“four. handsome. deliciously so. body and face. rare,” bakugou laughs, boyish and booming, “thanks, babe.”

you feel uncomfortable, perspiration dribbling between your breasts, limbs heavy with exhaustion.

“what is that? what are you reading?”

still bakugou ignores you and continues reading from the paper, “five. successful and ambitious. six. good friend even though he pretends he’s not. protective!! seven. so gentlemanly, holding open doors, paying for dates, very clear on why he likes me.” ruby pupils flicker over to you, “that last one is bare minimum.”

then it clicks, about seven points too late. your head snaps over to him robotically, eyes about to fall out of your head. “where the hell did you find that! stop reading it! stop katsuki!”

you hop up from your seat on your sofa, speed like no other taking over you as you run across the room to grab at the paper in bakugou’s hands. his laugh only booms louder, holding the flimsy sheet in the air over your head as you jump like a child.

“seriously, don’t read anymore!” you shout, trying to hoist yourself up his larger body, using his arms and shