning on his heel to flick through his record collection.

“And suggestions then for a melancholic moment such as this?”

“Elvis typically has some hits that can set that mood,”

You watched him, the slight shake in his body that hinted he was laughing again, before he plucked a record from the shelves and rose back to his feed. Standing beside the record player with you, he slid it into your hands without another word and plopped into the chair just across from the player.

With care, like you’d done it a hundred times before (you had, right here in this room), you slipped the record onto the player, dropping the needle down as it coasted along the grooves etched into the record.

When no-one else can understand me, when everything I do is wrong…you give me hope and consolation. You give me strength to carry on.

The lyrics settled in you heavily, but it made your body feel lighter. It was impossible not to read into them, to not think too hard about the deliberate music choice that Johnny had made. You couldn’t help that, somewhere deep in your heart where you had buried your feelings for the flaming man years ago, you were hoping these lyrics were a personal message to you.

“Reed send you to check on me?” Johnny asked after a moment, leaning back in his chair, arms folded over his chest as he watched you. Composing yourself for a moment, shoving the flurry of butterflies beating against your chest down, you turned to face him and his blue eyes with a shrug.

“Technically, but I would’ve come on my own,” Johnny hummed, the ghost of a smile on his lips, as his gaze found its way back to the spaceship taunting him just beyond the window. “Come on, matchstick, talk to me.”

He huffed out another laugh, stretching his arms above his head as you tried your best to keep your eyes trained on his face and not drift down his torso. Eventually, his arms settled back across his chest, his gaze still stuck out the window.

“I don’t know…it’s stupid. Last time we went up, we came back with superpowers, trust me, I get that. Now, he’s got a kid on the way. But I know–I know–that he knows how much space means to me. So, when he just dismisses me like that-”

“It makes you feel inadequate? Like you’re a child?” Johnny’s gaze found you again as you shrugged with a light smile. “I’ve worked in an enclosed space with him almost every day for four years, Johnny. He used to make me feel that way all the time, until I realized that Reed’s never trying to make me feel like that.”

“I know he’s not doing it on purpose…doesn’t mean I’m not going to shit talk him in the confines of these walls,” he gestured around the room as you laughed, coming to stand beside his chair, looking down on him as he sighed once more. His hands fell, gripping his knees, as he rubbed them back and forth against the fabric of his pants. “I love space. Simple as that.”

You hummed, bending down beside the chair Johnny sat in so that you were essentially squatting before him, having to look up at him. Hesitation caught you for just a second, your brain actively fighting a war with your heart as you raised your hands, but you ultimately took his hands in yours. 

All it took was a second for your eyes to drift over to the table beside him. One lamp, a stack of books, and the flash of a polaroid photo leaning against those books: a photo of you. Taken at some point in the lab, laughter written across your face, your hand almost blocking a portion of the lens as you tried to stop him from taking the photo. You didn’t even remember it being taken in the first place.

Good god, he was really going to be the death of you.

Eyes quickly back on him, with a little squeeze to his hands, you gave Johnny the most comforting smile you could, even as your heart did somersaults in your chest.

“I know you do. You’ll go back to space, Johnny, I promise,”

His eyes watched your hands, and you could see it on his face: that hint of adoration, that hint of something genuine that suggested it wasn’t all just a game, that you weren’t imaging moments for more than they were.

“What if I don’t?”

“You’re Johnny Storm, I’ve never seen you not get something you wanted before. Especially not something you want this bad,”

His mouth parted just slightly as he hesitated. You watched as his tongue darted out, just barely grazing over the edge of his bottom lip, before you flicked your eyes back to his.

“You’re wrong…I think there’s something I want more. Been trying to get it for awhile, but…she just keeps slipping through my fingers somehow,”

That tug on your heart was back. Your heart was surely beating so fast that it could be heard, hammering against your ribcage, as his thumbs glided back and forth across your skin. You could barely think of a response, too stuck on his words: the closest thing to a confession of any kind you’d heard in four years. Raw, real, genuine.

Johnny stood quickly, barely giving you a chance to potentially think of a response as he tugged you back to your feet. His arm enveloped your waist, your hand falling to his bicep as he still held your other hand in the air beside you both. You weren’t sure now if the flush crawling up your neck into your cheeks was from the moment, or from the heat radiating off of him.

“W-What are you doing?”

“We’re dancing,” he said it as if it was the most casual thing in the world, that usual smirk of his back on his face. Whatever had happened moments before, whatever confession may or may not have been said, was brushed away in an instant, that charming, flirty personality of his back in full force. “Can’t turn on Elvis and not dance, I think that’s a literal crime.”

“I didn’t know you even knew how to dance,”

“Oh, I don’t, Sue’s been telling me for years that I have two left feet,” Johnny shot back, shooting a wink down at you as his hand readjusted its grip along your waist. “Can’t be that hard with the prettiest girl in the building in my arms, right?”

Swaying back and forth, wrapped up in the heat of his body, in the faint smell of the cologne that coated his clothing, you were very certain that Johnny Storm was going to be the death of you.

And when you smile the world is brighter. You touch my hand and I'm a king. Your kiss to me is worth a fortune, your love for me is everything.

Johnny tilted his head back from you by just a hair, and you followed suit. Deep blue eyes, as captivating to you as they were the first time you ever saw them, shone with an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher. If you could, you weren’t sure you would survive knowing. 

Faces just an inch away, the closest and most intimate moment you’d ever shared with the man you knew in your heart was never going to be just your friend, your colleague, you were verging on the edge of making a terrible choice. Of opening the floodgates, of unlocking the feelings you’d buried away so long ago and letting them flow.

“This is an interesting little relationship you and I have, you know,”

Johnny always found a way to ruin these moments, and this was just another example. Lips tugged up into a smirk, mischief swarming his eyes as he teased you, that fleeting moment of raw vulnerability was gone.

Hand slipped from his, body pulled back from his and a roll of your eyes, you turned on your heel within seconds.

“So typical of you, Storm,”

“What-? What did I do!”

You huffed out a laugh, a smile creeping onto your lips even as you tried to keep it at bay, as you threw your comment over your shoulder as you walked toward the door.

“You went and killed the moment, Johnny, as per usual,”

“...so you admit it, we WERE having a moment!”

You barked out a laugh, shaking your head as you crossed through the doorframe. You could never stay mad at him, not when your heart yearned for him in a way you wish it didn’t.

“Come on! At least let me make it up to you. Will you stay for dinner?”

With a final glance cast over your shoulder toward him, you shot him a bright smile.

“If you’re lucky, flame boy!”

❤︎

Yeah, you really couldn’t say no to Johnny Storm.

Not when he’d spoken so sweetly to you, held you so tenderly, and all around just invaded every part of your brain and your heart. To be fair, he barely had to try honestly to do that.

It wasn’t shocking to see Ben in the kitchen, it seemed to be one of his happy places. You weren’t complaining: on the nights you did stay for dinner, and Ben was cooking, you knew you were going home with the best leftovers the city of New York had ever seen.

“Decided to stay for dinner again?” Sue called out toward you with a smile, giving Herbie a pat on the head as he worked away at carving a pumpkin. You shot her a smile in return, pouring yourself a quick glass of water before making your way toward Ben.

“Johnny asked…and I decided to be nice and oblige him,” you didn’t miss the teasing hum that Ben let out, lightly whacking him on his rocky shoulder. Not that it did you any good, hurting your hand more than it would ever hurt him. His laughter was ignored as your eyes lit up, catching sight of the familiar black and white cookies he was dumping onto a plate. “Oh my god, did you go grab these from Maisie’s?”

“Yes,” Ben waved your hand away when you went to reach for the cookies, producing another paper bag and sliding it your way. “These ones are yours.”

The smell that wafted from the bag was enough to have you almost moaning in the middle of the kitchen, eagerly digging one of the cookies out. Maisie’s famous snickerdoodle cookies, the perfect blend of cinnamon and sugar that you had adored since you were a little girl. One bite of the cookie had you in absolute heaven.

“Oh my god, I haven’t had these in ages!” Ben and Sue both laughed at your excitement as you took another bite of the warm cookie in your hand. “How did you know these were my favorites?”

Ben’s smirk wasn’t hard to miss at all.

“Oh, I didn’t. Johnny asked me to pick those up for you,”

It was probably time to accept that blushing around this family was the only thing you were capable of.

Sue’s laughter rang loudest as she rounded the island counter, high fiving Ben as she shot you a pointed look.

“You really have my brother wrapped around your finger without even trying, huh? You know, before I went to get scanned–again–in the lab, I stopped by the nursery to check out the crib progress. Heard a little The Wonder of You from down the hall, thought I’d peek in…”

The groan you emitted could probably be heard from the other side of the country, leaning down to barely bang your head against the countertop. Ben and Sue’s laughter rang through the air again as you looked up, desperately waving your hands.

“I swear, it wasn’t what it looked like-”

“What wasn’t what it looked like?”

Of course, Johnny chose to make his grand entrance at that moment. Thankfully for you, he’d changed out of that ridiculously hot button up. Unfortunately for you, he was still wearing those god forsaken white chinos.

“Your little dance Sue was telling me about earlier,” Ben teased, easily catching your hand as it came up to whack him again in his rough, oversized one. “What’s with the long face?”

“Oh that dance was exactly what it looked like. Thanks for coming to dinner though, sweetheart, glad you like the cookies,” Johnny tacked on a wink in your direction, one you affectionately rolled your eyes over, before his smile was back to a frown. “And what of it, Ben?”

“Sounds like your 2:15 with Reed didn’t go well. I’m sorry, pal,”

From across the room, you could see Johnny’s shoulders move in a huff of laughter as he clapped, bringing down the cabinet shelf that held the same box of cereal you had taken from him two weeks ago. You moved around the island counter, filming your cup with more water before standing opposite of Ben while Johnny made his way back over.

“Hey, I’m fine,” he spoke, though the edge in his words was clear as he did, coming to stand directly at your side. “I don’t mind or anything, it’s just, uh-”

“I hear you, pal. We’ll go to space again,”

“That’s what I was trying to tell him earlier,” you tacked on, bumping your hip with Johnny’s, who quickly did the same back to you.

That smile you adored was back in moments, though, as he dug his hand into the box and produced the action figure waiting inside: a miniature Johnny Storm. His bright grin was turned in your direction as he waved the toy toward you, his signature catchphrase from the cartoon–flame on–ringing through the air as Reed entered the room, greeting his wife by the dining room table.

“They captured my likeness so perfectly, don’t you think?” he quipped, activating the catchphrase once again as you rolled your eyes. “Do you still have the one I gave you a few months ago?”

“Yeah, buried in the junk drawer of my kitchen,”

Johnny feigned shock, pinching your side quickly as you squirmed away with a laugh.

“At least upgrade me to your bedside table so I can be with you while you sleep,” that stupid line was accented with another wink before Johnny thrust the toy in Ben’s face. “Come on, admit it’s cool.”

That catchphrase just kept repeating.

I’m Johnny Storm! Flame On!

Flame On!

Flame On!

Ben grabbed the toy from Johnny’s hand in seconds, crushing it to nothing but dust and blowing it back in Johnny’s face with a smirk. You tried everything to conceal your laughter, but it was inevitable.

“Flame off!”

Sirens rang outside the balcony of the building’s living room. The flying cars of the police force raced past, bathing the room in red and blue lights. The second they disappeared, another squadron flew past in the other direction, the sirens all intermixing in the air.

These were the moments you never got to see often, when the team sprung into action. It was clear in Johnny and Ben alone, how their silly little moment was forgotten as they thrust into action, prepared to go running out of the building into danger. Reed simply held up a hand, shaking his head at the group.

“No, no, it’s alright. This is me,”

Ben and Sue followed Reed out onto the balcony, but Johnny hung back, his gaze stuck on you as you hadn’t moved from the kitchen. He simply tilted his head toward his family, holding his hand out for you. Such a simple move that shouldn’t have kickstarted your heart into what was surely an irregular rhythm, but it did.

The second you were at his side, Johnny’s hand rested at the small of your back, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt just so to tug you slightly closer to his side. Together, you stepped out onto the balcony of the Baxter Building beside Ben, overlooking New York as it was bathed in every corner in red and blue.

“For the past few months, I’ve been tracking a small number of criminal organizations throughout the city,”

You shot a look down at your boss, eyebrow raised.

“That’s what you’ve been doing in that notebook by your desk?” Reed simply waved your comment off, pointing just down the block, fairly close to the area in which your apartment resided.

“47 of them, to be exact. Including the Puppet Master in the Bowery, the Wizard in Gramercy Park, and Diablo in Washington Heights,”

Everyone on the balcony went quiet for a moment.

“You…baby-proofed the world,” Ben finally spoke. Sue’s sigh could be heard from the other end of the balcony as she tried to defend her husband.

“It’s a sweet gesture,”

“It’s a little insane,” you mumbled to yourself, just loud enough for you and Johnny to hear. The blonde at your side simply shrugged, glancing down at you and catching your gaze.

“It’s not totally crazy. He’s trying to protect the things he loves, what’s most precious to him…” Johnny’s lips quirked up just slightly. “I’d do it too…I’d do it for you.”

He said it so…so earnestly. With so much conviction in his tone, as if this was a certainty to him. That protecting not just his family, but you, was something he needed to do. That if it came down to it, he’d do it without a second thought.

“You…you have to stop saying things like that to me, Johnny,” you hated how breathless your voice came out, how wrecked you sounded as you whispered your response back to him, the conversation still droning on in the background between the other three.

The smile on Johnny’s face only widened, his hand slipping around from your lower back to your waist, as he gave you a light squeeze.

“Stop saying what, the truth?”

No, you need to stop saying things that are making me fall in love with you.

Love. That was a word that had only crossed your mind once when it came to Johnny Storm. 

It was two years ago, a week to the day that you had lost your mother, your biggest supporter in life. You stood at that funeral, surrounded by estranged family members you hadn’t spoken to in years, and family friends who wept for your loss. Reed, Sue, Ben and Johnny had come, offered their condolences, paid their respects.

When the others left, Johnny stayed. He stood by your side through the first viewing, never left it during the second viewing, and stood with you in the pouring rain an hour after they’d put her in the ground. You had cried, he held you, and he’d simply never left you alone that day. The colleague that had quickly become a friend, who flirted with you every chance he got, never uttered a single flirtatious comment that day. He’d simply been there, been the shoulder you needed.

That was the day you realized you may have fallen in love with the one man you told yourself not to fall in love with, and you buried those feelings in your heart for what you thought would be forever.

“Stuck in your head over there? Come on, it’s dinner time,”

Ben’s voice broke you from your stupor. The team had all started to make their way inside while you were left at the balcony railing, hands white knuckled on top of the rail. 

Johnny’s hand was held out toward you, and you ignored every part of your brain that told you not to and slipped your hand into his, letting him pull you back in toward the living room.

That’s what their watches all went off, alerts blaring in sync with one another.

It was like a firework went off, a boom shattering the night air of the city. The clouds, the sky, were painted in gold, streaks of meteors and debris crossing the sky as they fell to the earth. The sound that emitted from the golden cloud that stretched across the sky, bathing the city in its light, felt…otherwordly. Like a scream, like a warning.

A warm hand enveloped your face, turning your wide eyes away from the scene.

There were very few times you saw Johnny as serious as he was now. Jaw locked, eyes narrowed but still soft as they looked at you, the cascades of gold shone over his face, highlighting his features as another boom sounded off in the distance.

“Go inside, don’t come out,”

Words were caught in your throat. All you could manage was a nod, his thumb doing a single swipe over your cheek, before he patted Reed on the shoulder and launched himself over the railing and into the air, igniting himself as he went.

If not for the moment, you would have stopped to admire him as he flew, bathed in the reds and oranges of his fire. You were awestruck every time you got to witness those cosmic powers firsthand.

Reed, Sue, and Ben had followed not long after, as you could hear the familiar whirled of their car through the air, chasing after Johnny through the city, following whatever had just appeared from the sky.

You? You sat on the living room couch, wringing your hands together to keep them from shaking. You’d been there as they had dealt with Red Ghost, or even Moleman, but this? 

This was different. This was otherworldly. This was terrifying. And when Herbie flipped the switch of the television, rolling to your side, you were greeted with the sight of the silver alien woman hovering in Times Square for the first time.

“Your planet is now marked for death. Your world will be consumed by the devourer,” 

Her voice sent a single chill down the column of your spine. Herbie’s robotic hand reached out for yours, ceasing the endless wringing of your hands together. You took it without hesitation, though you wished in your heart it was someone else’s hand holding yours in this moment.

“Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak. Use this time to rejoice, and celebrate, for your time is short. I herald his beginning…I herald your end…I herald, Galactus.”

And thus began the longest night of your life since the day your colleagues went into space and came back forever changed.

Sending the team into space was the only option, to confront this mystery at its source. Reed had given you the basics in passing: the threat was real, there was documentation of plants across the universe disappearing entirely, the chrome woman’s signature left on each of them. He’d tasked you to the launch team, to prepare Excelsior for launch in T-16 hours.

Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak.

Those words rattled around your brain the entire night, into the wee hours of the morning. Even as you helped Lynn set up the press conference, as you conferred with the launch team to ensure that the Excelsior was prepared in every conceivable way, as you checked and double-checked every data point throughout the entire ship, her words never left you.

Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak.

The anxiety was clawing at you, even as you threw yourself into work. The notion of what her words meant, of what could happen, of how close the end could be.

The clock read sometime around 2 a.m. when you had finally stepped foot in that guest room made for you. There was no way you were walking home tonight. Besides, come morning, there would still be too much to do, too many data points that needed to be checked, too many scenarios that would need to be run through to make sure your team came back to you.

You knew sleep wasn’t coming to you, though, not when that metallic voice was rattling around your head. Not when an alien threat was upending your life. Not when, two doors away, there was a man that you did, in fact, want to hold close…in case you never got the chance to again.

You loved him. All it took was the end of the world to admit it.

Clad in nothing but an old t-shirt with the 4 logo on the front, one you were sure was Johnny’s, and a pair of shorts, you didn’t care what you looked like as you tore out of the room and into the hallway. Not now, not when your world was being threatened, not when your entire life could be ripped from you in a matter of seconds.

Johnny was awake, just as you knew he would be. White shirt, plaid blue pants you’d seen him sleep in so many times, he stood in his dark room by the windows once more, watching the crews rush around on the ground as they prepared the ship for launch in just a few hours. That same record from earlier in the day was still playing.

I guess I'll never know the reason why you love me as you do. That's the wonder, the wonder of you.

With a step into the room, shutting the door behind you and flicking on the lamp just beside the door, Johnny finally met your eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep,” was the only thing you could manage to say. Johnny tilted his head, studying you silently, before he held out his hand just as he had done hours before.

“Come here,”

Crossing the room in a matter of moments, you all but fell into his arms. His outstretched hand ignored, he was frozen in place for just a moment as you curled your arms around his neck, throwing yourself into his arms. The faint smell of his cologne lingered, as did his bodywash, and the sigh you let out the second the smell hit you was in comfort.

It didn’t take Johnny long to unfreeze, his arms finding their place around your waist. One hand rested on your upper back, one pressing into your lower back. A faint kiss was placed to the side of your head, heat lingering for a second. Heat lingered in your entire body, radiating off of him in waves.

“You have to talk to me, baby,”

Talk? The truth was, you didn’t know where to start. How were you supposed to explain that, since the moment you had met Johnny Storm, your heart was already his. That in all your moments over the years, you’d fallen for the man you told yourself not to fall for. And as the threat from the metallic woman loomed over the world, as he prepared to try and save life as you knew it, the only thing you wanted was to be held by him. To know he was here, that he was okay, that he was with you.

“I-I’m scared,”

Those were the only words you could settle on. Johnny pulled back, his hands sliding gently around the fabric of the shirt hanging loosely from your body until they reached your face. He cradled you, so softly and gently in his hands, it was almost involuntary the way you closed your eyes and leaned into his touch, his warmth, chasing the feeling of security it brought you.

“It’s okay to be,” the gentle tone in his voice washed over you, covering you like a blanket. It’s exactly how he had spoken to you that day, standing in the rain when you refused to leave your mother’s side, reassuring you he was there. “I don’t care what the herald said, I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You know that, right?”

Of course you knew that. If there was anything you knew for certain in this world, it was that when Johnny Storm said he’d protect you, he meant it. He’d spent long enough proving that to you.

There was no hesitation on your part when you laid your own hands overtop of his. Fingers curling around them, tugging his right hand just barely from your cheek, you turned and pressed the lightest of kisses to the palm of his hand.

Johnny froze. You could feel it. The slight tilt of his head, the questioning look that flickered across his face in the moonlight that shone through the windows. It was all fair. You were never the one to cross the boundary like this, to make a move such as this.

“I can’t stop thinking about what she said,” was how you tried to explain yourself, stopping and starting your sentence over and over as you tried to find the right way to explain yourself, the walls crumbling and the floodgates bursting wide open. “Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak…it’s why I came to you.”

A single emotion crossed Johnny’s face in seconds: understanding.

That signature smirk of his was back in moments, even if it was twinged with a softness reserved only for you. The heat left your cheeks, but found your hands as Johnny’s fingers intertwined with yours, hanging your joined hands down between you both. There was a bright light that passed over the window for just a moment, bathing the two of you in bright light, before you were plunged back into the darkness of his room yet again.

“You did come to me…why’s that?”

“You know why-”

“I do,” he said it so matter-of-factly, that smirk growing just a tad as he leaned into your personal bubble by just a hair. “This push and pull, four years of ‘will they’ or ‘won’t they.’ I want to hear you say it, baby.”

“It’s not that easy,” you immediately shook your head, teeth gnawing at your bottom lip as Johnny simply watched you. “Saying it…makes it real.”

He scoffed, the sound mixed with laughter, as his head cocked slightly more to the side.

“You came into my bedroom at 2 in the morning–wearing my shirt, might I add–is that not real enough?”

“When you’ve spent years trying to ignore how you feel and refusing to say it, it’s not that easy to say,” you desperately tried to explain. “If I say it…then everything changes.”

Johnny took barely another step forward, and you almost wanted to step back, to bring back the space between you and preserve the small, crumbling wall that still stood between you both.

“A sexy, naked alien woman came to earth and basically prophesied our demise, darling. If there was ever a time to ‘change everything’ and lay it all on the line, I think it’s now,”

Your heart wanted to hang onto the word darling, but your brain was too stuck on the ‘sexy, naked alien woman’ part of his sentence. The sigh that escaped you was instantaneous, as well as the frown, as you shot the blonde man a pointed look.

“Sexy, naked alien woman, Johnny? Seriously?”

“Come on! She was–objectively–attractive. You can’t deny that!”

It was your turn to scoff, tearing your hands from his in a heartbeat, before spinning on your heel. You felt like an idiot–on the precipice of finally confessing your deepest, darkest secret you’d kept locked away for years, and this is what you got.

“I try to be serious with you, Johnny, and you turn it into a joke once again-”

You didn’t get far from him. A hand enveloped your upper arm mid sentence, tugging and spinning your back around. A gasp fell from your lips as you collided with the chest of the man before you.

Whatever you were going to say never saw the light of day. Not when Johnny Storm gripped at your hips, tugged you as impossibly close as he could, and finally–finally–kissed you.

The kiss you’d dreamed about for four years, finally yours.

Johnny’s lips were soft as they slanted against your own, enveloping you in his warmth. They moved against you in a steady rhythm, passionate but still gentle, still testing the waters of the line you had never crossed before. 

His hands curled into the fabric of the t-shirt clinging to your body, pushing it up just enough so that his hands could dip underneath. Your breath caught, even as his lips continued to move against yours, as his heated skin made contact with yours, and any part of your brain begging you to stop this was silenced as you melted into him.

Hands landed on his broad chest, gripping the fabric as you let him mold your body to his, the scent of his bodywash enveloping you as your body almost became one with him. In the pits of your stomach, as those heated hands trailed up your waist and ghosted over your ribcage, another flurry of butterflies erupted as a moan slipped past your lips, swallowed by his mouth.

A moan left Johnny’s lips at the sound of your own, one hand leaving your waist to curl around the back of your neck. Those slender fingers buried themselves into your hair, gripping just enough to have another groan of pleasure tumbling from your lips, as he guided your mouth against his own.

“You can’t keep making little noises like that,” his mouth barely left yours as he spoke, lips moving against yours, as he dove back in for another kiss the second he was done speaking.

“Your fault,” was all you could manage out, trying to back away just enough to speak, but Johnny never let your lips go far. Your hands glided up his chest, his neck, curling into his short hair as your thumb crested the ridge of his ear. “I’m trying to be mad at you.”

“Be mad at me later,” was his immediate response, his lips leaving yours just to find their place along your jawline and slide down into the hollow of your neck. His tongue danced its way across your skin, leaving tingles of electricity everywhere he touched you, his words murmured into your neck as he buried himself there. “I’m trying to kiss you.”

There was some part of you that wanted to protest him–over what, you weren’t even sure at this point–but you couldn’t. Not when his teeth dug just so into the side of your neck, leaving his mark on your skin as if he was claiming you as his.

You were always his.

“You c-called–oh god–you called the alien sexy while I was trying to confess,” you just barely managed to get the words out through your moans. Johnny was slowly walking you backward, straight in the direction of his bed while his lips never left the side of your neck, leaving his mark on every inch of skin he could see.

Your foot caught on the raised edge of the platform his seating area sat on, your feet stumbling backward. Johnny was there–he was always there–and tugged you back into him. And god, if you loved those blue eyes before, you loved them even more now: pupils blown wide, Johnny Storm looked about as wrecked as you felt.

“Your confession was four years late, and I’m impatient,” he stole another kiss from you, his teeth sinking just barely into your bottom lip, tugging gently. He let go, pressing a messy kiss to your lips to soothe the pain of his bite, words fanning out over your lips. “I’ve been trying to tell you I’m in love with you for four years now, so please just shut up and let me show you instead. Now–jump.”

At this point, you’d do just about anything he asked of you.

Johnny caught you with ease, both of his hands splayed out across the bare skin of your thighs, locking your legs around his hips. A choked moan fell from your lips the second your core was dragged against the painfully hard length bulging against his own pants, hands curling into his hair as you, this time, desperately pulled him into a kiss.

I’m in love with you. Those words repeated like a mantra in your head. Johnny Storm, the Human Torch, the world’s fire boy and hero that they painted like a sex symbol. The ‘playboy’ with a new girl all the time, never able to hold down a girl…was in love with you.

Your back hit the bed, body bouncing just slightly before settling. His eyes never left you as you crawled back just slightly, propping yourself up on your elbows to look up at him in the dark of the room, lit only by sky and the lamp by the door. The music played faintly in the background, but at this moment, it meant nothing to you.

Johnny’s hands gently touched your knees from where they dangled off the edge of the bed, parting them just so in order to step between them. You watched, entranced by every move he made, body flushed from the heat that coursed through your bare skin at the slightest of touches from him. With a practiced ease, his hand took hold of the back of his shirt, yanking it over his head without hesitation. It found a place to lay somewhere across the room, discarded until the following morning.

It was impossible not to stare. His broad chest, those biceps that always threatened to bulge out of every shirt he wore. His toned abdomen and the trail of hair that led straight to the waistband of his pants, the outline of him still prevalent and straining against the fabric.

“I need to know that you’re sure…about this,” you weren’t used to it, the vulnerability in Johnny’s tone. He leaned over you now, hands splayed across the bed on either side of you, barely a few inches from your face. Those blue eyes flickered down to your lips time and time again. “Because if I kiss you again, I’m not stopping until you’re mine.”

There was no hesitation on your part. Just a single movement of your arms, tossing the old shirt hanging from your upper body across the room to join his. As simple as that, you sat bare before him, chest heaving with every deep breath you took in.

“I was already yours. I always have been,” there was only certainty in your tone as you held his gaze. “Speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak…that’s why I came to you. Because if this is the end of the world, I needed you to know that I love-”

He didn’t let you finish your words. His next kiss was anything but gentle.

Messy, spit coating your lips as Johnny’s tongue seemed to invade your mouth and every one of your senses, his lips devoured yours as if you were his first meal in decades. He kissed with the hunger of a starved man, his hands grasping at every part of your skin they could–your waist, your hip, before finally your ass. The squeeze he gave to your skin, the uptick in heat you felt as if he was burning himself just slightly hotter on purpose, had another moan tumbling from your lips and into his mouth.

The hand still gripping your ass tugged you upward on the bed until your head fell against the silk pillows at the headboard. Your hands never left Johnny’s hair, carding through the strands as you frantically kissed him back, addicted to the feeling, as his hips ground into yours. That bulge in his pants pressed heavenly into your core, the friction rolling your eyes into the back of your head as you let your head fall to the pillows with a moan.

Johnny’s lips were everywhere. From your jawline, to your neck, until they finally reached your collarbone. He lavished you with his lips, tongue running over your skin as his hands trailed up the sides of your lower abdomen, stopping just as they reached the swell of your breasts.

“Since the day you walked in, I’ve thought about this,” his voice was raspy, the words barely understood as they were spoken against your skin. “Since the moment Reed introduced you to us.”

“I-I was wearing a lab coat,” you choked on your words as Johnny’s lips reached your sternum, trailing kissing down your chest, but never where you wanted him. “Hardly sexy, I’d argue.”

“It is when I’m picturing you in that coat and your heels, and nothing else,” he tacked on, before his lips wrapped around your nipple without warning.

You mewled at the sudden contact, one hand returning to his hair on instinct as your back arched off the bed and into him. Johnny’s hand on your abdomen was quick to push you back down, holding you down against the bedding beneath you.

God, with the fire that felt like it was burning through your body, you could’ve sworn that Johnny had caught you on fire. His teeth just barely grazed the sensitive bud in his mouth, a sharp intake of breath leaving your lips on instinct. He was quick to soothe you, tongue swirling around the erect and sensitive bud with rapt attention. A moan slipped through him, felt through your entire body, as your other hand tore into the bedding. Desperate for something to hold onto. Something to ground you in your pleasure.

“I’ve dreamed about you under me. Kissing you, tasting you, loving you,” his practically purred out every single word, tongue flicking back and forth over your sensitive nipple. He moved to the other one easily, delivering the same rapt attention to it.

“I’ve thought about you, too,” you relented, divulging every secret you held dear to the man who lavished every inch of you in love and adoration. “In the kitchen, the lab, in that stupid button up from earlier-”

“I knew you liked that shirt. Wore it just for you,” his husky tone sent another shot of pleasure through you, heat curling through every inch of your body.

The tips of his fingers trailed lightly down your stomach. When Johnny’s head lifted for just a moment to lock his eyes with yours, that familiar smirk on his face, you weren’t given a second to react before heat poured through his touch.

Gasps mixed with moans of pleasure fell from your lips on instinct, that unnatural heat of his pouring through his touch and into your skin. Every movement of his fingers over your ribcage and down your abdomen felt as if it was leaving your skin on fire, branding his touch into your skin so that you would never forget the feeling. Burning him into your memory so that you would always feel the phantom sensations of his touch on your skin.

“You’re absolute perfection, you always have been,” Johnny moaned into your skin, lips trailing over the mounds of your breasts with another series of a thousand kisses. Those heated fingers dipped past the waistband of your shorts, pressing directly against your clothed clit without a warning. The moan you let escape mixed in the air with the moan that tumbled from Johnny’s lips against your skin. “Jesus Christ, baby, you’re so soaked.”

The heat was still there in his fingers, setting off every little nerve ending in you even through the soaked fabric of your panties that you desperately wanted gone. Your hips ground up into his hand, whimpers falling from your lips as you chased after the feeling of him, desperate for friction.

“All for you,” even this hint of pleasure had you stumbling toward the edge, babbling almost incoherently. With a tug to his hair, you were quick to bring Johnny’s lips back to yours, arms wound around his neck. He gave into your needs immediately, devouring you in a kiss as heated as his touch was, fingers rubbing slow circles over where you needed him so desperately. “Please–Johnny, please! Please, I need you. Need you–need you so bad.”

“I got you, baby. I got you. Keep moaning my name like that, and I’ll give you the world”

Those whispered words stayed on your lips, lingering, as Johnny left you. His touch wasn’t gone long. Fingers curling into your shorts, they were discarded across the room in a flash, panties gone with them as well.

For the first time, you laid completely bare in front of the man you loved–the man you denied loving for so long. And Johnny Storm was a mess. His hair stuck up in multiple directions, skin flushed, but he was still beautiful. The most beautiful man you’d ever met, inside and out.

Johnny didn’t give you a second to truly breathe once he was done admiring you. He sprawled out along the end of the bed, head dipping between your thighs, as he licked a single stripe with his flattened tongue directly up your center.

“Fucking beautiful, and all mine,” his words were growled into your core, two fingers lazily moving between your folds and spreading every ounce of wetness around, holding you open so he could see every inch of you. “Sweeter than I ever dreamed you could be.”

He dove into you like you were the only thing that mattered. Fingers spreading you open, giving him access to every square inch, his mouth devoured you. A cool drink of water for a starving man in the middle of the desert. Johnny moved his tongue with precise expertise, as if he knew exactly what your body craved.

Delving into you, flicking back and forth as he drank in every secretion of arousal that dripped from you. That same tongue dragged its way up to your clit, swirling around in figure eights, flicking back and forth.

Cries fell from your lips wantonly, hands digging into his hair. Eyes fluttered shut, head tilted back to the ceiling, there was only one word you could repeat over and over again: Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. 

His name was all you knew anymore, too lost in your own bliss and pleasure.

In one fell swoop, your thighs were settled over his shoulders, before his head was back where you wanted it more than anything. His lips and tongue focused on your clit, still swirling back and forth, as his fingers dipped slightly lower, dancing right across your opening.

It started with one long, slender finger sliding into you. One of your hands was forced to leave Johnny’s hair, falling over your own mouth to try and conceal the cry that threatened to burst from you, afraid that the others would hear you.

“Let me hear you, baby,” he laughed against your core, his finger curling just perfectly against your walls as they clenched around him every time he dragged his finger back and forth. “Want to hear you.”

“Don’t want to–fucking hell, Johnny–let the others hear,” 

“Let them. Let them hear me love you,”

Fuck Johnny Storm and his stupid lines. His stupid dirty talk that had your walls clenching around him again and again.

Another finger joined the first, followed by another, before you were stretched as wide as you could be around Johnny. The squelch of your juices rung through the air with every move of his fingers–dragging so deliciously into you, curling up, before dragging out just to the edge of your opening. His mouth–god, his mouth–never let up, lapping away at your core like it was his job, what he was meant to do.

That coil of pleasure deep within your lower body came out of nowhere, sneaking up on you just like your love for this man had.

“Johnny–baby–I can’t. I can’t–I’m gonna-”

“Let go, darling,” came that growl in his voice again, the speed of his fingers increasing. “I got you baby, let go.”

That coil snapped in seconds after he spoke. The precipice of your orgasm was earth-shattering, like you’d never felt before. Like trails of fire through your veins, the pleasure coursing through you had your head buried into the pillow behind your head, desperately trying to conceal the wails of pleasure that tumbled from your lips. Your thighs snapped shut around Johnny’s head, but his ministrations never let up as he eagerly drank up every bit of your arousal that leaked from you.

The come down was slow, like waking up. Your breath was uneven, heart beating erratically when you finally pulled your head from the pillow. Eyes bleary, it took a moment to blink them back to life.

Johnny stood at the edge of the bed, discarding his pants and boxers to the pile of clothing littering the other side of the room. And even in your fucked-out, blissful state, one look at him for the first time had that burning desire coursing back through your veins.

He was big. There was no way around it, no denying it, no other way to put it. Flushed, hanging with that beautiful reddened tip, one large and prominent vein throbbing along the edge of it. Beads of precum collected at the tip, his hand smearing it down along his length as he gave himself one single pump before he was crawling back onto the bed.

Johnny knelt between your legs again. Even with limbs that felt like Jell-O, you met him halfway, dragging yourself into a seated position. It was the smile on his face right now, the one erupting those butterflies once more, that you decided was your favorite: soft, adoring, loving.

It was your hands that cupped his cheeks, bringing him into a soft kiss. The taste of you lingered on his lips, sweet just like he said. You poured every ounce of emotion into your kiss, trying to convey to him the years you’d spent loving him so quietly that you couldn’t admit it.

“I might be addicted to you, Johnny Storm,” your words were mumbled into his lips. He laughed so gently, stealing another peck.

“Glad you finally caught up with me, princess, I’ve been addicted since day one,”

Pressed to him, his lips stealing a thousand pecks from yours, the lust in your bones was back in full force. All you could do was hum in response, one of your hands trailing down his chest, nails dragging slowly over his abdomen, before you finally took his throbbing cock in your hand.

He felt even bigger than he looked, which didn’t even make sense in your mind. But he was hot, the skin searing into your hand in the best way. You gave him one squeeze, one tug, and you smiled at the hitch in his breath. The twitch of his cock in your hold.

Johnny’s hand quickly grabbed yours, though, unlatching it from him. All you could do was shake your head, practically whining as you tried to take your hand back.

“Johnny-”

“God, it’s so hot how eager you are to touch me,” he laughed again, tilting his head to leave a single kiss to the column of your throat. “This is about you, doll. Save that for next time. It can be a ‘welcome home from space’ gift for me. A ‘thanks for saving the world’ gift, if you will.”

Space. 

That word was enough to have your next words caught in your throat as the weight of everything came crashing back down on you. The threat, the herald, the space launch commencing in a matter of hours now, the events that brought you here in the first place.

You weren’t sure when you started crying, when a single tear slipped down your cheek, but Johnny caught it. Eyes full of concern, but understanding, he simply wiped the tears from your cheek, laying a kiss to the wet splotch of your skin.

“No crying, none of that. Just lay back, baby,”

You listened, letting his hands guide you gently to rest back against the pillows once more. Parting your legs, Johnny placed himself between them, holding himself up over your body on his forearms. Right where he belonged.

Your hands rested on his chest, sliding up so gently to his neck. His eyes never left yours, his length sitting right against your soaked and sensitive core, gliding back and forth with each gentle twitch of his hips.

“You didn’t let me say it earlier. So let me say it, for the first time outloud,” you gave him a watery smile, lips quivering as you looked up at him. “I love you, Johnny Storm. I’ve loved you for so long. I’m sorry it took the world maybe ending for this, that I didn’t let myself be yours sooner.

He smiled, that same charming smile he always did, as he rolled his hips once more. His cock caught just along the edge of your opening as Johnny dipped down, breath fanning over your lips.

“Like you said: you’ve always been mine,”

The first press of his length into your core stung. As wet as you were, as prepared as you were for him, it had been so long. He stretched your walls little by little, taking his time as your body adjusted to him. Then, inch by inch, he sunk within your walls that clung to him tightly.

His cock bottomed out, sunk fully within you, bare hips pressed to bare hips as you both let out shaky breaths. Your nails dug into the hair at the nape of his neck while his hands trailed up your ribcage, squeezing every moment or so as choked out moans fell from his lips.

“God–so tight for me, baby–you feel like heaven,”

His name was the only thing you could manage to choke out between your moans as he dragged himself back to the tip, before burying himself again to the hilt. Your moans, your cries and the way your hands threaded into his hair only spurred him on more, Johnny’s hips snapping into yours again and again and again.

His lips found yours amidst every snap of his hips, every drag of his cock against your walls. Every moan that slipped through your lips was drowned out by him, by the feverish movements of his lips against yours. They trailed away, back to your neck, leaving a trail of saliva connecting you together as he bit another love bite into the side of your neck. It didn’t matter to you how this would look to others, how scandalous you might look in the light of day to others.

All that mattered was Johnny Storm.

“Oh god, Johnny!” your head fell to his shoulder, teeth sinking into his skin as his hips snapped against yours over and over, driving him deeper with every thrust into you. “Holy fuck, w-why weren’t we doing this for years?”

“Because you’ve been a stubborn–fuck–little tease all these years,” his tongue dragged up the column of your throat, peppering kissing up and down your skin as his cock dragged against your walls. “Bent over your workstation in the lab–oh god–you don’t know how many times I’ve thought about it. Thought about walking in and taking you right there, making a mess right at your desk.”

“R-Reed would walk in and you’d scar him for life,”

“Sounds like a win-win to me,” there was shared laughter, punctuated with a shared moan as his cock dragged right against that spot nestled within you. “And try not to talk about my brother-in-law when I’m fucking you.”

There was no time to reply as Johnny scooped up your wrists in his hand in a single motion, pinning them down above your head. He adjusted your waist, suddenly driving into you at a new angle that had you mewling his name all over again.

Johnny whispered your name into your skin with every kiss, timed just so with every snap of his hips against yours. That coil of heat was burning, wounding itself tighter and tighter for the second time that night. All you could feel was him, was Johnny.

His warmth, the heat that burned off of him. It warmed your skin, it had beads of sweat dripping down your forehead. It was uncomfortable in the best way. His one hand still trailed up and down your ribcage, every so often tweaking your sensitive nipple between his thumb and index finger and coaxing another moan of pleasure from you.

He worshiped you, every inch of you, like you were the greatest thing to ever grace the earth. To him, you might have been

“Fucking perfect, baby. Fucking made for me,” his lips found yours again, slick with spit as his tongue dipped into your mouth to taste every inch of you possible.

His stroke faltered, the rhythm uneven, and you knew he was close. That coil of heat in your stomach was threatening to snap any second every time his cock pulsed and throbbed within your walls. His grip on your wrists was tight, even as you struggled against him, desperate to just hold him.

“Johnny–baby–please I-I’m so close-”

You choked on your words once more, the hand still trailing across your stomach heating up again, leaving a burning trail of heat in your skin. Those heated fingers found your clit like it was second nature, a cry of pure pleasure leaving your lips as they circle that bundle of a thousand nerves over and over again, hips still snapping into you as quickly and desperately as they can.

“Let go,” his voice was husky, eyes blown wide as he looked down at you. Your wrists were finally let go, your hands immediately finding their place in the strands of his hair again as his free hand cups the back of your neck, smashing your lips into his in a flurry of moans. “Let go, baby, let go.”

Your second climax burned hotter than the first.

The pleasure burned so hot, so bright, you were practically sobbing, every cry and moan of pure bliss muffled by his kiss. Your legs locked around Johnny’s waist–tightly–so tight he could barely move away from you. It was overwhelming, the shockwaves of bliss that ran through your veins, the shaking of your thighs as you held onto his hair like it’s a lifeline.

He ground himself into you over and over, rhythm so far gone he was struggling. But all it took was your lips lazily finding his neck, teeth sinking in to leave your matching mark to his, for his hips to still as he spilt into you.

Johnny breathed out every moan into the side of your head, your name tumbling from his lips along with a flurry of swears. The grip he had on your hip was bruising, so tight you think he could snap the damn bone if he held any tighter. And his cock? Seated so deeply inside of you it’s as if you are one, heat pooled within your lower abdomen with every wave of cum that filled you to the brim.

On the other side of the room, the record was still playing softly. Bright lights still flashed by the windows every so often, crews still at work on the spaceship set for launch by mid-morning.

None of it mattered in the silence of the bed.

You aren’t sure how long either of you laid there. Your heartbeat, eventually, returned to normal, even as your chest still heaved to take in every breath that it could. Johnny still laid half on top of you, pressing repeated kisses to the side of your head, but said nothing. Your hand stayed in his hair, carding through it, as your core pulsed. It would ache come morning–hell, it already did–but it was worth it. It was so worth it.

Neither of you were quite sure when he pulled out of you, or how long you simply laid there and basked in the afterglow of a moment that should’ve happened years ago.

Eventually, Johnny shifted down. His lips trailed down your body in worship, like they’d done already that night. From your cheek, to your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, and down your lower abdomen.

“Careful…not sure I’d survive a round three,” your voice was hoarse, mouth dry. Johnny laughed against your skin, still kissing every inch he could see.

“I don’t think I would, either,”

His hands were heated once more, but not for the same purpose as moments before. Now, his touch was gentle, massaging every piece of you that he could get his hands on. His thumbs rubbed into your wrists, your waist, and your hips, digging into the muscles. A sigh escaped you at the comforting feeling, taut muscles loosening at the feeling of the heat and the movement of his hands.

With every kiss pressed to your skin, you could feel it: Johnny was humming. It didn’t take long to know which song he was humming, which lyrics: that same song once again.

I guess I'll never know the reason why, you love me as you do. That's the wonder, the wonder of you.

“Is that our song now?” you laughed, even if your heart was clenching at the mere thought. The mere idea of that song belonging to the two of you–the idea that Johnny Storm belonged to you.

You could feel his smile against your abdomen as he spoke. “It should be. It’s accurate. Because I don’t ever think I’ll get over the miracle that is you…loving me.”

It’s not a miracle. What you really want to tell him is that falling in love with him was so easy, you barely realized you had done it. It might be the easiest thing you’ve ever done.

Johnny crawled back up your body, slotting himself onto the bed beside you, before tugging you in. There’s no hesitation on your part, simply curling into his side with your head over his chest and arm slung around his waist. Words aren’t needed in the silence, not when you’ve both clearly laid everything out on the table now. Instead, you just listened to the beat of his heart, the natural rhythm that lulls you into a state of peacefulness.

He’s yours. Johnny Storm is yours. He’s always been yours, you just didn’t know it.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, hand cradling the back of your head as he said his next words confidently.

“We’re going to go up there tomorrow, and we’re going to stop this guy. We’re going to protect this Earth, like we’ve sworn to do. But me? I’m going to do it so I can come home to you, and love you for the rest of my life. I promise,”

He can’t promise that, you knew he couldn’t. There was no telling what might happen when that ship took off tomorrow, what they might encounter, or who this Galactus really was.

Then the line went dead. Or it did–for just a second before the phone was ringing once again.

"Gosh, Tatum." You murmured under your breath, wiping your fingers on your pants before grabbing the phone once again.

"Hey, I thought your ride was here? Or did you finally realize I'm much better than a party?"

"Don't like parties that much, huh?" A voice responded, deep and gravely, but too artificial to be real. Definitely not Tatum.

You swallowed hard, uncrossing your legs before setting your bowl of popcorn aside.

"I'm sorry who is this?"

"You tell me your name I'll tell you mine."

"Excuse me?" You replied, looking around like it was second nature. Whatever, it was just a stupid prank call.

"Why won't you talk to me? I just want to play a game..not a party one–I promise." He laughed, the noise only furthering your now uncomfortable state.

"...Well I'm not in the mood for games.." Your voice shook with each word, the fear in it obvious. So obvious it was laughable apparently–since that's what he was doing now.

"Listen, don't call this number again okay you creep!–"

"Hang up the phone and I'll slice your insides up!"

Your heart felt stuck in your throat as you slammed the phone back down, trying your hardest to ignore the anonymous threat echoing in your head as you instantly started dialing your boyfriend's number. It was subconscious instinct. He'll make you feel better, assure you it's ...just some dumb kid thinking the killings were funny and decided to prank call people...yeah, that's it.

"Billy? Billy–hello–" You cut yourself off with a gasp when the alarming noise of your neighbors dog barking caught you off guard, the insistent animal's noise causing your own fear to grow.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Billy spoke, unaware of how tightly you were clutching the phone–wishing it were him instead.

"I think someone's in my house–im scared. Can you ..can you please come–"

A scream left your throat at the sound of a glass vase in your kitchen hitting the floor, shattering into millions of itty bitty pieces, and it only fueled your thought to get the hell of there.

"What was that in the kitchen–are you okay?"

"Billy, billy please just come over now–someone's here–" You whispered, turning the sound of the television up so he couldn't hear you. Unfortunately, you didn't think it could go the other way around.

The TV muffled the sound of his footsteps, slowly creeping up on your shaking form on the couch. A predator stalking it's pray before–a blood curdling scream escaped you, and the phone fell out your hands as you tried to fight back the masked man on top of you, the knife in his hand glinting in the light.

"Billy–Billy can you hear m–" You yelled, the utter fear in your voice only fueling your attacker. You actively used your feet to try and shake his balance, kicking and thrashing around before finally getting in one good hit to the groin. He doubled over for a moment, giving you enough time to run for the door. The locked door.

You barely get an opportunity to begin to fumble with the chain lock before you hear loud footsteps trailing behind you once again, leaving you to abandon the front door and dart for the stairs.

"Help me!!! Hello!" You screamed, banging on the windows you passed by up the stairs, but your attempts were futile. It was late and your neighborhood had long fell asleep. Little did they know they were missing out on your murder attempt.

You could hear those familiar heavy boots stomping against the wooden stairs, louder and louder with each step, less and less time for you to escape. You dashed towards your bedroom, just about to close the door before–"Oh my god!"

His hand wedges itself between the wall and the door, his knife stabbing at the air like a maniac. You stand there, pressed against the door to keep it closed before you pause–just for a moment–and then slightly open the door just to slam it back down on his hand. Over and over until he backed up and you could finally close the door.

Except now he was angrier, slamming his fists on the door, splintering the wood with his knife–

The noise grew louder and louder, and you slowly backed into the corner, hiding beside your bed like a child until suddenly another noise caught your attention.

You peered out the window from where you sat, almost screaming once again when you saw someone's–No, Billy's–foot land on your floor.

"What's going on? Your front door was locked, I heard screaming." He started, immediately making his way over to you.

"The killer. He's there!" You whispered, instantly leaping into his arms, burying your face into the crook of his neck. All the previous adrenaline running through you began to die down, and the backed up tears that had been edging your water line finally burst.

"Billy, he was right–right there." You hiccuped, looking back at your door which now had multiple cuts from the knife, the wood split.

"He's gone now, I'm here.." He replied, gently hushing you as he rubbed soothing circles into your lower back, kissing your forehead simultaneously.

"No. No he was right there." You sniffled, letting yourself cry into his skin after the fear in your body slowly dissipated.

"I'm here now, okay? There's nothing to be afraid of...would you want me to go check outside, hm? Would that make you feel better?"

"No." You blurted out, clutching onto him tighter. "No, don't leave me..you can't."

He let out a long sigh, not as if it were a burden but something he wanted–expected.

"I'll stay."

And he did. He stayed with you until you fell asleep in his arms, completely exhausted and cried out. Vulnerable and unconscious in his arms. But he knew better than that. Besides he was your boyfriend he wouldn't try anything dirty. At least not in that way.

He carefully scooped you up before laying you down in your bed, tucking you in and sliding a pillow between your arms. Just in case.

After taking care of you he grabbed his cell phone, instantly making a call–but not before walking over to the corner of your room.

Silence...and then–

"Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Laughter bubbled from the other side of the phone, a light hearted voice coming through.

"Oh come on, I thought she'd die–who knew she had that much fight in her? Fiesty! You think one day you and I could both share–"

"Don't finish that sentence, Stu."

"Sorry, my king." Stu snorted, the sound of his bed creaking as he rolled over echoing through.

"Don't pull this shit again, dick rag. It wasn't the plan."

Before Stu could reply he tucked his phone into his pocket, the edge of his palms rubbing his eyes as if trying to wipe away the stress from his features.

He slowly walked back to where you laid in your bed, crawling in beside you, careful to not wake you up.

"I'm sorry." He murmured, kissing the edge of your eyebrow. Again and again.

"Stu–stu just fucked it up. It wasn't supposed to be you.." he whispered, pulling you in closer to his chest, his heart beating slowly..

"He–he does that shit again–I'll kill the bastard myself."

He felt himself getting all riled up, the thought of you leaving him forever impacting his psyche more than he'd like to admit. I mean you were the only real thing he wanted to protect–the only thing that reminded him good still existed when people like Maureen and Sidney Prescott still walked the earth. In the end you were the only thing that mattered. Stu was the fault guy–and everyone else? Dead. But you? You were alive. His saving grace. His angel. And anyone who got in the way with it would meet his knife.

"I'll kill him .." he repeated, kissing down your cheek.

Campus is buzzing. Not the usual hum of sleep-deprived students dragging themselves to class, but the kind of chaotic energy that only comes around when the weekend stretches ahead, warm and wide open.

The quad is drenched in golden late-afternoon sunlight, and the air smells like grass, iced coffee, and the subtle hint of sweat from people pretending they aren’t trying to look hot in 85-degree heat.

You’re weaving between bodies, textbooks tucked under your arm, when it catches your eye: a bright neon flier taped to nearly every lamppost, tree, and bulletin board in sight.

SINS & SAINTS BIGGEST PARTY OF THE SEMESTER — 10PM @ THE PIT SEVEN MINUTES IN HEAVEN GAME 🔥 DON’T BE LAME

Yanni snatches one off a pole as you pass. “This is the moment, ladies.”

You don’t even give the flyer a second glance. “What moment? The one where you both fail your ethics paper because you were too busy shotgunning White Claws in someone’s moldy basement?”

“Oh my god, relax,” Jenna says, laughing. “It’s not moldy. They fixed the leak in April.”

You roll your eyes but let yourself smile as the three of you walk along the sidewalk, the late sun casting long shadows across the pavement. Yanni and Jenna look like they just stepped out of an Urban Outfitters ad — crop tops, layered jewelry, and enough confidence to set fire to half the student population.

And then there’s you. Not quite invisible, but definitely more “background character” than “main event.”

“You know this party’s gonna be huge, right?” Yanni says, waving the flier like it’s a golden ticket. “Last year someone jumped off the roof into the kiddie pool.”

“And broke their collarbone,” you point out.

“Legendary,” Jenna says, smirking.

You snatch the flier from Yanni’s hand, skimming it again. “Why would anyone voluntarily go to something with a ‘Seven Minutes in Heaven’ game advertised like a feature? We’re adults.”

“Are we?” Yanni asks, eyes twinkling.

“Technically,” Jenna adds. “But also—imagine the chaos. What if someone pulls Jungkook’s name?”

Your heart does a completely unacceptable little stutter at that.

Jeon Jungkook.

Tattooed, mysterious, chronically late to lectures (if he shows up at all), and very much the guy every girl on campus either wants to date, make out with, or get over. He’s got a motorcycle. He barely talks. He shows up to parties, hooks up with girls, then disappears like smoke.

And he’s beautiful. Obviously.

You’re not immune. You’ve had a crush on him since last semester, when he walked into your shared Intro to Media class twenty minutes late, helmet under his arm, chewing gum like he wasn’t the reason every girl in the room forgot what the professor was saying.

But Jungkook is a walking red flag. A whole carnival of them. And you’re smarter than that.

At least, you pretend to be.

“Literally everyone wants him,” Jenna says, reading your mind. “Even the TA from psych. She was full-on blushing when he asked for an extension.”

“Not surprised,” Yanni mutters. “He has that look — like he’s good at everything and knows it.”

“He probably is,” you say before you can stop yourself, then immediately regret it.

Your friends both stare at you, smirking like sharks.

“Wait,” Jenna says slowly, “do you have a thing for Jungkook?”

“No.” You say it too quickly. “God, no. I mean—everyone does. But I’m not stupid.”

“Just stupid-adjacent,” Yanni teases.

“Shut up.”

Before they can press you further, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Well, well, well. Look who we have here.”

You look up to see Park Jimin approaching, all sunshine and mischief, with Kim Taehyung sauntering behind him like he owns the sidewalk.

Jimin’s wearing a denim jacket over a mesh tank, and Taehyung’s got sunglasses on even though the sun’s nearly down. Between the two of them, they look like trouble you want to get into.

“Hey, ladies,” Jimin says, flashing a grin as he throws an arm over Yanni’s shoulders. “You’re coming to the party tonight, right?”

“Obviously,” Yanni replies, leaning into the attention.

“Can’t miss the annual disaster,” Jenna adds, high-fiving Taehyung like they’re in on some secret joke.

You cross your arms. “You guys seriously hyping up a party where people get locked in closets like it’s summer camp?”

“It’s not just any party,” Jimin says. “It’s The Pit. Sins & Saints theme. Black lights. Fake angel wings. Maybe some fake confessions.”

“Cages,” Taehyung adds casually, like that’s normal.

You blink. “Cages? What kind of party is this?”

“The fun kind,” Jimin winks. “You coming, Y/N?”

“I have an essay due.”

“So bring it with you. I’ll give you moral support while you drink tequila.”

“Tempting,” you say, deadpan. “But I actually want to pass this semester.”

Taehyung leans in, smirking. “Well, in case you change your mind… Jungkook’s gonna be there.”

There it is again. The name. The spark that lights your nerves like a match to gasoline.

You try to play it cool. “Why would that matter to me?”

Yanni coughs loudly. Jenna bites her lip to keep from laughing.

Jimin just grins, already turning away. “No reason. See you at ten.”

And with that, the two boys melt back into the crowd, leaving you with your friends, your unfinished essay, and the creeping sense that this night might not go according to plan.

The quad’s stretched out like a painting, glowing and slow, the heat bleeding off the pavement in soft waves. Everything’s dipped in gold — the trees, the brick buildings, even the stupid neon flyers plastered to every pole.

The bench — their bench — is right where it always is, half in shade, half in sun, like it can’t decide whether it wants to be chill or dramatic. Typical.

Jungkook drops down into his usual spot on the backrest, boots braced on the seat like he owns it. He probably does, at this point — nobody ever sits there unless one of them’s already claimed it.

Taehyung arrives next, flopping into the grass with a sigh so theatrical it could win awards.

“Dying,” he declares. “Melting. This is my final form.”

Jimin shows up with a popsicle he definitely didn’t pay for. “It’s like 85. You’re from Daegu, you’ve survived worse.”

“I have delicate lungs now,” Taehyung replies. “I’m an artist.”

“Your lung capacity’s fine, bro,” Jungkook says. “You were yelling at Rocket League until three.”

Taehyung scowls but doesn’t argue.

A group of girls walks by — upperclassmen, probably — and Jungkook doesn’t miss the way they glance over, not subtle at all. One of them straightens her hair in her reflection on a car window.

He ignores it. Sips his drink. Lets the sun warm his tattoos.

“Party’s gonna be insane tonight,” Jimin says through a mouthful of cherry ice. “Everyone’s going.”

“You say that like you’re not part of the chaos,” Jungkook mutters.

“I am the chaos.”

Jungkook smirks. “You’re five feet of glitter and bad decisions.”

“I’m five-nine,” Jimin says automatically.

“You’re lying.”

“Anyway,” Taehyung cuts in, flopping back so his head hits the grass with a dull thump, “I heard there’s gonna be like… cages. Real ones. Hanging from the ceiling.”

“Where the hell are they getting cages?” Jungkook asks.

“Probably the theater department,” Jimin says. “They owe me after I fixed their soundboard last semester.”

Jungkook makes a face. “You fixed it by slapping it until it stopped buzzing.”

“And it worked.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence for a bit — the kind only friends with a lot of shared damage can fall into. People keep walking past, all heading somewhere, all talking too loud, dressed like they're auditioning for the same indie film.

A guy on a skateboard nearly eats it trying to check his reflection in the library windows. A girl in a baby tee trips on absolutely nothing when she sees Jungkook watching her. Classic.

He doesn’t react. Barely blinks.

“You know,” Taehyung says, eyes still closed, “I was thinking about that Seven Minutes thing.”

“Oh god,” Jungkook mutters.

“No, listen. Imagine someone wild pulls your name. Like that girl who wears fangs and drinks blood out of a Hydro Flask.”

“She’s a performance artist,” Jimin corrects. “You’re so uncultured.”

“Imagine,” Taehyung continues, undeterred, “you walk into the closet and it’s just like—BAM. Straight-up vampire romance. Feral energy. No escape.”

“I’d rather die,” Jungkook says.

“Sounds like fear,” Jimin singsongs.

“It’s common sense,” Jungkook replies. “That game is high school energy. It's gonna be twenty minutes of giggling and some drunk dude falling through the door trying to kiss someone who already regrets being born.”

Jimin snorts. “Wow. Poetic.”

“Look, I’m going,” Jungkook says, “but I’m not doing closet games. Not my scene.”

“You say that,” Taehyung mutters, cracking one eye open, “but if someone hot pulls your name…”

Jungkook shrugs. “Then she’s unlucky.”

And he means it — mostly. It’s just that… parties like this always end the same. Music too loud, drinks too warm, somebody crying in the bathroom, somebody making bad decisions on a lawn chair.

He doesn’t know why he keeps showing up. Maybe he’s bored. Maybe it’s the thrill of it — the crash of noise, the lights, the way nothing matters for a few hours.

Or maybe it's that feeling.

The possibility.

The moment right before something happens — when everything is charged and uncertain, and the right glance could flip the night on its head.

He exhales, eyes flicking toward a passing group of students. One girl — vaguely familiar — walks by clutching a tote bag and a half-melted iced matcha. Her face jogs something in his brain. A lecture hall, maybe? Media Studies?

He thinks he remembers her — quiet. Always early. Never looked at him, not even when he showed up late and took the seat next to the plug.

But it’s gone in a blink. Just another girl. Just another day.

Taehyung claps his hands suddenly, breaking the silence.

“Alright, sluts. Waffle truck or convenience store noodles?”

“Why are those the only options?” Jimin asks.

“Because I’m a man of taste.”

They get up, stretching, moving like they’re already vibrating with pre-party adrenaline. Jungkook trails behind, helmet in one hand, unread messages buzzing in his pocket.

He doesn’t look back.

He doesn’t notice the girl from the quad still sitting under the tree, book open, eyes half-lifted just as he passes.

He doesn't know her name.

Not yet.

The Pit is already pulsing when you arrive.

Bass thumps under your feet before you even step inside — not just music, but vibration, like the building itself is alive and slightly pissed off. The air smells like tequila, cheap perfume, and those weird vanilla vapes everyone insists are “barely noticeable.” Spoiler: they are very noticeable.

You stop just inside the doorway, blinking.

The party is absolutely unhinged.

There are blacklights everywhere — mounted on the rafters, strung across the ceilings, probably duct-taped to questionable surfaces. Someone’s set up an old confessional booth near the far wall, graffitied and backlit in red. A girl in a rhinestone halo is taking selfies in front of it while a guy dressed as a fallen angel — shirt unbuttoned to nowhere — does a keg stand behind her.

Above it all, a massive banner reads:

SINS & SAINTS: ENTER IF YOU DARE.

...which feels both deeply dramatic and deeply accurate.

There are actual cages suspended from the ceiling — only waist-high, like glorified birdcages, but still. One of them has a guy in white mesh pants swinging in it like it’s Cirque du Soleil. He howls something about forgiveness. No one knows what’s going on.

You take all of this in with wide eyes.

“Okay,” you say slowly, “what the hell.”

“I TOLD YOU,” Yanni shouts over the music, eyes lit up like a kid on Halloween. “They WENT OFF this year!”

“They should be arrested,” you mutter.

Jenna laughs beside you, tugging at the hem of her dress. “I feel like I just walked into the end of the world but make it horny.”

Yanni is wearing a sheer black top over a bralette made entirely of tiny silver crosses, her eyeliner winged out to her temples. Her skirt is so short it might be a threat to public safety.

Jenna went full Saint — white silk slip dress, little feathery halo bobbing over her curls, but with Doc Martens that say she’d still throw hands in the bathroom line.

And then there’s you.

You’d protested the theme all afternoon, but eventually gave in. You’re wearing ripped black jeans, a mesh top over a tank, and a red ribbon choker Yanni tied on you with too much enthusiasm. You didn’t go all-out like them, but you’re here. You showed up. That’s saying something.

Yanni loops her arm through yours and yells, “I swear to God, if I don’t end up in a cage by midnight, I’m suing.”

“They have cages, Yanni,” you say, scandalized. “That’s not normal.”

“I’m not normal,” she grins.

“That’s not comforting!”

You’re halfway toward the drink table when a blur of movement passes you — a guy in a leather jacket, dark hair, jaw like a hate crime. You don’t get a good look, just the impression of tattoos, combat boots, and a casual arrogance like he’s got the party rigged in his favor.

You turn back to the drinks.

Jenna, meanwhile, is adjusting her halo in her phone’s camera. “Okay, I’m thinking I make out with someone with wings. That’s my only rule.”

“Are they required to earn them first?” you ask.

“No, they just have to not be annoying.”

“So… no one here, basically,” you deadpan.

Yanni dumps some suspicious jungle juice into a cup and hands it to you. “Drink. Or at least pretend to. You’re giving off ‘I’m only here for field research’ energy.”

You take a sip and grimace. “This tastes like Hawaiian Punch and college debt.”

“Exactly,” Jenna says. “We’re setting the tone.”

You pass by a hallway draped in red curtains — probably where the Seven Minutes game is happening. Someone stumbles out with smeared lipstick and a dazed smile.

“Oh my god,” you say. “This is summer camp. This is hot, humid, horny summer camp.”

Yanni beams. “A dream come true.”

You’re halfway across the room when you bump into someone — solid chest, sharp elbows. You step back, muttering, “Sorry,” but the guy’s already moving, weaving through the crowd like he’s done it a thousand times.

Again, you don’t get a good look.

Again, you feel that flicker — like something important just brushed past you.

“Who was that?” you ask, mostly to yourself.

Jenna squints after him. “I don’t know. Pretty sure he walked out of a Calvin Klein ad though.”

You shake it off.

This night is too much already — too loud, too crowded, too… Jungkook-shaped. And you’re not here for that. You’re here to survive, observe, and possibly rescue your friends from questionable decisions.

So far, you’re one-for-three.

Yanni grabs your arm. “Okay. I’ve spotted three girls from my art class, two guys I ghosted, and a literal priest costume. Where are the drinks that don’t taste like regret?”

“There are none,” you say. “We are the drinks that taste like regret.”

Jenna raises her cup like a toast. “To sinning responsibly.”

“To surviving this chaos,” you mutter, sipping again.

And across the room, under strobing lights and smoke machine haze, Jungkook leans against the wall near the DJ booth, scanning the crowd.

His eyes flick right past you.

Just a blur of black mesh, red ribbon, and glittering annoyance.

He doesn’t even register it.

But something in him shifts — like he knows he’s missing something. Or someone.

He adjusts the cuff of his sleeve, lifts his drink, and watches the crowd move like waves around him.

You’re both here.

You’re both waiting.

You just don’t know it yet.

Jungkook leans against the wall like he’s not trying.

He isn’t.

He’s dressed in all black — ripped jeans, oversized button-down left open over a tank, silver chains catching just enough light to look intentional. His boots are scuffed from the bike ride over, and he hasn't even bothered to fix the strands of hair falling into his eyes.

Still, people look.

People always look.

The Pit is packed. The lights strobe like they’re malfunctioning, bodies moving in all directions, glitter and sweat and wings everywhere. The blacklight catches on teeth, neon paint, the rims of Solo cups. Music throbs like a second heartbeat, drowning out anything that sounds like common sense.

Jungkook watches it all unfold with the calm detachment of someone who’s done this a hundred times.

Which, to be fair, he has.

“Cages,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Really.”

Taehyung reappears at his side, holding two drinks and no sense of subtlety. “You say that like you’re not impressed.”

“I’m not not impressed,” Jungkook says, eyeing a girl in LED horns who’s currently being hoisted into one of the hanging cages by two frat boys in priest collars. “I’m just wondering if this place passed fire code.”

Jimin sidles up on the other side, chewing gum like a menace. “God, I love when everyone’s desperate and underdressed. The vibe tonight is filthy.”

“It’s not a vibe,” Jungkook says, deadpan. “It’s a liability.”

“You’re just mad because you haven’t been recognized by someone hot yet.”

“I literally got here three minutes ago.”

“That’s three whole minutes too long, lover boy.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling faintly.

He scans the room again, letting the visuals wash over him: angel wings, devil horns, fake blood, fake rosaries, someone with a real sword (???), a couple making out aggressively near the “Confess Here” booth. Typical Pit energy, just turned up to eleven.

His gaze passes over a trio near the drink table — glitter, halos, fishnets — then slides away again, uninterested.

Then—

No. He pauses.

Barely.

There’s a girl in black mesh, red ribbon tight around her throat. Not the type trying to be seen. Not the type posing or pouting or clinging to someone’s arm. Just… there. Head tilted. Brows drawn. Like she’s trying to make sense of the chaos.

She’s not looking at him.

He doesn’t know why he notices.

Something about the way she holds herself — casual, a little stiff. Like she showed up for the party but didn’t want to. Like she’s in it, but not of it. It’s a detail, but he’s always been good at catching those.

He’s pretty sure he’s seen her before. Class maybe? One of the early ones, back when he still showed up?

He narrows his eyes. Something tickles the back of his mind — a row of seats, a laptop screen, a girl who never once looked his way even when he was late and loud and trying not to be noticed by a professor.

He’d filed it away as nothing.

And maybe it still is.

He watches her for one more second — how she crinkles her nose at the drink in her hand, how her friend with the silver cross top yells something and throws her head back laughing.

Then someone claps a hand on his shoulder, and the moment breaks.

“Hyung,” a guy shouts over the music — some junior he’s barely talked to — “the Seven Minutes room is right there. You better hope someone sins you into the closet.”

“I’m good,” Jungkook says without missing a beat.

“You sure?” the guy winks. “Heard even the quiet girls are wild tonight.”

Taehyung lets out an ungodly laugh.

Jimin fans himself. “God, I love this place.”

Jungkook exhales slowly and glances back toward the girl in the mesh top, the one he maybe-kinda remembers from Media Studies.

She’s walking away now, swallowed by bodies and wings and fog machine haze.

And just like that, she’s gone again

SINS & SAINTS

10:47 PM — The Pit

You’re halfway through your second regrettable drink — something red and radioactive that tastes like melted cherry Jolly Ranchers and lies — when you realize:

Jenna is gone.

Not lost in the crowd gone. Not hooked up with some guy in a halo gone. Like, vanished.

You scan the sea of limbs and glitter, the swirling blacklights and wall-to-wall bass drops.

No halo. No white silk dress. No Doc Martens stomping some poor frat guy’s foot for getting handsy.

“Wait,” you say, turning to Yanni. “Where’s Jenna?”

Yanni’s still dancing, holding her drink above her head and vibing to something bass-heavy. She doesn’t hear you.

You poke her side. “Yanni. Where. Is. Jenna.”

She freezes, eyes scanning the room with the same dawning horror you’re feeling.

“Oh my god,” she says, gripping your arm. “She was just here.”

“She was literally next to us two minutes ago.”

“She does this sometimes,” Yanni says, frowning. “Remember Halloween? She disappeared for an hour and came back with a matching tattoo with a guy named Car Battery.”

“That was ONE time,” you groan. “And she still won’t tell us where the tattoo is.”

Yanni downs the rest of her drink like it’s going to give her psychic powers. “Okay, we split up. You check the front half, near the drinks. I’ll do a lap by the DJ booth. Scream if she’s in a cage.”

“Or if you end up in one,” you mutter.

She kisses your cheek and takes off, glitter trailing in her wake.

You push through the crowd, slipping past a group of devils grinding to a slowed-down Britney remix, dodging a couple who are definitely fighting and definitely still holding hands.

You pause near the drink station again, heart thumping a little harder than it should.

Still no Jenna.

Just more suspicious liquids in plastic cups and a guy pouring straight vodka into a Capri Sun.

Then—

“Y/N!”

You whip around just as Yanni reappears, hair a little more disheveled, glitter smudged under one eye like war paint.

“I found her,” she pants, grabbing your hand. “You’re not gonna believe where she is.”

“Dead in a bathtub?”

“No.”

“In a cage?”

“Worse.”

“Yanni—”

“She’s at the Seven Minutes in Heaven room.”

You blink. “You’re lying.”

“I swear on my third ex’s face tattoo.”

You let her drag you toward the back hallway — the one that’s been curtained off with red velvet and glowing like Satan’s waiting room. A line snakes down the corridor, people laughing and hollering and shoving toward a closet door guarded by two dudes in fake pope robes.

You round the corner and — yup. There’s Jenna.

Sitting on a stool like royalty, halo tilted sideways, red Solo cup in hand, absolutely thriving.

She’s laughing, clapping, cheering as two strangers stumble out of the closet, sweaty and flushed and looking either victorious or traumatized. Probably both.

You stop in your tracks. “She’s a ringmaster.”

“She’s drunk on power,” Yanni adds, mouth open.

Jenna spots you both and waves like you’re long-lost war heroes.

“MY GIRLS!!” she yells. “You made it!!”

“You left us,” you shoot back.

She shrugs like that’s a problem for another timeline. “I was recruited.”

“What does that even mean?”

“They needed a hostess! I’m very charming!”

Yanni sighs. “This is how cults start.”

Before you can pry her off the stool, someone shouts, “NEXT UP!” and the line shoves forward. A girl pulls her own roommate in by the arm, both of them shrieking as the door slams shut behind them.

You look at Jenna. “This is out of control. We’re leaving.”

“Not until you try it!”

“Absolutely not.”

Yanni laughs. “Let’s just grab her and go—”

But the line moves again, someone shoves forward, and suddenly—

Everything goes wrong at once.

Hands. Shouting. Laughter. Some guy yells, “MAKE ROOM!”

You’re trying to yank Jenna off her unofficial throne, still yelling about how this is not how a party should go, when chaos breaks loose.

Someone shoves the line. A drink spills. People are yelling. The couple in front of the closet stumbles out like they’ve just done three laps around a football field.

You try to back away — but too late.

Hands shove you forward. “Next up!”

Yanni screams, “Wait, she’s not playing!”

“I’m not playing!” you yell, too.

Doesn’t matter. The crowd’s already decided.

The closet door swings open.

You get pushed inside — completely alone.

Click.

The door slams shut behind you. Darkness swallows everything.

You stumble, trip over a shoe or someone’s forgotten dignity, and land against the back wall, trying to breathe.

“Oh my god,” you mutter. “Oh my god. I’m gonna die in here. This is it. I’m gonna be found in a party closet.”

You fumble toward the doorknob, already plotting your escape—

And then the door opens again.

A warm body stumbles in, tall and solid and smelling unfairly good — like cedarwood, clean laundry, and a bad idea.

The door slams shut again.

Across the party, Jungkook is just trying to find a bathroom that doesn’t reek of four Loko and sin.

He’s halfway through a hallway that looks suspiciously off-limits when someone calls his name.

“Jeon Jungkook!”

He turns.

It’s some girl he barely knows. She’s got lipstick on her teeth and one shoe in her hand.

“Come ON,” she says, “we need more hot people for the closet game. You’ll save this party. I swear.”

He blinks. “I’m not doing that.”

“Too late!” she says, grabbing his arm with terrifying strength. “Come on, it’ll be funny! You’re hot and mysterious and your face should be illegal.”

“I’m going to sue this entire building,” Jungkook mutters, but the girl is already dragging him.

He doesn’t know why he lets her. Maybe he’s bored. Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe it’s because this party has reached new heights of ridiculous and he needs a story to make it worth the hangover.

They reach the red curtain. The line parts.

You don’t know who you hate more — Jenna for signing a blood pact with the party demons, or the crowd for shoving you into this glorified coat coffin like it’s part of the plan.

You've been in here for maybe a minute. Two tops. But time moves differently when you’re trapped in darkness, breathing the humid remains of other people’s bad decisions.

It’s cramped. It smells like body spray and spilled White Claw. The door has no handle from the inside. And you're about to start monologuing to the ceiling when—

The door opens again.

You freeze. “Wait—”

A guy stumbles in. Tall, broad-shouldered, all dressed in black with just enough chain action to suggest this person owns at least one motorcycle and zero alarm clocks.

You recognize him in an instant — because your subconscious hates you and made sure to memorize that face like it was an exam topic.

Jeon Jungkook.

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s too busy brushing off whoever just shoved him in.

“Okay, okay—Jesus. Don’t break my arm,” he mutters. Then, to the closet, “Sorry, whoever you are. I’m not here voluntarily.”

You don't say anything.

He finally glances your way.

A pause.

“…Huh.”

You cross your arms. “Not who you were expecting?”

“Not even close,” he says, like it’s a compliment and a complaint in one.

The door slams behind him. The lock clicks.

Now it’s just you. Him. Darkness. And a six-inch gap of air between you that’s slowly shrinking the longer you try not to acknowledge how small this closet actually is.

Jungkook shifts, probably trying to give you space, which is hilarious because there is none.

“Look,” you say, “I’m only in here because someone shoved me.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Cool. So neither of us is having fun.”

“Yet,” he says, too easily.

You narrow your eyes, not that he can see it. “You really think that line works on girls in closets?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “You tell me.”

You make a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Okay, no. You’re not allowed to be hot and full of shit.”

“Not full of shit,” he says. “Mildly irritating at most.”

“Mildly?”

He leans back against the wall. “Okay, moderately. Maybe.”

“Glad we agree.”

You try to shift your weight without brushing against him, which fails, because there’s nowhere to move. Your elbow bumps his arm. Your knee grazes his boot.

He lets out a dramatic sigh. “Alright, I’m putting you on a movement ban.”

“Excuse me?”

“You keep flailing around like that, I’m gonna get accused of starting something in here.”

“You are starting something. With your whole… vibe.”

He grins. “My vibe?”

“Yeah, the ‘mysterious party menace’ thing.”

“Didn’t realize that was my brand.”

“Oh, come on. You walk into every lecture like you’re arriving late to your own funeral.”

“You know me from lecture?”

Shit.

You freeze.

“I—” You recover, sort of. “I mean, yeah. You’re not exactly hard to notice. Motorcycle helmet? Black hoodie in May? The whole tortured poet aura?”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“No, I—shut up.”

He steps closer, just barely. His voice drops into that annoying, amused register that you suspect makes girls fall in love against their will.

“You’re flustered.”

“I’m trapped. There’s a difference.”

“Still,” he says, tone low, teasing, “you’re very talkative for someone who didn’t want to be in here.”

You suck in a breath. “I’m trying to defuse the awkward tension.”

“Well,” he says, leaning slightly closer, “you’re not doing a great job.”

You go still. “…Why?”

“Because if you don’t stop fidgeting and talking at a hundred miles an hour,” he says, voice light but just a little dangerous, “I’m gonna kiss you just to shut you up.”

Your brain whites out.

You forget how to stand.

You definitely forget how to breathe.

You make a noise that could be a laugh, or possibly a system reboot.

“…That’s rude,” you manage.

Jungkook grins. “Is it working?”

You blink at him. Slowly.

“…That’s your solution? Kissing as a silencing tactic?”

Jungkook smirks. “Efficient.”

You squint at him in the dark. “That’s assault with extra steps.”

“Only if it’s not well received.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, shoving lightly at his arm. “You’re actually worse in real life.”

He laughs, like that didn’t wound you at all. “In real life? What, you’ve imagined a better version of me somewhere else?”

You hesitate for half a second too long.

He catches it. Of course he does.

His smile shifts — not smug now, but curious. “Wait. Do I know you?”

“Nope.”

“You sure? You’re acting like you’ve had a whole character arc about me.”

“I just have good observational skills.”

“And a little crush?”

You snort. “Please. I only crush on emotionally available people.”

“Ouch.”

“You’ll live.”

“I’m not emotionally unavailable,” he says, mock offended. “I just don’t like… people.”

“That’s literally the definition.”

Jungkook moves a little closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to invade. Like someone stepping past your comfort zone just to prove they can. His voice is quiet, playful.

“Okay, but be honest — if I had kissed you, what would you have done?”

You meet his gaze in the dim light. Your heart does an actual backflip, but your mouth?

Deadpan.

“Bitten you.”

He grins, all teeth. “Kinky.”

You roll your eyes so hard you almost see god. “You are unbelievable.”

“I get that a lot.”

Another beat passes.

The party noise pulses outside. The door shakes once, like someone bumped into it. Neither of you move.

He tilts his head, watching you more carefully now. “So who are you, anyway?”

You blink. “What?”

“You know who I am. Everyone knows who I am, apparently. But I don’t know you.”

You shrug, trying to sound unfazed. “Just a girl in your class.”

“Which class?”

“I’m not telling you.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Why not?”

“Because I’ve seen how your brain works. The second you find out, you’ll start showing up late on purpose to make an entrance.”

He grins, wide and dangerous. “So you have been watching me.”

Damn it.

“That’s not—”

“Obsessed,” he says.

“Oh my god, I’m going to strangle you with one of those dumb chains on your pants.”

“They’re not dumb. They’re functional.”

“For what, exactly? Attaching yourself to reality?”

“Wow,” he says, smiling now like he’s thoroughly enjoying himself. “You’ve got jokes.”

You glance at the door. “Seven minutes better be almost up.”

“Why?” he asks, voice dipping just slightly. “You scared you’re starting to like me?”

You look back at him. “I’m scared you’re starting to like me.”

That shuts him up for half a second.

Then—

“…Touché.”

There’s a pause. You can hear your own heartbeat in the quiet.

He steps just a little closer. “Okay. Serious question.”

“Unlikely, but sure.”

“Are you always like this?”

You blink. “Like what?”

“This,” he says. “You know—snarky. Quick. Unimpressed. Kind of mean in a fun way.”

You stare at him. “Are you into being bullied?”

“I’m starting to wonder.”

The door bangs open just then, and the light hits both of your faces. You flinch at the sudden glare. Outside, someone yells, “ALRIGHT, CLOSET DWELLERS, TIMES UP!”

Jungkook doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

Finally, he leans a little closer and says under his breath, only loud enough for you to hear:

“You still didn’t tell me your name.”

You raise a brow.

“You didn’t earn it.”

He laughs, and it’s way too genuine. Like he didn’t expect this night to go like this at all — and somehow, that makes two of you.

As you duck out of the closet, brushing past him in the doorway, you hear him murmur:

“I’m gonna find out, you know.”

You throw a look over your shoulder, smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“Good luck.”

The door flings open.

Air, light, freedom.

You stumble out like someone just dragged you back from the underworld. The world is louder now, messier. Colors sharper. Sounds distorted, like everything’s underwater and also on fire.

Your heart is still pounding. Your brain? Gone. Missing. Presumed dead. Your dignity? Filing a police report.

You turn in a daze, blinking through the chaos—and find Yanni, breathless, holding a very giggly and wine-drunk Jenna by the elbow.

“THERE you are!” Yanni yells over the music. “We thought you got kidnapped by the Pit goblins!”

Jenna cackles. “I told her you were probably in the closet making out with a stranger. I WAS RIGHT.”

You blink at them.

Open your mouth.

Immediately close it again.

Yanni frowns. “Wait. Are you okay? You look like you just got hit by a really hot bus.”

You stare at her.

Then—

“I need air. I need, like, seventeen breaths of non-sweaty air. I—do you have water? I think I forgot how to swallow. I forgot—I forgot my name.”

Yanni’s eyes go wide. “Did you actually make out with someone?! Oh my god, who was it? Was he hot? Did he have a tongue ring? Was it that guy with the fake angel wings? Please tell me he had wings.”

“I—no. No wings.”

“Okay, so not a red flag. Good start.”

You grab both of them by the arms and start dragging them away from the closet, feet moving on autopilot. “We need to go. Just—somewhere. Away. Outside. Antarctica. I don’t care.”

Jenna, still loopy from the cocktail she stole from a girl dressed as the Pope, squints at you. “You’re acting weird.”

“Something happened,” you say, voice a little unhinged. “Something catastrophic.”

Yanni gasps. “Did you black out?!”

“No, worse.”

“Did you throw up on someone?!”

“WORSE.”

Yanni pulls you down onto a sagging patio couch under a string of flickering lights. The Pit’s back deck is quieter — only a handful of people out here, laughing or making out or both.

You sit between them, trying to remember how to form human sentences.

Jenna leans her head dramatically on your shoulder. “You definitely kissed someone.”

“I didn’t.”

Yanni narrows her eyes. “You wanted to.”

“I didn’t!”

They both stare at you.

You sigh. Long. Shaky.

Then you say, very quietly, like it might summon him if you say it too loud:

“I was in the closet with Jeon Jungkook.”

.

.

.

Jenna sits up so fast she elbows you in the boob.

Yanni chokes on her drink and coughs, “I’m sorry—WHAT?”

You hold up your hands, like it’ll protect you from the emotional storm about to erupt. “It was an accident! I got pushed in first, and then some drunk idiots shoved him in after me, and then the door locked and we were just there. Together. In the dark. Breathing the same air.”

Jenna is vibrating. “YOU WERE BREATHING JEON JUNGKOOK’S AIR. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY GIRLS WOULD PAY FOR THAT EXPERIENCE.”

“I didn’t ask for the experience!”

Yanni grabs your arm, shaking it. “Okay but what happened?! Tell us everything. Did you talk? Did he recognize you? Did you touch his hair? Did he touch you? Did your souls kiss?!”

You stare at her. “What the hell is a soul kiss?”

“Shut up and answer me!!”

You drag your hands down your face. “We talked. He was annoying. And hot. And annoying about being hot. He said if I didn’t stop panicking he was gonna kiss me and I think my nervous system flatlined for like ten seconds.”

Jenna screams. A real one.

Yanni grabs her cup and throws it into a bush just so she can clap. “That’s it. That’s the plot of a Netflix movie. I’m calling a casting director right now.”

“Guys, stop—”

“Did he know who you were?” Jenna asks, eyes wide.

You deflate. “No.”

Yanni freezes.

Jenna gasps like she’s watching a baby deer get hit by a truck.

“He didn’t recognize you?”

You shake your head, slumping into the couch like your spine is giving up. “Not even a little. I told him I was in his class, and he just blinked at me like I was an off-brand yogurt at the back of the fridge.”

“But—but you sit in the second row!”

“Yeah, apparently that’s not enough to pierce through the wall of apathy and leather jackets.”

Jenna is personally offended. “You’ve been thirsting over him for MONTHS.”

“Not out loud!”

“Your search history says otherwise.”

“That was ONE TIME—”

“‘Does Jeon Jungkook have a girlfriend’ is not a casual search, Y/N.”

Yanni throws an arm around your shoulder. “Okay. So. We have a situation.”

You groan. “No, we don’t. The situation is over. I will simply crawl into a hole and never speak to anyone again.”

“OR,” Yanni says, grinning, “we make him fall in love with you.”

You snort. “Hard pass.”

“I’m serious!”

“So am I! The guy barely knows what day of the week it is. He didn’t even know my name, and I was two inches from his face.”

Jenna fans herself. “God, I wish I was two inches from his face.”

Yanni is already spiraling into scheming mode. “Okay but hear me out: what if this is your origin story?”

“I don’t need an origin story. I need ice and maybe a lobotomy.”

“You’re gonna end up married to him.”

“I’m gonna end up IN A STRAITJACKET.”

They both lean in at the same time, grinning like devils.

And somewhere inside you — beneath the panic and the humiliation and the complete collapse of your self-esteem — something sparks.

A very tiny, very traitorous thought:

He doesn’t know who I am yet.

But what if he wanted to?

.

.

.

No. Absolutely not. You refuse to be delusional.

But still…

You clutch your drink with both hands and whisper to yourself like a prayer:

“…I cannot go back in that closet.”

Jungkook steps out into the warm night air, the noise of the party still thrumming behind him like a heartbeat that’s had too much sugar and zero regard for consequences.

He barely gets two steps out the door before he sees movement near the gate — a blur of color, of bare shoulders and tangled hair and wild, frantic energy.

Her.

The girl from the closet.

She’s running.

Well, not running — but walking very quickly in a way that screams “I just made a horrible decision and I’m trying to disappear into the night like it never happened.”

He watches as she yanks her friends down the sidewalk, arms waving, words too far away to make out. One of them glances back at the house, laughing. The other throws her arm around the girl’s shoulder like she’s trying to keep her from disintegrating.

Jungkook can’t hear them. Can’t read their lips.

But he doesn’t need to.

He’s seen that look before.

People don’t leave parties like that unless something got to them.

And apparently… that something was him.

He watches them disappear around the corner. The wind shifts, warm and sweet and heavy with the scent of grass and spilled vodka.

Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, the edges of his mouth tugging up, involuntarily.

He doesn’t smile a lot.

But right now?

He’s grinning.

11:18 PM — Inside, Kitchen

He finds Jimin first, leaning against the fridge, sipping from a red cup with glitter smeared across one cheek like someone tried to make out with a rave.

Jungkook walks up, casual as hell. “Hey.”

Jimin lifts a brow. “You’re still vertical. Closet girl didn’t kill you?”

Jungkook leans on the counter beside him, eyes scanning the room lazily. “Nope. She was fun.”

Jimin grins. “Define fun.”

“Annoyed. Loud. Mean. Called me out within the first two minutes.”

“So, your type.”

Jungkook gives him a lazy look. “Do you know who she was?”

Jimin blinks. “You mean you didn’t?”

“No. She said we’re in the same class, but…” He shrugs. “I wasn’t exactly focused on academics in there.”

Jimin sips his drink, way too amused. “You’re telling me you spent seven minutes pressed up against someone and didn’t bother to ask her name?”

“I didn’t get her name. She wouldn’t give it to me.”

Jimin whistles. “Damn. Girl’s got boundaries.”

Jungkook turns his full attention to him now. “So… do you know her?”

Jimin smiles. Slow. Evil.

“Maybe.”

Jungkook straightens. “What.”

“I mean, I’ve seen her around. Could be anyone.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s an answer adjacent.”

“Jimin.”

Jimin just grins wider, like this is his favorite hobby. “Why? You wanna see her again?”

“No.” Jungkook’s voice is too quick, too defensive. Then: “I just—she seemed familiar.”

“Sure. Let’s go with that.”

Before Jungkook can retaliate, Taehyung appears, wearing someone else’s sunglasses and holding a plate of mini cupcakes he absolutely did not make.

Jungkook turns to him like salvation. “Tae. Please tell me you know who the girl in the closet was.”

Taehyung pauses, cupcake halfway to his mouth.

Then, slowly, he lowers it and says: “Ohhhh. You mean the girl with the smart mouth and trust issues?”

“Yes!”

“Yup. Definitely know her.”

“Who is she?!”

Taehyung smiles with all his teeth. “Can’t say.”

Jungkook stares at him.

“What do you mean you can’t say?”

“Non-disclosure agreement.”

“That’s not a real thing!”

“It is now.”

Jungkook throws his hands in the air. “Are you both insane?”

“Yes,” Jimin says, grinning.

“We’re protecting the plot,” Taehyung adds solemnly.

Jungkook blinks. “What plot?”

“The enemies-to-lovers one,” Jimin says, sipping his drink. “You’re in the first act. Don’t be weird about it.”

“I’m not—!” Jungkook cuts himself off, pinches the bridge of his nose, then mutters, “You guys are the worst.”

“You’re welcome,” Taehyung says cheerfully.

Jungkook turns, heading for the living room, but Jimin calls after him:

“You really gonna let a girl roast you in a closet and disappear without finding out her name?”

Jungkook doesn’t stop walking.

But he does smirk.

“Of course not.”

11:42 PM — Later, Upstairs Hallway

Jungkook leans against the wall, scrolling mindlessly through his phone. But his head isn’t in it.

He’s thinking about the sound of her voice. The way she said, “You didn’t earn it.” The way she pushed past him and didn’t look back.

He still doesn’t know her name.

But he’s starting to think he needs to.

Desperately.

You’re early. Not obnoxiously so, but early enough to get your usual seat — second row, slightly to the left. Close enough to focus, far enough to keep your laptop screen hidden when you’re secretly Googling niche references during class.

You’re wearing jeans and a loose t-shirt. Nothing fancy. Hair pulled back. Glasses on. A normal girl living a normal life, unbothered and deeply uninterested in emotionally reckless men with perfect jawlines and leather jackets. You are zen. You are healed.

...You are lying to yourself.

Your leg has been bouncing under the desk for a solid five minutes. You haven’t even opened your laptop. You’re just staring at the professor’s slides like they personally betrayed you.

And then—

The door opens.

You hear it before you see it. That faint creak of poorly oiled hinges and the collective inhale of every girl in the room.

You don’t turn around.

You don’t have to.

You know it’s him.

Because everyone in a ten-foot radius straightens like they’re about to be graded on posture. There’s a flutter of lip gloss applications. Someone actually whispers his name.

You pretend to be deeply focused on the “Media Ethics and Digital Responsibility” slide.

Jeon Jungkook walks in. On time.

The professor blinks like he’s hallucinating. “Huh. Welcome, Mr. Jeon. Look at you.”

Jungkook just nods, loose and casual, but you can feel it.

He’s different today.

He doesn’t do his usual routine — no airpods, no gum chewing, no half-lidded stroll like he’s walking into a photoshoot instead of a lecture.

No, this time… he’s scanning.

Not in a weird way. Just—calculated. Eyes moving across each row like he’s checking a list in his head. Looking for something. Someone.

Your stomach tightens.

And then—

His gaze glides right past you.

Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t flicker. Nothing.

He slides into a seat a few rows back, drops his bag, and leans back like he didn’t just steamroll your entire emotional ecosystem last night.

You blink at your screen.

Wow.

Okay.

Coolcoolcoolcoolcool.

So he just… forgot you existed? Already?

You tell yourself it’s a good thing. That you’re off the hook. But still—

Your phone vibrates in your lap.

Then again. And again.

You glance down.

YANNI [9:57AM] FIND US AFTER CLASS

JENNA [9:57AM] LIKE IMMEDIATELY

YANNI [9:58AM] BIG. SHIT. IS. HAPPENING.

YANNI [9:58AM] HUGE.

JENNA [9:58AM] YOU MIGHT BE FAMOUS

You: 🙃

11:07AM — Campus Library, Third Floor (aka Gossip HQ)

You find them between the graphic novel section and the fake potted plant that hides the worst Wi-Fi signal on campus.

Yanni is pacing. Jenna is sitting on the floor with a laptop open, half a croissant in her mouth and murder in her eyes.

“FINALLY,” Yanni breathes, grabbing your wrist and yanking you down beside her.

“What is happening?” you whisper. “Did someone die?”

“YOU might,” Jenna says around a bite. “From cardiac arrest.”

You blink. “Why?”

Yanni flips her phone around.

It’s an Instagram story. Jungkook’s account. You recognize the handle from your extremely short-lived stalking phase.

The video is short. A dim hallway, flashing lights, the thump of party music in the background.

Text overlaid:

"7 minutes wasn’t long enough. If you know who she is… tell her." 👀🖤

Your heart stops.

You stare at the screen like it might explode.

“Wha—”

“He’s looking for you,” Yanni whispers, eyes wild.

“He’s trying to CROWD-SOURCE you,” Jenna adds. “LIKE A MISSING PERSON.”

You genuinely don’t know what to do with your hands. “I—I don’t even have Instagram. I didn’t see this.”

“Well, now the entire internet has,” Yanni says, scrolling through dozens of replies and reshared stories. “People are putting up theories. One girl swears it was her and her friends are backing her up.”

You feel a little sick.

“I—he doesn’t even remember me.”

“He does now.”

Before you can spiral further, a voice cuts through the quiet.

“Aha. Found you.”

You whip around.

Taehyung and Jimin are approaching, looking like they just stepped out of a K-drama fight scene. Jimin is in an oversized hoodie and glasses, sipping from a matcha latte. Taehyung is holding a leather-bound journal like it’s a prop.

“Oh my god,” Yanni whispers, straightening like she’s about to present a thesis.

Jimin nods at you. “Closet girl.”

Taehyung gasps. “I knew it!”

You slap both hands over your face. “I am going to dissolve into the carpet.”

Jimin flops down next to you. “You’re literally a phenomenon.”

“I don’t want to be a phenomenon! I want to be anonymous.”

“Too late,” Taehyung sing-songs. “He’s obsessed.”

“He’s not—”

Jimin cuts you off. “He made us look through the security footage of the Pit to try and find you.”

You blink. “There’s security footage?!”

“That’s not the point.”

Yanni claps like she’s been waiting for this all her life. “Okay, okay, okay. NEW PLAN.”

Jenna nods. “Mission: Keep Her Hidden.”

You snap your head to look at him. “Wait, what—?”

“We cannot let him find you too easily. The mystery is part of the power.” Yanni explained, a smile that was a little too enthusiastic spreading across her face.

“She’s right.” Jimin chimed in.

You blink between them all, a growing sense of terror blooming in your chest.

“I feel like I’m in a YA novel.”

Taehyung beams. “You are. And it’s about to get so much worse.”

If Jungkook knew his Instagram story would cause an actual phenomenon, he would’ve thrown his phone in the nearest sewer.

He’s seated on the edge of the fountain, legs stretched out, black boots dusted with dry grass. Sunglasses perched on his head, arms crossed, regret pouring off of him in waves.

There is a line.

A real, breathing, giggling line of girls waiting to speak to him.

“I swear,” the third one in a row says, flipping her hair, “it was me. I had this red tank top on—”

“You weren’t wearing red,” Jungkook says flatly, not even looking up.

She blinks. “You remember that?”

He sighs. “Unfortunately.”

She pouts, tosses her hair again, and walks off.

The next girl steps forward with more confidence than he’s emotionally prepared to deal with.

“Hey,” she says, batting her lashes. “So, I was totally gonna come up to you last night, but I got pulled into beer pong, and—”

“Not you either,” he says, already tired.

Behind him, Jimin is sprawled on the grass like a cat in the sun, sipping iced coffee and watching the chaos like it’s live theater.

“I don’t know, man,” he says. “Closet Girl’s starting to sound like a fever dream.”

“She was real,” Jungkook mutters.

Taehyung, perched dramatically on the fountain’s edge, hums. “This feels like a modern fairy tale. Only instead of a glass slipper, she left behind unresolved sexual tension and a mild existential crisis.”

Jungkook doesn’t respond. Just drags a hand down his face.

“You know,” Jimin adds, “you could just let her go. Move on. Forget it happened.”

Jungkook stares at him like he’s just suggested licking a subway pole.

“I mean it,” Jimin continues. “Is this really worth it?”

Jungkook leans back, letting the sun hit his face.

And after a pause, he says:

“…She was funny.”

Taehyung blinks. “Funny?”

“She was… sharp. Gave me shit. Told me I didn’t earn the right to flirt with her.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. It was just… real.”

Jimin and Taehyung exchange a look.

But before either can respond—

“Hey, Jeon.”

They all glance up.

A girl in a glittery top and too-high heels struts up like she’s approaching a casting call.

“I was wearing angel wings last night,” she purrs.

“Congratulations,” Jungkook says dryly.

“I think I’m the girl you’re looking for.”

“You’re not.”

“How would you know?”

Jungkook blinks slowly. “Because I just would.”

She scoffs and storms off, muttering something about him not being that hot anyway.

Jimin snorts. “The delusion is wild today.”

Taehyung raises his brows. “You know, you did make her a mystery. People love a good mystery.”

“I hate this mystery,” Jungkook mutters.

And then—

Taehyung straightens suddenly.

“Oh,” he says, too casually. “There she goes.”

Jungkook’s eyes snap up.

“What?!”

“She’s walking past,” Jimin adds, barely containing his grin.

Jungkook jumps to his feet, scanning the path just ahead of them.

He sees a group of students. A couple laughing. A guy with a skateboard. A girl in a floral skirt. Another in an oversized sweater.

But no one familiar.

No her.

“Where?” he demands, turning back to them.

Taehyung just shrugs, biting back a smile. “Hm. Maybe she slipped away again.”

Jimin’s grinning like the devil. “So mysterious.”

Jungkook stares at them.

And then slowly, slowly, sits back down, glaring at nothing.

“I hate you both.”

“You’re welcome,” Jimin says cheerfully.

Meanwhile — You, Just 20 Feet Away

You’re clutching a smoothie and telling Jenna that you swear to God if Yanni says the words “power move” one more time, you’re going to commit a crime.

You do not see Jungkook.

You do not see the crowd of girls.

You do not see your entire romantic fate spiraling out in a perfect storm of timing, ego, and extremely bad luck.

But you do hear Yanni’s voice crackling through your group chat ten seconds later:

YANNI [12:43PM] HE’S OUTSIDE RN. WALKING DISTANCE. I REPEAT: JEON JUNGKOOK IS WITHIN WALKING DISTANCE.

You pause. Look up.

“…The universe is playing games with me,” you mutter.

Jenna just takes your smoothie and sips like it’s none of her business. “Welcome to Act Two.”

Three Days Later – 12:19PM Campus Lawn, under the shade of an old oak tree

Yanni is dramatically slicing into her overpriced salad like it’s personally offended her.

“I swear to God,” she says, spearing a piece of lettuce, “if she doesn’t just tell him soon, I’m going to combust.”

“She doesn’t even want him to know!” Jenna laughs, peeling the wrapper off her sandwich. “She’s surviving off vibes and secondhand embarrassment.”

Across from them, lounging on the grass, Jimin snorts into his iced chai. “Honestly, mood.”

Taehyung is lying flat on his back, sunglasses on, using Jimin’s thigh as a pillow and holding his phone above his face like it’s too exhausting to lift it further.

“It’s better this way,” he hums. “Mystery. Intrigue. Emotional damage.”

Yanni points at him with her fork. “See? That’s the energy we’re all riding on.”

“I don’t know how she hasn’t just imploded,” Jenna says, sipping her drink. “She had a panic attack in the psych building bathroom yesterday because someone said Jungkook's name too loud.”

Taehyung laughs. “That could’ve been anyone.”

“No,” Yanni corrects. “She knew exactly how he said it. Deep voice. Tiny rasp. A little pouty. ‘Jungkook.’” She mimics it, exaggerated and ridiculous.

Jimin wheezes.

Taehyung props himself up on one elbow, turning to the girls with mock-serious eyes. “You guys are evil.”

“Thank you,” Yanni says, deadpan.

And then—

“You’re evil,” comes a familiar, slightly exasperated voice behind them.

All four turn.

Jeon Jungkook walks up, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, black jeans, silver chain catching the sunlight.

He looks… tired.

Not in a tragic way. More like haunted by the choices that led him to this exact moment.

Taehyung lifts two fingers in a lazy peace sign. “Ah. The lover boy returns.”

Jimin just grins like Christmas came early. “How’s your army of imposters?”

Jungkook drops onto the grass with a groan. “Still growing. I got ambushed by three more girls outside the business building this morning.”

“Business building girls,” Jimin mutters. “That’s a bold demographic.”

“She said she left her earring in the closet with me,” Jungkook says, running a hand through his hair. “She was wearing cat ears.”

“Oh no,” Jenna whispers behind a laugh.

Yanni coughs into her drink.

Jungkook narrows his eyes at them. “Do I know you two?”

“Nope,” Yanni says, biting into a cherry tomato. “Just enjoying the show.”

Jenna shrugs, fighting a grin. “Free entertainment.”

Taehyung watches them both like he’s just realized something.

Jungkook leans back on his palms, legs stretched out, expression a mix of exhaustion and suspicion. “You guys ever regret making me post that?”

Jimin doesn’t even blink. “Nope.”

“I knew this would happen,” Jungkook mutters.

“You didn’t know people would create full conspiracy boards,” Taehyung points out. “Someone literally mapped out Closet Girl’s shoe print from the party photo.”

“Don’t forget the girl who recreated the closet,” Jimin adds. “Like. Bought a closet. Filmed a fake interaction.”

“God,” Jungkook groans, scrubbing his face. “I’m an idiot.”

He exhales through his nose, still half-distracted, when—

“Well, it’s even funnier,” Jenna says, not quite under her breath, “because she doesn’t even have socials.”

Yanni chokes on her soda.

Jimin and Taehyung both freeze mid-laugh.

And Jungkook— Whips his head around so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t get whiplash.

“Wait.”

Yanni slaps Jenna’s arm.

Jungkook’s eyes are wide. “You—” He points between them. “You know her?!”

Jenna blinks. “Who?”

“Closet Girl,” Jungkook says, sharp now, sitting up straighter. “You just said she doesn’t have socials—how would you know that?”

Yanni lifts her cup to her mouth, speaking through her straw. “Could’ve been anyone.”

“But it’s not,” Jungkook says, eyes narrowing. “You know who it is.”

He looks at Taehyung and Jimin like they’ve personally betrayed him. “You said you didn’t know!”

Taehyung holds up his hands, unbothered. “We didn’t say that.”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, already laughing. “We just didn’t say anything helpful.”

Jungkook glares. “You assholes.”

Yanni leans in, chin resting on her hand, absolutely loving this. “Why do you want to find her so bad?”

Jungkook hesitates. Just for a beat.

And then, quieter than expected, he says:

“…Because I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Taehyung blinks.

Jimin’s mouth parts a little.

Yanni and Jenna exchange a look.

“That was almost sweet,” Jenna says.

“Almost,” Yanni echoes.

Jungkook looks at them like he’s debating a crime. “Please. Just give me one clue.”

Jimin just smiles, stretching out on the grass again. “Mmm. No.”

“Not even her name?” Jungkook tries.

Taehyung grins. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Jungkook scrubs his hands over his face. “You people are evil.”

Yanni smiles sweetly. “We’ve been over this.”

After another beat of sulking, he finally stands, brushing his hands off on his jeans.

“You’re all the worst.”

“We know,” Jimin says, cheerful as ever.

Jungkook sighs, starts walking away— And turns back around.

“If she ever asks about me—”

“She won’t,” Yanni says.

“Okay, if she does,” he presses, “can you just tell her I’m not as annoying as I seem?”

“No promises,” Jenna says.

He groans again and walks off, muttering something under his breath.

The moment he’s out of earshot, the group erupts.

“THAT,” Jimin says, sitting upright, “WAS TOO CLOSE.”

Yanni fans herself. “I panicked, okay?! I didn’t mean to say it—he just appeared.”

“You almost ruined the whole thing!” Taehyung says gleefully. “But also… he’s losing his mind.”

“And she has no idea,” Jenna adds, grinning.

Jimin leans back with a content sigh. “This is better than television.”

Same Day — 4:42 PM Campus Library — Second Floor

The study area is quieter than usual, with just the occasional cough, a rogue phone vibration, or someone smacking their space bar like it owes them money.

You, Yanni, and Jenna are huddled around your usual table — highlighters scattered, tabs open, coffees half-melted. It’s productive chaos. Or it was, until Jenna froze mid-sentence.

“...Don’t look now,” she says, voice already breathless with suppressed panic, “but Jungkook and his friends just walked in.”

Your soul immediately ejects from your body.

“WHERE—”

“Don’t look,” Yanni hisses, stabbing her pen in warning. “You’ll give us away.”

You stare down at your laptop like you’re trying to astral project into it.

Footsteps shuffle closer, closer—

And then.

They sit at the table directly behind you.

Your chair is now back-to-back with Jungkook’s. There is a shared inch of air between you. You can feel the heat off his stupid, beautiful, back-in-black hoodie.

Jenna mouths OH MY GOD. Yanni is gripping her iced latte like she’s about to squeeze it into mist.

Across from Jungkook, Jimin and Taehyung sit — and the moment they spot Yanni and Jenna?

They grin. Smug. Pleased. Silent little devils. Not a word — not a wave — just the occasional flicker of laughter and shared glances while you sit there about to spontaneously combust.

“I swear to god,” Jungkook says behind you, low and miserable, “if one more girl corners me between classes and asks if I like strawberry lip gloss, I’m dropping out.”

“She had a presentation,” Jimin offers. “She brought visual aids.”

“She brought a poster board,” Jungkook groans. “With a QR code to her TikTok.”

“Impressive,” Taehyung hums.

Jungkook thumps his head gently on the table. “I just wanted to meet her. One girl. Now I can’t go to class without hearing someone yell ‘closet king’ at me.”

Yanni chokes into her drink.

You’re doing breathing exercises you learned in a freshman wellness seminar. They are not working.

“I hate all of you,” Jungkook mutters. “You said you’d help.”

“I did help,” Jimin says, like it’s obvious.

“You gave me nothing.”

“False,” Taehyung says, adjusting his sunglasses indoors like a menace. “We gave you... ✨context✨.”

Jungkook scoffs. “No. You gave me trauma.”

There’s a pause. Then, Jimin goes, “Fine. Want another clue?”

You tense so hard your back pops.

Jenna grabs your thigh under the table. Yanni is vibrating. Everyone is vibrating.

“Yes. Something real this time.”

“...She has elbows.”

There’s a pause.

A very long one.

“She has what?” Jungkook asks, flat.

“Elbows,” Taehyung says innocently.

You almost die.

“Taehyung,” Jungkook says slowly, like he's speaking to a small child, “everyone has elbows.”

“Exactly,” Taehyung nods. “She fits right in.”

Jimin is snorting into his hoodie sleeve.

You, meanwhile, are clamping your hand over your mouth to keep from screaming.

“Is this a joke to you?” Jungkook asks, exasperated. “Do you want me to suffer?”

“I’m not lying,” Taehyung says, clearly delighted. “She definitely had elbows. Two, even.”

“Wow,” Jungkook deadpans. “A girl with two elbows. I’ll just walk around campus asking people to show me their joints.”

Jimin shrugs. “Could work.”

Your hand is cramping from clutching your pencil so tightly. Yanni is in physical pain from holding in her laughter. Jenna scribbles onto her piece of paper, turning it to you.

THEY SAID ELBOWS. I’M LOSING IT.

Jungkook groans behind you, slumping so hard in his chair you feel it through the back of yours. “I’m going insane. I’m actually insane. This is what insanity feels like.”

“And yet,” Taehyung says, completely deadpan, “she walks among us.”

Jimin sips his drink with a smirk. “Right under your nose.”

Behind your screen, you scream silently. Jenna writes out another message:

RIGHT UNDER HIS NOSE. THEY’RE DOING THIS ON PURPOSE.

You’re certain of two things:

You will never emotionally recover from this.

Jungkook is going to need a therapist when he finally figures it out.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t even turn around.

Not once. He gets up after ten minutes, mumbles something about “going to get gum,” and walks off—shoulders tense, head down, frustration rolling off him in waves.

The second he’s gone, your table explodes.

“I CAN’T,” Jenna whispers, doubled over.

“ELBOWS?!” Yanni wheezes. “HE’S GOING TO BE HAUNTED BY ELBOWS NOW.”

You drop your face into your arms. “If he finds out it was me, I’m changing schools.”

Jenna wipes a tear from her eye. “You’ll be a myth. A cryptid. A legend with joints.”

Taehyung and Jimin? Still sitting there. Still smirking. Still saying nothing.

Later That Night, Jungkook’s Dorm

“I’m not giving up,” Jungkook mutters, scrolling through his DMs.

“What are you even looking for?” Jimin asks from the other bed.

“Someone with elbows,” Jungkook mutters.

There’s a beat of silence. Then—

Thursday Night – Jungkook’s Dorm 8:09 PM

Jungkook opens the door mid-yawn and freezes when he sees Jimin, Taehyung, Yanni, and Jenna standing in the hallway like they’re on a mission from God.

“What… are you wearing?” he asks, staring at Taehyung, who’s in sunglasses and a turtleneck like he’s about to brief the CIA.

“Respect the fit,” Taehyung replies, sweeping in past him.

“Don’t ask questions,” Jimin grins, patting Jungkook’s chest on the way in. “You’re about to receive the gift of knowledge.”

Yanni lifts a flash drive dramatically in the air. “And heartbreak.”

Jungkook blinks. “...What?”

They all file in before he can protest. Jimin kicks his beanbag chair into position. Jenna’s already hooking her laptop up to Jungkook’s TV. Yanni’s dragging over a dining chair like she’s preparing to defend her dissertation.

“This is an ambush,” Jungkook mutters.

“It’s an intervention,” Jimin corrects. “For your situation.”

“What situation.”

Yanni taps the spacebar. The TV flickers to life.

A title slide appears:

“THE CLOSET FILES: VOL. 2” A tragic love story told in 720p Presented by: Four people who are tired of your whining

Jungkook groans, flopping onto his bed face-first. “No.”

“Oh, yes,” Taehyung grins, sliding off his sunglasses.

Slide One: A blurry image of a girl from behind, walking through the quad. Head covered with a cartoon closet sticker.

“Subject A, known to the public as Closet Girl, photographed in her natural habitat.”

Jungkook peeks through his fingers. “...Where did you even get that?”

“Campus security has blind spots,” Yanni says flatly.

“I’m kidding,” Jenna adds quickly. “It’s from my camera roll. Don’t arrest us.”

Slide Two: Another photo. Reader sitting under a tree, reading. Closet.png pasted neatly over her face.

“She’s literate,” Taehyung says solemnly. “We can confirm this.”

“She has a favorite pen,” Yanni adds, pointing at the zoomed-in detail of your stationery.

Slide Three: A photo of you from behind again, walking into the library.

“She studies a lot,” Jimin says helpfully. “You’d like her. Oh wait—”

“I DO LIKE HER, I JUST DON’T KNOW WHO SHE IS,” Jungkook cries, dragging his hands down his face.

Yanni grins. “Hence: this.”

Slide Four: Reader holding a coffee cup. You can barely see her, but her wrist has a tiny pen mark on it.

“She writes little reminders on her hand,” Jenna explains. “This one said ‘ask prof for extension.’ We did NOT hack her calendar. Yet.”

“I feel like this is illegal,” Jungkook mutters.

“It’s romance,” Taehyung says. “And art.”

Slide Five: A very blurry picture from the Seven Minutes in Heaven night. Reader walking toward the drinks table. Closet still hiding her identity.

“I remember this,” Jungkook murmurs, sitting up a little straighter. “That was before—"

“Before she got trapped in a closet with your emotionally unavailable self?” Yanni supplies.

Jungkook glares. “I was emotionally available in that closet.”

“You said you were gonna kiss her to shut her up,” Jenna points out.

“She wouldn’t stop panicking!” Jungkook defends.

Jimin pats his shoulder. “It’s okay. We have more slides.”

Jungkook buries his face in his hands again. “God, do I even want to see them?”

“No,” Yanni answers. “But you have to.”

Slide Six: Another shot. Reader sitting in a lecture hall, two rows below Jimin’s camera view. Her head is down, scribbling. Closet.png doing its job.

“You literally sit this close to her in class,” Jimin says, zooming in dramatically. “And yet you never noticed her.”

“She doesn’t talk!” Jungkook protests. “She just… sits there! Like a quiet little nerd—”

He stops. Goes quiet.

“Oh no,” Taehyung says, eyebrows raising. “It’s happening.”

“No,” Jungkook says quickly. “No no no no—”

“You’re picturing her in the closet again, aren’t you,” Jenna asks.

Jungkook covers his face with a pillow and screams into it.

The group breaks into chaotic laughter.

“We’re not even done,” Yanni says, clicking to the next slide.

Slide Seven: Just a text slide. White background. Black font.

"You’ve already talked to her." "You’ve already made her laugh." "And you’ve already said the stupidest thing she’s ever heard."

Jungkook drops the pillow. “WHAT DID I SAY?”

Yanni shrugs. “We’ll tell you someday.”

“WHEN?”

“When you deserve her,” Taehyung says with faux wisdom.

“You’re all evil,” Jungkook mutters, but he’s leaning forward again, face flushed, gaze soft.

“Final slide,” Jenna announces.

The screen goes black. Then—

Slide Eight: A shaky photo. You, walking just past Jungkook on campus. He’s facing the other way. You’re almost shoulder to shoulder — a moment in passing. Two near-strangers. One closet. Fate.

Caption: "You’re always looking the wrong way."

Jungkook stares.

For a long moment, no one says anything. The air buzzes.

“…She’s actually kind of short,” he murmurs.

Everyone turns to him slowly.

Jimin: “Just noticed?”

Jungkook’s voice goes soft. “The back of her neck… it’s—" He cuts himself off. “Never mind.”

“Oh, he’s GONE gone,” Yanni grins.

“You’re welcome,” Jenna says, unplugging the USB.

“We’ll see ourselves out,” Taehyung adds, grabbing the popcorn for the road.

Jimin claps Jungkook on the shoulder on the way out. “Good luck finding her, Romeo.”

Jungkook just stares at the blank TV screen, cheeks flushed, brain full of closet-stickered moments and glimpses of a girl he almost knows.

He doesn’t even have a name.

But he’s sure now, more than ever—

He’s already in love.

Thursday Night – 10:04 PM Jungkook’s Dorm Post-PowerPoint. Post-heartbreak. Post-closet-induced delusion.

The door clicks shut.

Silence.

Jungkook stands in the middle of his room, arms limp at his sides, eyes fixed on the black TV screen like it’s going to flicker back on and bless him with another blurry, closet-covered glimpse of her.

He hasn’t moved since they left. Not even a breath.

Until—

“...I’m such an idiot.”

He says it out loud. To no one. Because no one else is in the room. Just him, and a ghost of a girl who might smell like vanilla and who maybe — maybe — wrote a reminder to herself on her hand with the same brand of pen he uses.

He collapses backward onto his bed with a groan and immediately drags a pillow over his face.

“I was right there,” he mumbles into the cotton. “I was literally right next to her. The same exact sidewalk. I was breathing the same air as her. What am I—some kind of visually impaired golden retriever?”

He flips over dramatically. Stares at the ceiling like it insulted him.

“How did I not notice her?”

Another beat.

“Why didn’t she say anything?” Pause. “Okay, no — that’s dumb. Why would she? ‘Hi, I’m the girl you fake-threatened to kiss in a closet while I was having a breakdown’ — yeah, great icebreaker, Jungkook. Really nailed that one.”

He groans again, dragging his hands through his hair and sitting up so quickly he nearly knocks his head on the wall.

He stares at the blank space where the photos had been just minutes earlier. The slideshow might be gone, but his mental image bank is full now. Every tiny detail they’d shown him — her in the library, at the quad, that little mark on her hand — all of it’s seared into his brain like it’s been tattooed.

“And she studies,” he mutters, like that’s the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. “And she wears oversized sweaters. And—God.” He leans forward, hands on his knees, eyes wide.

“She was laughing at something in that library photo. Was that her friend? Was it something they said? Or was she—”

A thought hits him.

“Wait,” he whispers, eyes narrowing. “Did I say something? Was I there? Was I—?”

He suddenly stands, pacing now. His room’s not big, but he’s working it like it’s a runway of shame.

“I can’t believe I flirted with her like that. What was I even thinking? ‘If you don’t stop moving I’m gonna kiss you’? Who SAYS THAT?”

He stops. Blinks.

“…Okay it was kind of smooth,” he admits. “But in a feral, what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you kind of way.”

He drops into his desk chair, spinning in a slow, guilty circle.

“She didn’t even say anything,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. “She was just… breathing. Freaking out. And I was making it worse. Of course she wouldn’t tell me who she was after that. God.”

The spin slows. His voice gets softer.

“She was so close.”

He thinks of the photo — the one where he was turned away, and she was walking by.

Literally right beside him.

“Would I have looked at her differently if I’d known?” he whispers.

And then—he freezes.

Because his heart’s telling him no.

No. He would’ve stared at her anyway. He would’ve noticed how soft her laugh sounded under the music. How even panicking, she was kind of funny. How even in the dark, he could feel how smart she was. How real.

He doesn’t even know her name.

But she’s already ruined him.

He slumps back against the chair with a deep sigh, staring at the ceiling again.

“...I’m done for.”

A beat.

Then he grabs his phone.

Jungkook [to Jimin]: u have 24 hrs to turn over her name or I’m telling Yanni you used her serum and said nothing

Jimin [read] Jimin [typing...] Jimin: who’s to say I know her name?

Jungkook: YOU TOOK A WHOLE STALKER SLIDESHOW OF HER HER NAME. NOW.

Jimin: her name... is closet. closet jeon. your wife. congrats.

Jungkook tosses his phone onto his bed.

“Unbelievable.”

Still — his lips twitch.

Because even through the embarrassment, the obsession, the mystery… he’s smiling now.

Tiny. Stupid. Helpless.

“Closet Jeon,” he mumbles under his breath, shaking his head.

And for the first time in days, he falls asleep with a grin on his face.

Friday – 2:47 PM

Campus Café Patio

“Okay,” Jimin starts, sliding Jungkook a cold brew like it’s a sedative. “Don’t freak out.”

“Why would you even say that?” Jungkook deadpans, hoodie string caught between his teeth like emotional support. “Now I have to freak out.”

“Good,” Taehyung says, taking a loud slurp from his drink. “You’ve been weirdly calm for a man who got bested by a PowerPoint full of red-sweater thirst traps.”

“Shut up,” Jungkook mutters, snatching the drink.

He hasn’t stopped thinking about the slideshow. He didn’t even sleep properly last night — just lay there, blinking at his ceiling fan and whispering, “What if she reads books I’ve never heard of?” like a man haunted.

Now Jimin pulls out his phone, tapping the screen like he’s about to detonate something.

“Seriously,” he says. “Promise not to cry.”

“I hate you,” Jungkook replies, already nervous.

“Group project list,” Jimin announces, flipping the phone toward him.

Jungkook grabs it, scans the screen—and freezes.

Group 3:

Jeon Jungkook

Kim Taehyung

Lee Sunmi

Y/N L/N

It hits him like a shovel to the face.

He stares at the name. Then at Jimin.

Then back at the name.

“…You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Her name is Y/N?” Jungkook says, voice rising with each syllable.

“That’s her.”

“YOU KNEW HER NAME THIS WHOLE TIME—?!”

Jungkook practically lunges over the table, the iced coffee jostling as he goes into a full-body meltdown.

“I’m in her group?! And you’re just telling me now?!”

“You weren’t listening,” Jimin shrugs.

“You weren’t even in class the day she got assigned,” Taehyung adds helpfully.

“Oh my God.”

Jungkook sits back down like gravity just gave up on him.

He stares straight ahead. Blankly. Mouth open.

“She was right there the whole time,” he mutters. “In my class. I could’ve figured this out two weeks ago if I’d just—paid attention.”

“You didn’t even know where the class was until midterms,” Jimin says.

“YOU GUYS—” Jungkook spins around to face them again. “Do you know what this means?! I’m in a group project with the literal girl of my dreams and I still don’t know what she looks like!”

Taehyung sighs. “Poetic suffering.”

“She’s just—Y/N. That’s it! I have no face to match. Just… cardigans. A pretty voice. Maybe a vanilla perfume. And this feeling like I got punched in the chest when she said my name.”

“You mean when she didn’t say your name,” Jimin says, deadpan.

“I AM LOSING MY MIND.”

Jungkook puts his head in his hands.

Taehyung pats his back solemnly. “Let it out.”

Meanwhile – 3:12 PM

East Side Lawn

“I cannot believe this,” you hiss, pacing through the grass like you’re on the verge of setting it on fire. “He knows my name now. My full government name. And he still doesn’t know it’s me.”

Yanni is lying in the sun, sunglasses on, eating a cake pop like this is her favorite telenovela. Jenna’s sitting next to her, holding a matcha latte and trying not to laugh.

“Maybe he’s just processing,” Jenna offers weakly.

“Processing WHAT?!” You throw your hands in the air. “The part where I SAT NEAR HIM EVERY MONDAY AND WEDNESDAY?!”

Yanni sighs, watching you like she’s mentally adding sound effects.

“Imagine how funny it’ll be when he finds out and actually combusts.”

“I was next to him in the LIBRARY,” you cry. “We shared oxygen, Yanni.”

Jenna giggles into her drink.

You spin back toward them. “And now we’re in a group project together? How am I supposed to survive that?”

“By being extremely normal and not making it weird,” Yanni says.

“I AM THE WEIRD,” you shout.

A group of freshmen walking by side-eye you. You don’t care. You’re in shambles.

“I bet he doesn’t even recognize my voice,” you mutter. “He probably thinks Closet Girl and I are two different people. I’m out here doing the academic equivalent of slow dancing in a burning room and he’s just... vaping.”

Jenna snorts.

Meanwhile – 3:14 PM

West Side Path — walking toward lecture

Jungkook walks between Jimin and Taehyung, eyes slightly glazed, hoodie back on, muttering something about "soulmate proximity blindness."

“She’s gonna think I’m an idiot,” he says. “What if she already hates me? What if she knew it was me the whole time and was just waiting for me to connect the dots—”

A shout echoes from across the green.

“HE KNOWS MY NAME AND STILL DOESN’T KNOW IT’S ME?!”

They all pause.

Taehyung glances over. “Was that…”

Jimin nods. “Definitely someone in her flop era.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow, vaguely curious. “Huh. Wonder what her deal is.”

Taehyung and Jimin both stare at him.

Jimin drags a hand down his face.

“Seriously, how do you survive being you?”

Jungkook shrugs and keeps walking.

Behind him, a girl in a cardigan storms away across the lawn, arms flailing.

He doesn’t even glance back.

Wednesday – 10:09 AM

Media Studies Lecture Hall

Jungkook is sitting at the edge of his seat, leg bouncing, eyes flicking to the door every few seconds like he’s waiting for a prophecy to walk in.

But it doesn’t.

Not Monday. Not Tuesday. Not today.

Not her.

Not Y/N.

It’s been three straight classes, and her seat’s been empty. Her spot at their group table in the library? Also empty. Her name in the group chat? The only thing keeping him sane — but also driving him up the wall.

Because yes, okay, she’s still doing her part — sending in bullet-point outlines, responding to shared docs at 2AM, even cleaning up their slide formatting like an angel — but she isn’t here.

And Jungkook is losing his mind.

"She's literally a ghost again," he mutters, hunched over his desk.

Jimin, beside him, doesn’t even look up. “You’re obsessed.”

“I have to be. She vanished.”

“She’s obviously alive. She’s editing your grammar in the Google Doc in real time.”

“She changed my ‘there’ to the right version,” Jungkook says quietly. “She cares.”

Jimin sighs like this has happened before. It hasn’t.

“You’ve known her for a week,” he says.

“I’ve known of her for two.”

“Wow.”

“She said I use too many semicolons.”

“Hot.”

Jungkook slams his notebook shut and leans back in his seat with a dramatic groan. “Where is she?”

“She’s probably just—busy. Sick. Dead.”

Jungkook glares at him.

“…Or not dead,” Jimin adds quickly. “Probably not dead.”

Wednesday – 12:24 PM

Student Union Hallway

He’s walking out of lecture with a coffee he didn’t want and thoughts he didn’t ask for when—like fate herself intervening—a familiar voice cuts through the crowd.

“—I’m serious, I tried to bring her soup and she threatened me.”

It’s Jenna.

Jungkook’s head snaps toward her.

She’s laughing, phone in hand, walking past a table of student orgs like she owns the sidewalk.

Jungkook doesn’t even think — he just speed-walks.

“Hey—hey, Jenna, right?”

Jenna turns, surprised. “Uh—yeah?”

He stops short, breath hitching slightly. “You’re friends with Y/N.”

She blinks. “...Yes?”

“Where is she?”

Jenna looks vaguely alarmed.

“I mean—not in a creepy way,” Jungkook says quickly, hands raised. “I’m not, like—tracking her. Or obsessed. Or—” he stops, catches Jimin’s voice in his head: You’re obsessed. “Okay, fine, maybe a little obsessed, but—she hasn’t been in class. Or at the library. Or anywhere.”

Jenna tilts her head, then smiles slowly.

“She’s sick.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen like she just told him someone unplugged the moon.

“What?!”

“Sick. Like, legit sick. Fever, chills, coughing, the works. She’s been in bed for a week.”

He looks like she punched him in the gut.

“She’s been sick this whole time?” he mutters.

Jenna raises an eyebrow. “Did you think she was ghosting you?”

“No,” Jungkook lies. “...Kind of. I don’t know. I thought maybe she figured out I was a fraud who doesn’t know how to format MLA and decided to cut her losses.”

“She’s still doing the project.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s what makes it worse.”

Jenna laughs. “You’re so far gone it’s impressive.”

“I’m in hell,” Jungkook mutters. “I didn’t even know she was gone at first because I didn’t know what she looked like. I’m living a tragic slow-burn where I’m the idiot who can’t read the signs. Literally.”

“She told us you still don’t recognize her.”

“She WHAT?!”

“Relax.” Jenna smirks. “She’s not mad. Just a little feral.”

Jungkook drags a hand down his face.

“Okay,” he breathes. “I need to see her.”

“She can barely sit up.”

“I’ll stand across the room, Jenna. I just need—confirmation that she’s real.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“She’s you-know-who.”

“Say it.”

“Closet Girl,” Jungkook groans.

Jenna laughs again and starts walking away. “Tell her you care by proofreading the citations. APA style.”

Jungkook stares after her, dazed, clutching his coffee like it betrayed him.

“…I’m gonna lose it,” he mumbles.

And when he walks off toward the library, he’s already drafting an apology paragraph he’ll never send.

Wednesday – 3:32 PM

Your Apartment – The Cave of Death™

Your blanket is trying to kill you.

It’s hot. You’re sweating. Your hoodie is clinging to your skin like emotional damage. But also, the moment you move even an inch away from the cocoon of warmth, your bones start shaking like you're being haunted.

You sniffle, swipe at your nose with a crumpled tissue, and attempt to type something coherent into the group project doc.

[Y/N]: Updated slide 6 for tone consistency & added sources. Someone check my fever logic pls, I may be hallucinating APA citations.

You hit send, then immediately fall sideways into your pillow with a dramatic groan.

You’re dying. This is how it ends. Not in a blaze of glory, but in a sea of half-finished NyQuil bottles, unanswered texts, and microwave oatmeal.

A knock sounds at the door.

You don’t move.

Another knock, followed by a muffled, “Y/N, open the door or I’m calling your mom.”

You croak, “I live alone for a reason.”

“Yeah, and I’m ignoring it. Unlock it before I use this soup as a weapon.”

You groan, drag yourself upright, and stagger to the door like you’re in a zombie film.

When you crack it open, Jenna stands there holding a Tupperware container and looking smug.

“Chicken noodle. Handmade. By someone’s grandma. Probably.”

“I told you not to come.”

“You said you’d throw me off the balcony,” she corrects, stepping inside. “That’s not legally binding.”

You shuffle back to the couch, already regretting this social interaction. Jenna plops down next to you, unbothered by your hoodie/blanket/disease ensemble, and places the soup in your lap.

“…I can’t taste anything,” you admit after your first spoonful.

“Perfect, now I don’t have to lie about how good it is,” she says brightly.

You weakly throw a pillow at her.

She catches it. “Also—I ran into your secret little enemy-lover boy today.”

Your brain short circuits.

“…What?”

“Jungkook.”

You choke. “I beg your pardon?!”

“He found me after class. Literally ran up to me and was like, ‘Where’s Y/N? Why isn’t she in class? What happened? Did she die? Am I the reason? Is she mad at me? Please, I’m on the verge.’”

You stare at her in absolute horror.

“He did not.”

“He absolutely did. Boy looked like he’d been sleep-paralysis-haunted by your empty chair.”

You slap your hands over your face. “I’m going to physically dissolve into the floor.”

Jenna leans in. “It gets worse.”

“Please don’t.”

“He looked—wrecked. Like flannel, messy bun, undereye bags for miles. I told him you were sick and he acted like I told him the sun died.”

You’re sweating again. And not just from the fever.

“He was asking about me?” you whisper, horrified.

“More like spiraling about you,” she corrects. “Something something—‘She’s still doing the project but she’s not here.’ And then I think he actually gasped when I told him you had a fever.”

You drop your head into your hands.

Jenna grins.

“I think he might actually like you.”

“I will never recover from this.”

She shrugs, reaching for your phone. “Good. Now drink the soup, text him something cute, and maybe finally admit to the group chat that you’re alive.”

“I can’t text him.”

“Why not?”

“Because then he’ll know I know.”

“...That made absolutely no sense.”

You throw yourself back into the couch, covering your face with the blanket in utter shame.

Jenna doesn’t say anything for a second. Then:

“He asked about your voice.”

You freeze.

“He said he remembered how your voice sounded in the closet. That it was soft. Nervous. And that it stuck in his head.”

You peek out from the blanket like a gremlin.

“Stop making stuff up,” you whisper.

“I’m not.”

You blink.

And then you’re fully under the blanket again, blushing so hard you’re about to pass out from emotional heatstroke.

Jenna laughs.

“God,” you mumble. “I was fine with suffering in peace. Why’d he have to go and be all—worried and hot and confused?”

She sips from your water bottle like it’s wine. “Because he’s whipped, babe. And you’re the reason.”

Tuesday – 10:52 AM

Campus Walkway, en route to Lecture Hall 3C

The sun is actually kind today.

It’s warm but not blistering, and the breeze smells like cheap cologne and last-minute panic — which is to say: peak college energy. You’re finally out of your apartment-shaped sickbay, hoodie swapped for a cute, normal outfit (though your lungs are still politely attempting murder).

Jenna and Yanni flank you like two caffeinated bodyguards.

“I’m just saying,” Jenna’s saying, sipping an iced coffee that’s more syrup than liquid, “if he sees you today, you better not do that weird little cough-laugh thing again.”

“I will literally collapse to the sidewalk,” you mutter.

“You’re not allowed to die until we get the project grade back,” Yanni adds cheerfully.

You’re so busy trying to breathe and walk and not spontaneously combust from knowing Jungkook might be in this building — you don’t even notice the trio of boys walking the opposite direction down the same path.

That is: until you nearly shoulder-check Park Jimin.

“Oh—sorry!” you blurt, stumbling a bit.

Jimin blinks, then lights up like a sunrise. “You’re good.”

Next to him, Taehyung raises his brow, already suppressing a knowing smirk. And behind them—

Jeon Jungkook.

Jeon. Closet. Motorcycle. Meltdown Jungkook.

He’s there. Laughing at something Jimin just said. Shoulders loose. Hair tucked under a hat. Hands in his pockets like he’s not a walking campus heart attack. He’s facing away from you, looking at his friends—unaware.

The gods smile upon you. (For now.)

You turn to your girls, keeping your tone casual: “If I pass out in a coat closet today, someone please check who gets sent in with me this time.”

It’s a joke. A throwaway joke.

But it slices through the air like a blade, lodging itself somewhere deep in the foggy back of Jungkook’s mind. He barely registers it. Just a voice. A sentence. A laugh that—

...No. Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

The voice. That voice.

The second he turns around, you're already past him — laughing with your friends, steps light, legs moving, oxygen flowing like you didn’t just rip his sanity in half.

He stares.

Brows furrow. Mouth parting slightly. Muscles frozen mid-step.

“Bro?” Taehyung calls, realizing Jungkook’s fallen behind.

Jimin turns too, confused. “You good?”

But Jungkook doesn’t answer. He’s still watching the space where you were, your words echoing in his brain like a siren:

“If I pass out in a coat closet today—”

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

It's her.

It was her.

“...No f**king way,” he mumbles, eyes wide.

Then: he spins on his heel and speed-walks away from his friends.

“Uh—Jungkook?” Jimin calls, watching him disappear across the quad.

“Is he okay?” Taehyung asks, genuinely baffled.

Tuesday – 10:58 AM

Campus Library – Men’s Bathroom Stall of Doom

Jungkook is sitting on a toilet seat.

Not to use it.

Not even to escape something like midterm grades, or the fact that he forgot his Econ quiz existed this morning.

No.

He is here for one reason, and one reason only: You. Closet Girl. The girl with the voice he hasn’t stopped hearing in his head for the past two weeks. And he just saw you. Walk right past him. Laughing.

And said that line.

"If I pass out in a coat closet today, someone please check who gets sent in with me this time."

His body reacted before his brain even finished processing it. Now he’s hiding in the stall like a shellshocked soldier, hunched forward with his hands pressed to his temples, trying to mentally reverse time.

It doesn’t work.

He lets out a small, strangled sound—somewhere between a wheeze and a wounded animal—and hits the back of his head against the wall.

“Fuck.”

How did he not see you?

You walked right by him. Right. There.

The voice, the laugh, that line—it all makes sense now. And worse: it had to have been intentional. You knew. You knew exactly who he was.

“Oh my god. She saw me. She heard me. She—oh my god.”

He yanks his phone out with trembling fingers and opens his group chat with Jimin and Taehyung.

JK: she said it JK: SHE SAID SOMETHING JK: SHE SAID A CLOSET THING JK: AND I FROZE JK: IM GONNA THROW UP JK: IM IN THE BATHROOM JK: I NEED A MEDIC

Typing bubbles appear. Then stop. Then appear again.

JM: LMAOOOO TH: we’re coming to the library JM: stay in the stall JM: we’re gonna slide a juice box under the door TH: powerade too if you promise not to cry on it

JK: I DESERVE THIS JK: SHE WAS RIGHT THERE JK: HER VOICE—SHE WAS RIGHT FKING THERE JK: and i didn’t say a word JK: i just stood there like a fking moss-covered rock

He drops the phone onto his lap and leans back against the wall like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His ears are hot. His hands are clammy. His heart hasn’t stopped galloping like it’s trying to physically escape this stall and find you again.

You were so close.

He saw the back of your head.

He heard your voice again—and this time, he knows the face it belongs to. The girl he’s been imagining in flashes of memory for days was just inches from him, casually tossing out that callback like it didn’t just detonate every brain cell in his body.

And he just—

He did nothing.

Because of course he did. He’s Jungkook. World-class overthinker. Local emotionally constipated idiot. Professional regret-haver.

“God,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “I f**king hate myself.”

He had so many chances to talk to you—at the party, in the closet, in class, in the library—and each time, he found a new and creative way to fail spectacularly.

But this?

This is next level.

Because you know who he is. And you were messing with him. And now the balance of power has officially shifted.

You’re not just some anonymous blur in his memory anymore. You’re real. You’re witty. You’re walking around campus knowing he’s been spiraling and still choosing to play it cool.

And he’s hiding in a f**king bathroom stall like a cartoon character on the verge of collapse.

Another buzz.

TH: do u want us to bring tissues JM: or a pacifier TH: i heard hugging a plushie helps too

JK: if u ever mention this again i’ll key ur dorm

But he’s not even mad.

He’s jealous. Of himself. For being in that closet. For having you that close and not realizing.

And now that he knows who you are—knows your voice, your laugh, your name—he’s going to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

Next time?

He’s not freezing. He’s not running. He’s not hiding in a f**king stall like an emotionally wrecked anime boy.

Next time, he’s saying something.

…maybe. After he stops hyperventilating.

Wednesday – 11:03 AM

Campus Courtyard, No One Is Safe

Jungkook doesn’t notice anything. Not the heat, not the crowd, not Jimin’s entire monologue about wanting to drop out and open a ramen truck in Guam.

He’s focused.

He’s scanning every face, every voice, every echo of a laugh. He’s got a phantom radar now—keyed into that voice, that energy, that feeling he got in the closet when someone panicked against his chest and called him names and still made him want to ruin his whole life for her.

And then—

A laugh.

Light, warm, real.

He freezes. A full-body stop like someone just yanked the emergency brake on his nervous system.

“That’s her.”

Jimin nearly walks into him. “What?”

“That’s her.” His voice is hoarse, like he’s been screaming into a void. “She’s here. Right there. Walking. That’s her.”

Taehyung squints ahead. “Ohhhh.”

You’re about ten steps away. Laughing with your friends, backpack slung casually over one shoulder, your sunglasses pushed up into your hair, voice carrying over the crowd like music.

And Jungkook?

He forgets how to function.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “She’s real. She’s—oh my god, she’s right there.”

You haven’t seen him yet. You’re mid-conversation, glancing over your shoulder at something Yanni said. And in that second— That tiny, stupid second— He watches your face light up with a grin so devastatingly gorgeous he feels violently unprepared.

He genuinely considers just—

Grabbing you. Throwing you over his shoulder. Walking into the sunset with no plan, no idea where to go, just you and him and a head full of chaos.

But he doesn’t move.

Because you’re coming closer. Like some kind of cruel, slow-motion dream.

He watches the way your mouth moves when you talk. The way you throw your head back when you laugh. The way your fingers lift to adjust your necklace and his entire brain just short-circuits.

“Jungkook,” Jimin whispers, “you’re shaking.”

“I am not,” Jungkook lies, hands absolutely trembling at his sides. “I’m fine. I’m—oh god, she’s looking over—what do I do?”

“Say hi?” Taehyung offers.

“Like a normal person?” Jimin adds.

“I don’t remember how to do that.”

Then—

You glance up. Right at him. Eyes locking.

He stops breathing.

Your smile falters just a bit. Like you’re surprised. Caught off guard. Your friends look between you and him—a little too smugly—and then...

You start to turn. Like you’re about to keep walking.

“NOPE,” Jungkook blurts.

He takes a massive step forward. Hand out like he might grab you (he won’t—he will—he’s not sure).

You pause.

Turn back slightly.

Eyebrow raised.

He opens his mouth to say anything, but his brain is melting under pressure, and the only thing he manages is—

“You’re her.”

You blink. “...Sorry?”

He steps closer. No hesitation now. The chaos in his head is full volume.

“You. It’s you. I know it’s you. You said the closet thing. The party. You—you’re Closet Girl. You’re Closet Girl.”

Your eyes widen. Your friends? Howling. Yanni is physically shaking Jenna by the shoulders.

And you?

You just stare at him.

“Do you always announce people like that?” you ask, smirking.

“I—yes. No. Only when they’ve haunted my dreams for three weeks.”

Silence.

DEAD silence.

He freezes.

“...I didn’t mean that. That came out wrong. I mean it didn’t but—”

“No, I get it,” you say, grinning now, stepping closer. “I’m flattered.”

He almost dies on the spot.

He’s breathing so fast he’s pretty sure he’s going to pass out on the sidewalk. The sun is too bright. You’re too close. Your voice is too real.

And then—

You lean in a little. Lower your voice.

“By the way,” you murmur, “if I pass out in a coat closet today… check who gets sent in with me.”

…

The words land like a direct hit. A bomb to his chest. A kiss to his brain stem.

You turn.

Walk past him.

Gone.

Just like that.

He doesn’t move.

He can’t.

He stands there, mouth open, brain fried, skin buzzing like a TV left on static.

Taehyung walks over and gently pats him on the back.

“Should’ve thrown her over your shoulder, bro.”

Jungkook sinks into the earth.

Friday – 4:41 PM

Campus Library, Back Left Corner — The “Comfy” Table

You are already seated.

Tea in your mug, laptop open, sweatshirt two sizes too big, and a pen tucked behind your ear even though you’re not using it. Your hair is a little messy. Your socks are mismatched. You’re in your natural, undisturbed, study-goblin form.

Where are Jenna and Yanni?

Oh, they said they’d be late. Some excuse about Jenna’s lab partner setting off the fire alarm in chem, and Yanni needing to print something.

You didn’t question it.

You really should have.

Because at 4:46 PM, someone walks around the corner of the bookshelf behind you — the one that blocks off the little study nook you always sit at — and you hear the familiar rustle of fabric and faint squeak of sneakers and think no. way.

Your eyes lift.

And standing there, confused as hell, eyes wide and bag slung over one shoulder like he just stepped into the Twilight Zone—

Jeon Jungkook.

The world freezes.

Him: wide-eyed, blinking, breath caught halfway through a sentence he didn’t get to start.

You: sitting there in your dumb big hoodie with your tea and your notes and your soul leaving your body.

“…Hi?” you manage.

He stares for a second. Like his brain short-circuited.

“I don’t—okay, I didn’t think this was real.”

You frown. “What?”

He steps closer, looking around like he’s been tricked. “Yanni texted me and said Taehyung told her this was his new secret study spot.”

“…That’s not real.”

“That’s what I’m realizing now,” he mutters.

You narrow your eyes. “Wait, so she sent you here—knowing I’d be here—pretending it was for Taehyung?”

He nods.

You both go silent.

Then at the same time:

“They set us up.”

He drops into the chair across from you like he’s just run a marathon through betrayal.

“I knew Jimin was being weird when he made me buy gum and then told me to ‘freshen up emotionally.’”

You choke. “What does that even mean?”

“I still don’t know!”

You both break into laughter—nervous, giddy, chaotic.

And now you’re here.

Across from him. Alone. No friend buffers. No parties. No closet doors.

Just a table. A tea mug. And Jeon Jungkook’s very unfair face staring directly at you.

“So…” he says slowly, folding his hands in front of him, “this is your secret spot?”

You nod. “Where I pretend I’m smarter than I am.”

He grins. “You helped finish that whole project while you were sick. You’re smart.”

You try not to melt. Fail.

“What, you stalking my Canvas activity now?”

“Yes,” he says immediately.

You blink. “Wait—really?”

He looks horrified. “I mean—no! I mean maybe. I just—Jimin kept checking it, and I was near him, and—”

You raise a brow. He slouches in defeat.

“…I might have checked it once.”

A beat.

Then, you smile. “That’s cute.”

He leans back in the chair, gaze warm. “You think I’m cute?”

You sip your tea. “I said what I said.”

“Okay, closet girl.”

You groan. “We are never escaping that nickname, are we?”

“Not a chance.”

Silence again—but a good one. Your fingers tap the ceramic of your mug. He watches you like you’re a constellation or something equally impossible.

Then—

“Can I ask you something?” he says softly.

You glance up. “Sure.”

“…Why didn’t you tell me sooner? That you were you?”

You hesitate. Then: “I don’t know. I guess… it was fun watching you try.”

He bites his lip to hide a grin.

“You’re evil,” he says.

You lean in a little, resting your chin on your hand.

“You like it.”

And the way he looks at you in that exact second—

Yeah. You’re not getting out of this alive.

“You like it.”

That’s what you said. Still smirking. Still dangerous.

And Jungkook? Yeah. He’s down bad. Leaning back in the chair, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows, rings catching in the low light like they’re flirting with you too.

“I do,” he says finally, voice softer. “I really do.”

You blink.

He leans forward again, resting his forearms on the table, head tilted slightly like he’s trying to read between the lines on your face.

“So… do you always mess with guys like this? Or am I special?”

You raise an eyebrow, feigning casual. “Depends. Do most guys act like broken Roombas when they realize they’ve been tricked?”

He gasps. “I was composed!”

“You almost passed out.”

“I was managing my blood pressure in an emotionally complex environment.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

He grins, clearly biting back a laugh.

God, he’s infuriatingly hot when he laughs. Head thrown back just slightly. That little dimple you forgot about. It’s not fair.

“So,” he says again, tapping the table lightly. “If I ask you something, will you promise not to make fun of me?”

You narrow your eyes. “Absolutely not.”

“Okay, fair.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I was just wondering…”

You wait.

He looks up at you through his lashes, the picture of faux innocence.

“…Have you always looked at me like that in lecture?”

You blink. “Like what?”

“Like you were trying to figure out if I’m a hallucination or just dumb.”

Your jaw drops.

“I don’t—!”

“You do,” he teases. “You tilt your head, and your eyebrows do this little—like—confused judgment arch.”

“Stop watching my eyebrows!”

“I’m a visual learner,” he says seriously.

You cover your face with your hands.

He laughs again. “Okay, okay—serious question this time.”

You peek at him between your fingers.

He bites his bottom lip, nervous energy crackling around him like static.

“Do you wanna hang out?” he says quickly. “Like—not in a closet. Or a group project. Just—like. You. Me. Not studying. Unless that’s your idea of fun, in which case I will absolutely pretend I care deeply about citation formatting.”

You blink.

Then blink again.

“…Are you asking me out?”

“I’m asking you out.”

You stare.

He stares.

Your heartbeat is suddenly in your mouth.

Then—

You set your mug down, leaning forward just slightly, eyes bright.

“Well,” you say slowly, “I do have a very compelling spreadsheet about medieval textile trade routes.”

He smiles. Wide. Dimples. Game over.

“Can I bring snacks?”

You nod. “You bring the food, I’ll bring the trauma.”

Jungkook grins. “Perfect. A balanced meal.”

He glances around, suddenly noticing the time.

“Wait, how long do your friends usually leave you here alone?”

You smirk. “Exactly long enough for this.”

His eyes narrow, smile curling. “They’re trying to kill me.”

You sip your tea. “They’re succeeding.”

Silence.

“…So when do I see you again?”

You blink. “You’re not sick of me yet?”

He leans in again, voice low, just for you:

“I haven’t even started.”

Reader’s Dorm – A Friday Night, 8:17 PM

(Project Due: Monday) (Jungkook’s attention span: in hell)

“I’m begging you,” you groan, flicking the corner of his textbook. “Please, for the love of God and your GPA, just read the page.”

“I read the page.”

“You read the chapter title.”

“That’s the most important part!”

You look up from your laptop and level him with the flattest expression you can muster. He’s lying down on your bed — textbook open across his chest, hoodie sleeves pushed up, one sock halfway off like he lost a battle mid-reading.

“You haven’t even moved your highlighter in fifteen minutes.”

“I’m conserving ink,” he says seriously.

You nearly throw your pen at him.

“Jungkook.”

“Y/N.”

“I will break up with you for academic negligence.”

He sits up, grinning, like that’s the funniest thing you’ve ever said.

“You’d miss me in like half a day.”

“Try me.”

“You’d miss me in half a minute,” he says, now crawling to the edge of the bed like a cat with too much serotonin. “You’d miss my hoodie. My Spotify. My hand—”

“Focus!” You shove a pillow at his face.

He collapses back dramatically, arms spread like a martyr.

“I can’t,” he groans into the pillow. “You’re here. And you smell good. And you keep doing that thing where you bite your lip when you’re concentrating and it’s illegal.”

You pause. “I do not.”

“You do.”

“I do not—!”

“You’re doing it right now.”

Your jaw snaps shut so fast you actually wince.

He peeks over the pillow, victorious.

“…Stop being hot,” he says, pouty. “It’s ruining my academic integrity.”

You roll your eyes, standing to grab the paper instructions from your desk. “You don’t have academic integrity.”

“I did! Until I got a hot girlfriend and a dopamine disorder.”

You shove the rubric in his face.

“Two more sections. Minimum three references. Double spaced. Come on.”

He takes it, pouts again, and grabs his pen.

You watch him finally — finally — start writing, shoulders hunched, lips pursed, tongue peeking out at the corner like he’s solving a CIA file.

And then—

He pauses.

Turns his head toward you.

“You know what’s crazy?”

You brace yourself. “Always.”

He shifts onto his side again, grinning so hard it’s almost obnoxious.

“I don’t need a closet to kiss you anymore.”

You freeze.

Then: your eyes narrow.

He wiggles his brows. “What? It’s a win for progress.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best.”

“You’re not getting a kiss.”

“I’m already moving in.” He lays down dramatically again. “This is my bed now. You can come visit me.”

You cross your arms. “You didn’t answer your discussion question.”

“I discussed the important part.” He reaches for your hand. “Like how lucky I am. And how beautiful you look in sweatpants. And how I would absolutely let you ruin my life if you asked nicely.”

You snort, letting him pull you onto the bed beside him.

“…You’re a menace.”

“And you’re in love with me.”

You glance down at him.

He’s got ink smudged on his hand. Hair pushed back. Textbook pages wrinkled where he crumpled them trying to turn too fast.

And he’s looking at you like you personally invented the stars.

“…Maybe,” you say softly.

He grins.

Then —

“Kiss me.”

You blink. “You just said you didn’t need a closet.”

“I know,” he whispers, leaning closer.

“I want to kiss you because I don’t need a closet.”

And when you finally do — when you lean in and press your mouth to his, slow and warm and gentle — he hums like he’s just unlocked a cheat code in life.

Your pen clatters to the floor. His textbook slides off the bed. Neither of you notice.

Because this?

You’d known Bang Chan long before the words NO SAINT INK ever got painted across the front window.

Back then, it was just an idea — a rough sketch in one of his notebooks, coffee stains on the corner, his messy handwriting scrawled next to crude machine diagrams. He was still working out of a cramped backroom studio at the time, doing flash tattoos for cheap just to save enough for something bigger. He’d talk about it constantly, eyes lighting up in that way they always did when he believed in something too much to let it go.

"One day, I’ll have my own shop. Not just a shop — a family. A place people feel safe walking into. Somewhere that feels alive."

You’d smiled at him from across that coffee-stained notebook, already half in love with him then.

And somehow, you became part of it all before you even realized what was happening.

You weren’t a tattoo artist — you weren’t even in that world at first. You’d met through mutual friends, hit it off instantly, and before long you were the one keeping him company during late-night sketch sessions, organizing his invoices when he couldn’t figure out his own system, and ordering takeout when he forgot to eat.

Chan had this way of making you feel like you’d always belonged in his life. He’d tease you endlessly, call you his “unofficial business manager” even when you weren’t actually on his payroll. Somewhere between long nights spent helping him research licensing laws and drunken 2 AM confessions about your dreams, you’d fallen for him.

The first time he kissed you was on the shop floor of what would later become NO SAINT INK — back when it was still just an empty building with peeling paint and dust on the windows. You’d been sitting cross-legged on the bare floor, laughing about how ugly the place looked, and he’d just leaned in, kissed you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Guess we’ll make it pretty together, huh?" he’d said after, forehead pressed to yours.

The years after that were a blur of paint-stained clothes, takeout containers, and the kind of exhaustion that only comes from chasing a dream. You helped him sand down tables, choose paint colors, set up booking systems, and — maybe most importantly — keep his books balanced when the shop finally opened and started booming.

By the time he’d hired Jisung, Minho, Seungmin, and the rest of the crew, you were already his. Not just his girlfriend — you were the person who made this entire world possible for him.

He’d tell you that all the time.

"This place wouldn’t exist without you." "You’re the only reason I haven’t burned out." "You’re my home, you know that, right?"

And you believed him because you felt the same. You lived together now, shared a quiet little apartment above a bakery a few blocks away, and most nights ended with you curled against his chest while he sketched designs in bed.

The thing about Chan was that even after all these years, even after all the late nights and busy schedules, he still looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And yet... Despite living with one of the most talented tattoo artists in the city, you didn’t have a single piece of ink on you. Not one.

Everyone at NO SAINT INK teased you about it. Jisung had made it his personal mission to convince you to let him do a little flower on your ankle. Seungmin swore you were secretly afraid of needles. Minho had bet Chan a week of free lunches that you’d cave eventually.

But Chan?

Chan loved it.

"You’re perfect like this," he’d murmur sometimes, brushing his fingers over your bare skin. "Untouched. Mine to mark first, whenever you let me."

And you’d roll your eyes, laugh it off, because you weren’t avoiding tattoos out of fear — you just hadn’t found anything that felt right. You’d promised yourself that your first tattoo would be something that mattered. Something permanent, like a milestone in your life.

You didn’t know it yet, but tonight would be that milestone.

The shop was quiet now, just the low hum of the lights and the soft tapping of your fingers on your laptop keys. You were perched on the counter, cross-legged in one of Chan’s hoodies, glaring at the screen as you typed in numbers.

"Channie, do you seriously need to order this much black ink? You’re going through cartridges like water."

Chan, leaning against his workbench with his arms folded, just grinned at you — that soft, amused grin that made his dimple peek out.

"You know I’m still not over the fact you don’t have a single tattoo? My own girlfriend — living with me, dating me for years… and still pure. Untouched."

You glanced up, arching a brow. "Well, you never had the time to do it, Mr. Overbooked Shop Owner."

He tilted his head, smirk deepening. "Oh, I have time tonight. I want to be the first, baby. The only."

You closed the laptop, heart thumping for reasons you couldn’t quite explain.

And then you said it.

"Then… give me your initial. Right here."

You held up your left ring finger.

"C."

Chan froze. His eyes widened slightly, his playful grin faltering into something softer, almost stunned. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "You’re gonna kill me, you know that? My initial, on your finger… you’re actually trying to ruin me, huh?"

You watched him carefully — the way his fingers flexed against his folded arms, the way his mouth opened just slightly like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

"Chan?"

He blinked, snapped out of it, and his grin returned — softer now, almost shy around the edges. "You’re serious? You actually want my initial? On your finger?"

You shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, though your heart was hammering against your ribs. "Why not? Seems fitting. You’re the one drowning in ink all day, anyway. Might as well leave your mark on me properly."

The look he gave you then? Wrecked.

"You have no idea what you just did to me, baby." He his hand came up to gently hold your wrist, thumb brushing your ring finger as if he was already tattooing it in his mind. You rolled your eyes and turned back to your laptop, typing a little too quickly to hide your own flustered grin. "Yeah, well, you can have your emotional breakdown later, Mr. Clingy. I need to finish these numbers before you overspend on needles again."

Chan didn’t move away. Of course he didn’t — he never did.

Instead, he dragged one of the rolling stools closer and sat right next to you, his knee bumping yours. He was always close, always touching — even now, he leaned his arm against your thigh as if the contact grounded him.

But his mind was clearly elsewhere.

You heard the soft rustle of paper, and when you glanced down, Chan had already grabbed a fresh sheet from his sketchpad.

"What are you doing?"

"Shhh," he murmured, already grabbing a nearby pencil. His brows furrowed in concentration, lips pressing together. "Cursive or block? Thin line? Micro script or thicker strokes? I want it to look perfect."

You snorted. "Chan, it’s literally just the letter C."

"Not just a letter," he shot back, not even looking up, pencil already gliding over the page. "It’s going on you. It’s… fuck, it’s going to be on your hand, angel. Everyone’s gonna see it. It has to be right."

You bit your lip to hide the smile pulling at your mouth, watching as his fingers moved quickly, sketching out variations of the letter like he was designing a whole damn mural.

You’d seen Chan sketch a million times before, but this was different — he was dialed in, hyper-focused.

Chan’s tattooing style had always been clean precision combined with emotional storytelling. Somehow he always made it perfect. His line work was razor-sharp, soft where it mattered and it was needed, even his boldest designs felt delicate. His specialty? Fine-line realism mixed with abstract accents. Imagine feathers that looked like that they could blow away in the wind, roses with petal tips melting into geometric shading, animal portraits with splashes of watercolor ink behind them. His signature touch? Hidden details only the person having the tattoo would notice. They could be tiny initials woven into a flower stem, microscopic constellations tucked into shading, and so on. They were always meaningful but discreet.

And right now, Chan was pouring all of that into a single letter.

"Your hand is small, so micro-script will suit you better. But if I make the serif too sharp, it’ll look harsh, and I don’t want harsh on you," he murmured half to himself, scratching out a version before starting again. "Cursive feels more… personal. But if I make it slanted too much, it might age weird. No, no, I’ll—"

"Chan."

"Hmm?"

"You’re overthinking a single letter."

"I’m tattooing my fucking initial on my girlfriend’s finger, babe. I’m allowed to overthink."

You laughed, shaking your head, but you didn’t stop him. Honestly? Watching him obsess over it like this made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t explain. Chan finally glanced up, brown eyes soft, voice dropping lower. "You trust me with this? Really?"

"I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t."

His jaw tightened for a moment, and he gave you a look that made your heart flip. "Okay, honey," he said quietly, thumb brushing your knee. "Let me mark you."

You watched him as he switched from the paper sketch to his iPad, pulling it closer with a determined little huff. His brows furrowed in concentration, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he dragged his Apple Pencil in smooth, decisive strokes.

It was ridiculous, how serious he looked — this was one letter, and yet he was treating it like he was designing a full back piece for a celebrity client.

"Stop staring," he muttered without looking up, voice soft, teasing.

"Can’t help it. You’re cute when you’re obsessing."

Chan’s ears flushed, but he didn’t break focus, swiping through brushes until he found the exact weight he wanted. "Not cute. Perfect. This has to be perfect."

"For a C."

"For my C," he corrected immediately, glancing up with that look that always made your stomach flip — the one that was soft and wrecked all at once, like he couldn’t believe you were real. You tried not to smile too much, leaning back slightly and pretending to focus on your laptop. But your fingers hovered over the keys instead of typing, watching as he tilted the screen toward you.

"Okay, look — final version. Clean cursive, micro-script, no harsh edges. Soft curves to match your hand. What do you think?"

The letter was delicate, elegant — a tiny looping C that looked like it had been written by hand just for you. Which, of course, it had.

"It’s perfect."

The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly, but his eyes softened in that way they always did when you said something that got to him.

"Perfect on you, yeah," he murmured, hitting print before you could respond.

The little thermal printer by his workbench spat out the stencil sheet, and Chan moved, slipping it into his setup like he’d done a thousand times before — except this time, every motion felt slower, more deliberate, because it was you.

"Save your work, honey," he said suddenly, glancing at your still-open laptop.

"I—what? You’re really doing this right now?"

"You think I’m gonna let you change your mind? Not a chance." He grinned, soft but sure, already pulling on his black nitrile gloves. "Come on. Let me mark you before I lose my mind."

You couldn’t help laughing, shaking your head as you hit save and closed the laptop. The reality of it was starting to hit you now — you were about to let Bang Chan tattoo you.

Not just any tattoo — his initial. On your ring finger.

He offered you his hand like you were going somewhere far more serious than just across the shop. His palm was warm and he squeezed your fingers gently as he guided you toward the main studio room. The air in there was cooler and smelled like disinfectant and ink — Chan’s world, his kingdom.

He motioned for you to sit on the padded chair, pulling his rolling stool close. Of course he was close, always close, his knee brushing yours as he adjusted the footrest for you.

"Comfy?" he asked softly, his usual teasing tone replaced by something almost reverent.

"You’re acting like I’m about to get a whole sleeve."

"You’re letting me put my initial on your hand, angel. That’s bigger than a sleeve."

You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt warm in a way you couldn’t ignore.

Chan pressed the stencil gently to your ring finger, his thumb brushing the side of your hand as he smoothed it down. His touch lingered even after he peeled the paper away, leaving behind the faint purple outline of the letter.

He stared at it for a long moment, quiet, his gloved fingers tracing the air above it without touching.

"Looks good on you already," he whispered, mostly to himself before moving away to start preparing.

Chan snapped on a fresh pair of black gloves, the sound sharp in the quiet room. You watched him move through his setup with practiced precision — disinfecting the area, lining up his ink caps, adjusting the needle depth like muscle memory. He was in work mode now, but his eyes kept flicking back to your hand like he couldn’t believe this was real.

“Won’t take long,” he murmured, voice softer than usual. “But I want it clean. No rushing.” He glanced up at you, the corners of his eyes soft, before bending back to his work.

The machine buzzed to life, low and steady, and Chan adjusted his stool closer until his knee pressed against yours. He rested your hand gently in his gloved one, thumb brushing over your knuckles before he spoke again.

“Tell me if you need a break, okay? Even if it’s just for a second.”

“Chan, it’s one letter. I’ll survive.”

He smirked, head tilted, dimple flashing for half a second. “Doesn’t mean I won’t take care of you.”

And finally, he lowered the needle to your skin. The first sting made you inhale sharply, and immediately Chan glanced up, the machine pausing mid-line.

“Too much?”

You shook your head quickly. “No, keep going. Just… feels weird.”

His mouth quirked slightly, a soft, amused look flashing across his face before he focused again. His left hand steadied yours while his right moved with quick, sure motions — the way he always tattooed, precise but fluid. Watching him like this was different. You’d seen Chan tattoo other people countless times, but there was something about the way he worked on you — the way his thumb kept rubbing slow circles against your palm, how his eyes softened every time they darted up to check on you.

“You’re doing good, honey,” he said quietly over the hum of the machine. “Almost done with the outline.”

You couldn’t help smiling. “I told you I’d survive.”

Chan huffed a quiet laugh, leaning closer as he wiped the excess ink away. His gloved thumb lingered for a second longer than necessary before he dipped back into the cap.

Every line he pulled felt heavier than usual. Not because of difficulty — this was easy work for him — but because of what it meant.

You. His name. On your ring finger.

His mind kept flashing with thoughts he couldn’t say out loud:

My initial. On her hand. Forever. She’s really letting me do this. She’s mine. She’s really mine.

And worse — he kept thinking about the little velvet box hidden in his desk drawer at home, about how he’d been planning to propose soon anyway. Now? He had to actively fight the urge to pull the ring out tonight.

“Done,” Chan finally said after another careful wipe, voice quieter than usual. He switched off the machine and set it aside, holding your hand up gently like it was something fragile.

The tiny cursive C sat perfectly on the side of your ring finger — simple, clean, elegant.

You tilted your head, smiling softly. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he echoed, still staring at it. He didn’t let go of your hand, his gloved fingers tracing just above the fresh ink, not daring to touch it yet. His throat worked as he swallowed.

“Chan,” you said with a laugh, “you’re staring at it like you just won an award.”

He looked up at you then, and his expression made your heart skip — soft, overwhelmed, a little wrecked.

“Feels like I did,” he said simply.

He finally peeled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin, but his hands were back on you immediately, holding your wrist like he needed to ground himself.

“Gonna clean it and wrap it,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower now. “Then… then I’m probably gonna kiss you stupid, just warning you.”

You laughed, cheeks warm. “You’re ridiculous.”

Chan’s grin turned into something softer, hungrier. “You just let me put my name on you, baby. You have no idea what that does to me.”

He reached for a clean pad of gauze, his hands moving with that same tattoo-artist precision — but his eyes never left yours. He dabbed gently at the ink, careful not to press too hard, and you could feel how soft his touch was, how deliberate.

“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly.

“Barely,” you said, smiling. “You’re good at this, you know.”

His mouth twitched into a small, crooked grin. “Better be. I’m not letting my first piece on you heal ugly.”

He set the gauze aside and grabbed the ointment, squeezing out the smallest amount before rubbing it across the fresh ink with slow, tender strokes. His fingers lingered, spreading the balm with feather-light movements, and for a moment, it didn’t feel like he was working — it felt like he was touching.

You tilted your head at him, amused. “You do this for all your clients, or am I getting special treatment?”

Chan didn’t even look up, his thumb brushing over your hand with an almost possessive weight. “No one else gets this soft. No one else gets me like this.”

When he finally wrapped the finger with clean film, he pressed a kiss to the bandaged spot before he could stop himself.

“There,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and reverent. “My C. Looks right on you.”

You laughed softly, trying to tease the tension away. “Chan, it’s literally a letter. You’re acting like—”

But before you could finish, his hands were on your thighs, sliding up slowly as he stepped between your knees. His gaze locked on yours, darker now, his usual soft warmth edged with something else entirely.

“Like what?” he asked, voice dropping, rougher now.

You blinked up at him. “Like… like you’re losing your mind.”

He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, his hands gripping your waist now. “That’s because I am, honey. You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

His thumb brushed over the bandaged finger, lingering. “You just let me put my name on your ring finger. My initial. Forever. And you’re sitting here acting like it’s casual.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but Chan cut you off with a quiet, frustrated groan, his lips brushing your jaw as he spoke again.

“You’re mine, angel. Always were. But this? Fuck—this is proof. You marked yourself for me, and now I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to…”

He trailed off, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes blown wide and hungry.

“Want to what?” you asked, heart hammering.

“Worship you. Ruin you. Both,” he said, voice low and trembling slightly, like he was barely holding himself back. “Can I?”

You didn’t even get to answer properly — the second your hand slid up his chest in silent permission, Chan kissed you. Hard.

He grabbed your hips, pulling you forward on the padded chair until you were right against him, his hands gripping like he was terrified you’d slip away. His mouth moved against yours with the same obsessive precision he tattooed with — deep, focused, possessive.

When he finally pulled back for air, he pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “You have no idea how bad I’ve wanted this. Years, angel. Years of staring at you in my hoodies, doing my books, taking care of me… and now you’re sitting here with my letter on your finger—fuck, you’re perfect.”

One of his hands slid under the hem of your hoodie, warm against your skin, his thumb brushing teasing circles on your waist. For a moment, he stared. Stared at you before suddenly, picking you up with ridiculous ease, sitting you back on the counter where you’d been earlier, his hands gripping your thighs possessively. His kisses turned messier, desperate, his mouth moving from your lips to your jaw to the spot below your ear that made you gasp.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough, his words spilling out in a low, feral growl. “Gonna make you feel how much I love you. Gonna make you remember this every time you look at that little C.” Chan’s hands were firm on your thighs as he stepped between them. His mouth was everywhere — hot, urgent kisses along your jaw, nips at your neck that made your breath hitch.

“Chan—” you gasped between kisses, trying to catch your breath as his hands slipped under your hoodie again, palms spreading over your waist. “Wait, what if Minho’s upstairs? He’s gonna hear us—”

Chan pulled back just enough to look at you, his grin crooked and sinful, his breath already rough. “Nope. He isn’t. He’s out with Jisung and Felix—fuck knows where, probably terrorizing someone at karaoke. We’re alone, angel. Completely alone.”

Your protest died in your throat when his fingers curled into the hem of your hoodie, tugging it upward.

“Then—Chan—”

“Then nothing,” he interrupted, voice low, almost a growl. “You’re mine tonight. All mine.”

And with that, he pulled the hoodie off in one smooth motion, tossing it carelessly to the side. His hands were immediately back on you, tracing the curve of your waist like he couldn’t decide whether to worship or devour you.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his eyes drinking you in. “Every time I see you like this, I wonder how I got this lucky. My girl. My everything.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words melted into a soft gasp when his lips found your collarbone, kissing down slowly, deliberately, as if he was marking you everywhere.

His hands roamed everywhere — palms sliding over your back, fingers squeezing your hips, his thumbs brushing circles on your thighs like he couldn’t stop touching you for even a second.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot where his mouth pressed against your neck.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he cut in, smirking against your skin, his voice dropping lower. “You’re worked up just from me touching you.”

You tried to roll your eyes, but it came out more like a whimper when his hand slid higher, fingers brushing under the band of your bra.

“Chan,” you warned, though your tone was anything but serious.

“Yeah?” His grin was pure trouble as he finally slid the strap off your shoulder. “Something you need, honey?”

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your leggings, tugging teasingly.

“Gonna take these off,” he said, his voice low and rough, eyes flicking to yours for permission even as his hands moved. “Need to see you. Need to feel you.”

“Chan, we’re in the shop,” you tried again, though your body betrayed you by lifting just enough to help him pull them down.

“Exactly,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his lips brushed your ear. “Our shop. My walls. My counter. I’ve wanted you here since the day I opened this place, honey.”

You let out a shaky breath, and that was all he needed. He slid your leggings down, tossing them aside with the same careless ease he’d discarded your hoodie. Now you were perched on the counter in just your bra and panties, his hands everywhere — gripping your thighs, sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing over every inch of exposed skin.

Chan looked wrecked already, his breathing uneven, his eyes dark as he dragged them over you slowly. “God, you’re perfect.” he whispered, almost to himself.

Then, with one smooth motion, he hooked his fingers into your panties and tugged them down.

You gasped, heat rushing to your face as he slid them off your legs, tossing them to join the growing pile of your clothes on the floor. His hands came right back to you, spreading over your bare thighs like he was claiming you.

“Fuck,” Chan groaned under his breath, his eyes dragging down between your legs, lingering, his jaw tightening. “You’re already dripping for me.”

Your breath hitched, but before you could answer, his long, veiny fingers trailed upward slowly, teasing, skimming along the inside of your thigh without giving you what you wanted yet. Chan leaned in close, ips pressing hot kisses to the soft skin just below your hip.

Fingers finally sliding higher, brushing you lightly, and you gasped, your hips jerking instinctively. “Shh, baby,” Chan murmured, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you still. “Let me take care of you.”

Those hands — god, those hands. Large, warm, veiny, the same hands that just minutes ago held a tattoo machine with precision now moving over you with something close to worship.

One hand stayed firm on your hip, grounding you, while the other moved slowly, teasing, his long fingers sliding against your soaked folds. He groaned low, almost like he was in pain, when he felt how wet you were.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me already,” he rasped, his thumb brushing gentle circles over your clit while his fingers teased lower, slipping just barely inside before retreating. “So good for me, angel. Always so good for me.”

Your head fell back slightly, a soft whimper slipping out, and Chan’s mouth curved into a wrecked grin against your thigh.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing higher, closer to where you needed him. “Give me more sounds, honey. I want to hear you.”

Two of his fingers finally slid into you, slow but sure, curling just right as his thumb pressed to your clit. You gasped, your hands gripping the edge of the counter, and Chan’s breath hitched at the way you clenched around him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to your thigh as he moved his fingers faster, deeper. “You feel so perfect. So tight for me.”

Chan couldn’t stay away for long. His mouth moved from your thigh to your hip, kissing, nipping, his breath hot against your skin. Then he looked up at you, eyes blown and desperate.

“Wanna taste you,” he murmured, his fingers still moving inside you, his thumb circling slow, deliberate patterns on your clit. “Can I?”

You nodded breathlessly, and that was all he needed.

He pulled your hips closer to the edge of the counter, his fingers didn’t stop, but now his lips were on you — kissing your inner thighs first, soft, reverent kisses before finally leaning in to press his mouth against you. The first flick of his tongue made you moan, and Chan groaned against you, the sound vibrating where his mouth moved.

“God, you taste so good,” he rasped between licks, his pace quickening as he sucked lightly on your clit. “My perfect girl. All mine.”

His hands gripped your thighs tight, holding you in place as he devoured you, his fingers thrusting in time with his mouth. Every time you whimpered, his groans got louder, more desperate, like he was addicted to every sound you made.

“Gonna make you cum just like this,” he mumbled against you, his words hot and filthy. “Wanna feel you fall apart for me, baby. Come on, angel — give it to me.”

Chan's tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, groan vibrating against your cunt and the sound alone made your hips jerk, but he held you firmly in place. “Stay still, angel,” he rasped between licks, his voice wrecked already. “Lemme take care of you. Lemme… fuck—lemme have you.”

His fingers now curling up just right, just the way he knew you liked, just the way he knew your body would react. Finger-fucking you with a steady pace, wet obscene sounds filling the quiet room. His thumb occasionally pressing harder against your clit when his mouth pulled away for breath.

You gasped, your fingers gripping the edge of the counter, but Chan wasn’t letting you get away from him. His free hand slid to your hip, pushing you flat against the surface while he leaned in deeper, tongue flicking against your clit with increasing intensity.

“Ch-Chan—!”

He hummed in response, and the vibration sent another wave of pleasure through you. He didn’t slow down — if anything, the sound of your shaky voice made him more desperate. His fingers pumped faster now, hitting that spot inside you that made your back arch, his tongue swirling around your clit like he’d been studying you for this exact moment.

“God, listen to you,” he groaned against you, pulling back for a split second to look up at you. His face was flushed, his lips glistening, and his eyes — fuck, his eyes were wild. “Dripping all over my fingers, baby. You’re so wet for me. So perfect for me.”

Before you could respond, he dove back in, tongue and fingers working together in a messy, frantic rhythm. He finger-fucked you harder now, his knuckles brushing against you with every thrust, while his mouth sucked at your clit like he was addicted to you. Your moans grew louder, filling the studio, and Chan groaned at the sound.

“That’s it,” he mumbled into you, his words muffled but still clear enough to make your stomach flip. “Come on, baby… I know you’re close. Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart on my fingers, yeah?”

Your body tensed, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust of his fingers, every flick of his tongue.

“Chan—oh my god, I—”

“Yeah, baby,” he groaned, his pace relentless, his thumb pressing harder as his fingers curled just right. “Give it to me. Cum for me. Wanna taste you, angel. Need it.”

And then you broke.

Your whole body shook, your hips jerking helplessly against his grip as you came, moaning his name. Chan didn’t stop — if anything, he doubled down, licking you through it, his fingers fucking you deeper, slower now, dragging out every last wave of your orgasm until you were trembling under him.

When you finally slumped against the counter, breathless, Chan pulled back just enough to look at you — his lips swollen, chin slick with you, his chest heaving.

“Fuck,” he breathed, licking his lips as if he couldn’t get enough. “You taste so fucking good. My perfect girl. My perfect everything.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh softly before standing up. And the look in his eyes made your heart stop. He was completely cunt-drunk, lips parted and panting, pupils blown so wide there was barely any brown left in them.

“Not done,” he said, voice low and rough as his hands slid to your waist. “You think I’m stopping after just that? Nah, baby.” His hands moved to his belt, fingers fumbling with it, moving too fast, almost shaky with how eager he was.

“Chan—”

“Can’t wait,” he cut you off, finally yanking the belt free and shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself. His thick cock sprang up, flushed and leaking, and he hissed under his breath as his hand wrapped around the base, giving himself one slow stroke as his eyes raked over you.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, stepping between your legs again. His free hand slid to your thigh, spreading you open wider. “Sitting here all pretty for me, dripping, still tight from cumming on my fingers… you’re killing me, honey.”

Your breath hitched as he lined himself up, the head of his cock brushing against your soaked entrance.

“Chan, please—”

That was all it took.

With a low, broken groan, he pushed in, slow at first, stretching you open inch by inch. His head fell forward against your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin as he sank in deeper, bottoming out with one final thrust.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice shaking as his hips pressed flush to yours. “You’re so tight, baby. So warm, squeezing me so fucking good. God, I’m never letting you go.”

Once he started moving, he couldn’t stop. His pace was quick from the start — deep, hungry thrusts that made the counter creak beneath you. Every push in had his cock dragging against your walls perfectly, every pull out slow enough to make you whimper before he slammed back in.

“That’s it, baby,” he panted against your mouth, his words broken between messy kisses. “Taking me so well. My perfect girl, all fucked out just for me. You feel so good—fuck, you feel made for me.”

You moaned against his lips, and Chan groaned back, swallowing every sound, his kisses messy and desperate. His tongue slid against yours sloppily, his teeth nipping your bottom lip before he kissed down your jaw.

Chan buried his face in your neck, sucking at the soft skin there, leaving open-mouthed kisses that turned into nips. “You’re gonna look so pretty tomorrow,” he murmured against your throat, his thrusts never faltering. “My marks all over you. Everyone’s gonna know who you belong to.”

He pulled back just enough to look at your chest, his gaze dropping, and then he dipped lower. “Fuck, I need these,” he groaned before his mouth latched onto your nipple, sucking hard. His tongue flicked over it, his teeth grazing lightly before he switched to the other, his free hand squeezing your breast as if he couldn’t get enough.

Your back arched into him, and Chan moaned against your skin, his thrusts growing even rougher.

“Yeah, that’s it, angel,” he growled, his mouth still on your chest. “You like that? Like when I fuck you like this? Fuck.”

His hips snapped into you harder now, faster, the wet sounds of him fucking you filling the room along with your broken moans. Chan was panting against your chest, his forehead resting between your breasts as he fucked into you.

You were moaning so loud at this rate, instinctively squeezing around his cock tighter, your pussy not wanting to let go, in fact dragging him in deeper.

“Shit, baby, do that again,” he groaned, pulling back to look at you, his hair falling into his eyes, his lips swollen and red. “Clench around me like that again, and I’m gonna lose it.”

You couldn’t help it — your body obeyed, and Chan swore under his breath, his pace growing relentless.

“God, you’re gonna make me cum so fast like this.” he panted, leaning forward to kiss you again, messy and desperate.

The room was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, wet and filthy, echoing off the walls of the studio. Chan was relentless now, his hips snapping into you with a pace that bordered on desperate, every thrust pushing you further into the counter, making it creak under the force.

Your body was melting, every muscle trembling, your head falling back as broken moans spilled from your lips. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe — you were completely cock-drunk, lost in him, in the way his thick length filled you so perfectly, stretching you just right.

“Look at you,” Chan panted, his forehead pressed against yours now, his eyes glassy, pupils blown. “All fucked out… taking me so good, honey.”

Your walls clenched around him again, and he swore, his hips stuttering for half a second before he picked up the pace, fucking you harder, deeper.

“God, you feel so good,” he groaned, his words spilling out like he couldn’t hold them back. “Tightest little pussy, just for me. Made for me, baby. You’re mine, all mine.”

You whimpered, grabbing at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as his thrusts grew even rougher.

“Chan—oh my god—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, his lips crashing against yours in a messy, open-mouthed kiss before pulling back just enough to watch your face. His thrusts were brutal now, hips slamming into yours, wet sounds filling the air. “You’re gonna cum for me again, angel. Wanna feel you squeeze me, wanna feel you lose it on my cock.”

You tried to shake your head, gasping, “I can’t—” but your body betrayed you, already tightening, that coil snapping faster than you could stop it.

“Yes, you can, baby. Give it to me,” Chan ordered, his voice rough, commanding now. His thumb slid between you, rubbing your clit in fast, tight circles as he fucked you harder. “Cum for me, angel. Right now. Wanna feel you fall apart again.”

And then you did.

Your body arched, your vision went white, and you cried out his name, your orgasm slamming into you so hard it made your legs shake. You clenched down around him helplessly, milking his cock, and Chan lost it.

“FUCK,” he growled, his voice cracking, his pace faltering for just a second before he shoved in deep, groaning as your tightness squeezed him over and over. “That’s it, that’s my girl—god, you feel incredible when you cum on me.”

He didn’t slow down — if anything, feeling you come undone on him only made him more feral. He kept thrusting, deep and fast, riding you through it, his hips slapping against yours with every sharp movement.

You were gone — cock-drunk, trembling, babbling his name — and Chan was absolutely wrecked, panting against your neck, kissing and sucking at the damp skin there like he couldn’t get enough.

“Not done,” he groaned into your neck, his voice desperate, hips still pounding into you. “Not stopping till I fill you up, angel. Gonna cum so deep in you, fuck—don’t wanna pull out. Ever.”

You whimpered something incoherent, and Chan kissed your temple, his thrusts somehow even deeper now.

“That’s it, honey. One more. Be good for me, yeah? Give me one more before I cum. Can you do that for me?”

Chan’s pace was brutal now, his hips snapping against yours so hard the counter creaked with every thrust. Sweat dripped from his temple onto your chest as he buried himself in you over and over, his cock dragging against your walls perfectly, hitting that spot that made you see stars.

You were already trembling, your body overstimulated from your last orgasm, every nerve burning — but Chan wasn’t slowing down. “Ch-Chan, I—” Your words were broken, barely formed, nothing but gasps and whimpers spilling from your mouth.

“Yes, you are,” he growled, leaning closer, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged. “Gonna cum one more time for me, honey. Be good for me. Wanna feel you squeeze me again before I fill you up.”

His hand slid down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again, circling it in fast, precise motions that had you sobbing.

“Too much—”

“Shhh, baby.” he whispered, his lips brushing your jaw as he fucked you harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the shop.

Your back arched, nails digging into his shoulders as your body betrayed you again, tightening around him as the pleasure built up impossibly fast.

“That’s it, baby,” Chan panted, his eyes locked on yours, dark and wild. “Cum for me. Cum all over my cock. Wanna feel you milk me dry.”

Your orgasm hit hard, ripping through you like fire, your thighs shaking uncontrollably as you screamed his name.

“Chan—Chan, oh my god—Chan!”

You babbled it over and over, lost in the pleasure, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as your body convulsed around him. Chan groaned loudly, his own thrusts growing sloppy as you clenched tight around him, pulling him closer and closer to his own breaking point.

“Fuck, honey, that’s it,” he growled, his hips driving into you hard, desperate now. “You feel too good — gonna fill you up. Gonna cum so deep, fuck my cum into you until it sticks. Wanna keep you full of me, angel. All mine.”

Your name left his mouth in a groan as his pace stuttered, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, until finally he slammed deep one last time, burying himself inside you completely.

“Fuck—”

His head fell to your shoulder as his body shuddered, his cock twitching as he spilled into you, hot and deep. His hips kept grinding against yours through it, slower now but still firm, like he was determined to push every drop into you.

“God, baby,” Chan panted against your neck, his voice shaking, almost broken. “So good. Took me so well. Full of me now, yeah? My perfect girl.”

He stayed buried in you, his hips rocking gently, slower now, more tender. His arms wrapped around you tightly, pulling you against his chest as he pressed soft kisses along your jaw, your neck, your shoulder.

You hummed weakly against him, completely gone, your brain pure mush as you slumped against his chest. Your body felt boneless, cock-drunk and warm, and Chan smiled against your cheek at how pliant you were in his arms.

“Accounting’s not getting done tonight,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse, slurred from exhaustion.

Chan chuckled, kissing your hairline. “Yeah, no shit, angel. You can barely sit up.”

He finally, carefully pulled out, groaning quietly at the sight of his cum spilling out of you. His hands immediately slid to your thighs, thumbs brushing over the marks his grip left behind.

“Stay still for me, baby,” he said gently, already reaching for the roll of paper towels and a clean cloth. “I’ll clean you up, okay? Just relax.”

He worked carefully as if you were made of glass. One hand held your hip steady while the other gently wiped between your legs, soft circles, his expression focused but tender. Every so often he’d pause to press a soft kiss to your knee, your inner thigh, or your bandaged ring finger like he couldn’t stop himself.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmured under his breath as he cleaned you. “Still dripping from me, still letting me take care of you. Love you so much.”

You were too far gone to reply properly, just humming again, your head resting against his shoulder. Chan’s smile softened at the sound, and he kissed your temple, whispering, “Mushy-brained, huh?”

“Mmm,” you mumbled, nodding weakly.

He laughed quietly, finishing up and tossing the used wipes into the bin before bringing over the clothes he discarded off of you and helping you back into your panties and hoodie.

“Come here,” Chan said softly, sliding an arm under your thighs and another around your back.

“Chan, I can walk,” you mumbled, though your legs felt like jelly.

“Nope,” he said, smirking as he easily lifted you off the counter. “You’re not walking anywhere. You’re mine to take care of tonight.”

He carried you bridal-style through the shop, nudging the studio door open with his foot before settling you gently onto the worn leather couch in his back office — the same couch you’d spent countless late nights on, working through shop invoices together.

He crouched in front of you, brushing your hair back from your face. “Water or juice, honey?”

“Water,” you whispered, and Chan pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before grabbing a bottle from the mini-fridge, uncapping it and handing it to you before sitting down. His other hand moving on your knee, thumb rubbing slow circles as if he still couldn’t stop touching you.

“Small sips, angel,” he said gently, watching you drink like you might spill it on yourself.

You gave him a tired look. “I’m not five, Chan.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he teased, grinning as he plucked the bottle back after you’d had a few sips. “You’re mushy-brained and wobbly. That’s basically toddler mode.”

You groaned and slumped against the couch, tugging his hoodie tighter around you. “This is your fault.”

“Mm, best fault I’ve ever had,” he said, his grin softening as he sat beside you. He pulled you into his lap again, his arms wrapping around you like a blanket. “You okay? Nothing hurts?”

“Just sore,” you mumbled against his chest.

“Good sore or bad sore?”

You smirked weakly. “Good sore. Very good sore.”

Chan chuckled, kissing the top of your head. “That’s my girl.”

You both stayed there, with Chan holding you close on that worn leather couch, softly kissing your hair every few minutes, and you? Mushy-brained and completely unaware of the fact that he almost ruined his own surprise by proposing right there and then.

TWO MONTHS LATER

The shop was quiet again, but for a very different reason this time.

You were sitting on that same back-office couch, curled up in one of Chan’s hoodies, thinking about the little white stick you had done that morning. Two faint pink lines.

Positive.

You’d taken it that morning, heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst, and you hadn’t stopped staring at it since.

The past few weeks suddenly made sense — the random waves of nausea, the constant exhaustion, the way your period never came even though you swore it was just stress. You’d been hoping it was stress. Well… maybe half-hoping, half… wondering.

Now you knew.

And you had absolutely no idea how to tell Chan.

You pulled your knees to your chest, groaning softly. “How the hell do I even say this? ‘Hey, by the way, you knocked me up the same night you tattooed me?’”

You chewed your lip, glancing at the bandaged ring finger where his little C had healed perfectly now, the tiny cursive letter smooth against your skin. Your stomach flipped thinking about it — his initial on your ring finger, and now his baby in your belly.

Chan was going to lose his mind. Not in a bad way — you knew he loved you more than anything — but… still. You wanted it to be special.

You considered just blurting it out. Or maybe buying one of those cheesy “#1 Dad” mugs and handing it to him. Or even putting a tiny onesie in one of his ink supply boxes and letting him find it himself.

But Chan deserved better than that.

You wanted to make it yours, something that meant something to the both of you.

Your brain kept spinning, debating whether to do it at home or here at the shop, when the studio door creaked open behind you.

“Babe?” Chan’s voice floated in, warm and familiar. “You hiding in here again? Everyone’s gone, you know. It’s just us.” He stepped in, hair slightly damp from his post-workout shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, revealing those veiny arms that made your brain short-circuit every time.

He smiled when he saw you, walking over and leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Hey, mushy-brain. You look tired. You okay?”

You forced a smile. “Just… a little tired. Long day.”

Chan crouched in front of you, tilting his head to study you. “You sure? You’ve been tired a lot lately. And you’ve been… I dunno, different.”

Your stomach flipped. “Different how?”

He shrugged, smiling softly. “Just… softer. Quieter. And you’ve been wearing my hoodies more than usual, which I love, but also—” He narrowed his eyes playfully. “You’re not sick, are you?”

You laughed nervously, your heart hammering. “No, not sick.”

“Hmm.” He searched your face for a long moment before leaning in and kissing your temple. “Okay. But if you are sick, I’m making you soup and not letting you do any more accounting for a week.”

“Noted,” you said, trying to keep your voice even.

You were going to tell him soon.... Very, very soon.

The smell of something warm and sweet drifted through the apartment before you were even awake. It was soft morning light filtering through the kitchen curtains, painting everything gold, and the faint hum of music playing low from Chan’s phone.

You blinked groggily, sitting up in bed, stretching under the duvet. The apartment above the bakery always smelled faintly of bread in the mornings, but today it was different — richer, heavier, like butter and sugar and… coffee.

Chan.

You padded out of the bedroom, still in one of his oversized t-shirts, hair messy, and found him in the kitchen.

He was barefoot, in gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt, muscles flexing as he whisked something in a bowl. His hair was sticking up in that I-woke-up-early-just-for-you way, and there was flour on his cheek.

He turned at the sound of your footsteps, and the soft smile he gave you was enough to make your chest ache.

“Morning honey,” he said, setting the whisk down. “Go sit, breakfast’s almost done.”

You raised a brow, leaning against the doorway. “You’re awake before me… cooking? Should I be worried?”

He laughed quietly, dimples flashing. “Nope. Just wanted to do something nice for you. Now sit before you burn your feet on the cold floor.”

You shook your head with a small smile but obeyed, slipping into your usual spot at the small table by the window. The sun hit just right there, warming your legs as you watched him move around the kitchen. You were completely unaware of why he was doing this, but one thing you were aware of sat heavy in your chest: you were telling him today.

Chan had spent weeks thinking about how to propose — fancy dinners, maybe the shop, maybe even flying you somewhere. But every plan felt too loud, too not you.

Because you? You weren’t someone he needed to impress with fireworks. You were his girl who sat on the shop counter doing accounting in his hoodies, who kissed his cheek while he worked, who let him mark you with his initial like it was the most natural thing in the world.

So this morning, he decided: domestic, quiet, soft. You, him, breakfast, and the sunlight. That was perfect. The ring box sat tucked in his pocket as he plated pancakes, his hands only shaking slightly when he set the table.

“Fancy,” you said as he placed a plate in front of you — pancakes stacked high, drizzled with syrup, fresh berries on the side. “What’s the occasion? Did you blow something up at the shop and you’re buttering me up before I find out?”

Chan sat across from you, grinning. “No explosions. Just wanted to spoil you.”

You narrowed your eyes playfully, cutting into the pancakes. “This better not be your way of bribing me into doing shop inventory later.”

Chan laughed, shaking his head. “Nope. No shop talk today. Just us.”

You smiled softly at that, taking a bite — and holy hell, they were good.

“Wow. Okay, maybe I should marry you just for these pancakes,” you teased without thinking.

Chan’s fork froze midair, his smile twitching into something softer, something that made your heart skip — but you were too focused on working up the courage to tell him to notice the way his hand brushed against the pocket of his sweatpants, where that little velvet box sat.

You set your fork down, suddenly nervous. “Chan?”

He looked up immediately, brown eyes soft. “Yeah?”

You bit your lip, your heart pounding so loud it almost drowned out your voice. “I… I need to tell you something.”

His brows furrowed slightly, concern flashing in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I just—” You exhaled, staring down at your plate for a moment before forcing yourself to meet his eyes.

“I’m pregnant.”

And the room went silent — except for the soft hum of morning music and Chan’s sharp inhale as the words sank in. His fork clattered against his plate as his mouth opened slightly, blinking at you in stunned silence for half a beat before a smile started pulling at his lips — slow, soft, and so wrecked.

“Are you…” His voice was almost a whisper, warm and trembling, as his hand slid across the table to grab yours. “Are you serious?”

You nodded, biting your lip, tears already pricking your eyes. “Yeah.”

For a second, Chan just stared at you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, his eyes shining — and then he laughed, a quiet, breathless laugh, before standing and pulling you up with him. He hugged you tight, burying his face in your neck. “God, I love you so much,” he murmured against your skin, his voice breaking. “You’re having my baby. Our baby. Fuck, I can’t believe it.”

When he finally pulled back, his hands were still on your waist, his grin wide and teary.

“Baby,” he said, suddenly serious but smiling so big you could barely breathe. “I was gonna wait… do this all proper later… but screw it.”

Your brows furrowed, confused, until he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small velvet box.

Your breath caught. “Chan—”

“I was gonna do something fancy, but I don’t care anymore. You’re having my baby, you’re literally wearing my letter on your ring finger already, and I… fuck, I can’t wait another second.”

Chan didn't even drop to one knee, no, he just held you close to him, his eyes glued on your face as he opened the box to reveal a simple but stunning ring that caught the morning light perfectly.

“It's not crazy, it's not a fancy proposal. But... it's us. And I wanted it to be special and not artificial. So... will you marry me?”

Your breath caught, the world narrowing down to just him — his hopeful, teary eyes, the velvet box in his hand, the way his thumb rubbed nervously against your waist like he was trying to ground himself.

“Chan…”

You didn’t even let him finish panicking in his head. You nodded, tears welling up instantly. “Yes.”

His breath hitched, his smile breaking into something wrecked and overwhelming, his dimples deepening as he laughed — a soft, almost disbelieving sound. “Yes?”

“Yes,” you repeated, laughing through your tears, your hands coming up to cup his cheeks. “Of course yes, you idiot.”

He slipped the ring onto your finger with shaking hands, his thumbs brushing over it as if he couldn’t believe it was real. His eyes darted between your hand and your face, his grin softer now, almost shy.

“My fiancée,” he murmured, tasting the word like it was honey. “My future wife.” And then his lips crashed onto yours. It started soft — his lips brushing yours gently, his hands cradling your face like you might break. But it didn’t stay soft for long.

Because Chan never could stay soft when it came to you.

The kiss deepened quickly, turning hungry, desperate, his hands sliding from your cheeks to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You gasped into his mouth, and Chan groaned, taking the chance to slide his tongue against yours, the kiss turning messy and heated.

When you pulled back for air, breathless, Chan rested his forehead against yours, panting softly. “You’re gonna kill me, angel. Pregnant with my baby, wearing my ring, looking at me like that… fuck, I can’t keep my hands off you.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Chan had already slid his hands lower, gripping your hips possessively. His lips moved to your jaw, kissing down to your neck, his teeth grazing your skin lightly.

“Chan—” you tried, but your voice came out more like a whimper, which only made him smirk against your throat.

“Say it again,” he murmured between kisses, his breath hot on your neck.

“Say what?”

“That you said yes.” His teeth grazed your pulse point now, sucking lightly. “Wanna hear it.”

You swallowed, your voice shaky. “I said yes.”

“Mm, my perfect girl,” Chan groaned, his hands sliding to the back of your thighs. “My fiancée. My baby mama. My everything.”

Before you could react, he scooped you up effortlessly, sitting you on the kitchen counter, just like he had at the shop weeks ago. His mouth trailed down your neck, his hands slipping under your t-shirt to spread over your stomach.

“You’re carrying our baby,” he whispered against your skin, his tone reverent and filthy all at once. “Full of me in every way now.”

Your breath hitched as his thumbs brushed slow circles over your lower belly. “Chan…”

He kissed your jaw, his grin wicked now. “Gonna have to be careful with you now, angel. But I still need you. Right here. Right now.”

His breath hitched as his lips trailed down to your collarbone, leaving soft kisses that slowly turned into open-mouthed licks and nips. You gasped softly when his hands pushed your t-shirt higher. “My baby mama,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “My fiancée. My everything.”

Then his gaze flicked back up to you, dark and desperate. “Can I? Please, angel. Need to feel you. Need to be inside you.”

You nodded, breathless, and that was all the permission he needed.

Chan lifted that t-shirt all the way off, tossing it to the side before leaning in to kiss you again — slower this time, his hands cradling your face. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache, but his body was trembling with restraint, every muscle tight.

You cupped his jaw, smiling softly into that kiss as you murmured. “I’m yours, Chan.”

His breath caught at those perfect breathy words, eyes softening for half a second before turning darker again. “Yeah, you are. Mine. All mine.”

Chan’s hands were on your thighs again, tugging at the waistband of your shorts. He slid them down slowly, almost teasingly, before tossing them aside. His big hands gripped your bare thighs, spreading you gently as he stepped closer.

“You’re already wet for me.” he groaned, his thumb brushing along your folds through your panties.

Your breath hitched, your hips twitching slightly under his touch. “Chan—”

“Shh, I’ve got you,” he whispered, kissing your knee before tugging your panties down in one smooth motion. He dropped to his knees between your legs, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs.

“I should take my time,” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot. “Worship you properly. But I’m already so fucking hard for you. Can’t wait much longer.”

He stood again, tugging his sweatpants and briefs down just enough to free his thick cock. His hand wrapped around it, stroking once, twice, as he stared at you like you were the only thing that existed. “Gonna go slow,” he promised, leaning in to kiss you again, his voice soft but desperate. “Tell me if anything hurts, okay? I’ll stop.”

You nodded, and Chan lined himself up, guiding himself to your entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he groaned low in his chest.

Your walls clenched around him as he bottomed out, and Chan swore under his breath, his hips stuttering for a moment.

“Feel so good,” he whispered, kissing your neck. “So warm, so soft… made for me.”

Chan started moving, slow at first, careful, but the hunger in his eyes was impossible to hide. Every deep thrust had him groaning into your neck, his hands gripping your hips tight but gentle, as if he was holding himself back with everything he had.

“Taking me so good, angel,” he praised, his lips brushing your ear. “Even now, you’re perfect for me. You’re incredible.”

Your moans filled the kitchen, soft and breathy, and Chan kissed you again, swallowing them down, his tongue sliding against yours in a messy, hungry kiss.

The pace stayed slow but deep, each thrust hitting just right, making you gasp and cling to his shoulders. Chan groaned at the way you squeezed him, his forehead pressing to yours. “You’re killing me, honey,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Wanna fuck you hard, wanna ruin you, but… god.Just wanna take care of you. My everything.”

Chan’s restraint started to crack.

He was trying — god, he was trying — to keep it slow, to keep you safe, to worship you like you deserved. But the way you clenched around him, the way your soft whimpers filled the warm kitchen air, hair messy, ring glittering on your finger… it was undoing him.

“Fuck, baby.” he groaned against your neck, his thrusts growing deeper, heavier.

You gasped as his pace picked up, controlled but harder now, every deep thrust dragging against that spot that made your back arch.

“Chan—oh my god—”

“That’s it, honey,” he panted, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes dark and blown. “Say my name like that. My perfect fiancée, my perfect baby mama. God, you’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

One of his hands slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced precision. He rubbed slow circles at first, matching his thrusts, but the second you gasped and clenched around him, his pace quickened, his thumb pressing harder.

“Yeah, that’s it, angel,” he groaned, his hips snapping into you deeper, controlled but harder now, his cock hitting perfectly with every thrust. “You’re so close, I can feel it. Come on, baby, cum for me. Wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

Your head fell back, your nails digging into his shoulders, and Chan buried his face in your neck, kissing, sucking, murmuring filthy praise against your skin.

“Such a good girl for me. Gonna make you cum so hard. Come on baby, cum on my cock.”

The combination of his deep thrusts and his relentless rubbing on your clit had you spiralling fast. Your moans grew louder, desperate, and Chan swore, his hips driving into you harder.

“That’s it,” he growled, his voice cracking. “Cum for me, angel. Milk my cock. Wanna feel you squeeze me dry. You can do it for me. Be good for me.”

You broke with a cry, your body tensing and shaking as your orgasm hit, your walls fluttering around him tight and hot.

“Fuck, that’s my girl,” Chan groaned, his thrusts faltering as you clenched around him, milking him exactly how he wanted. “So tight, so perfect, gonna make me cum, angel.”

Chan’s pace turned sloppy, desperate, his forehead pressed to yours as he fucked you through your orgasm. His thumb slowed on your clit, now just rubbing soft circles as he focused on burying himself deep inside you.

“Gonna fill you up, honey.” he panted, his voice wrecked.

One last deep thrust, and Chan groaned your name, his hips grinding into yours as he came, hot and deep. His body shuddered against you, his hands gripping your waist tight as he stayed buried, his cock twitching as he spilled every drop.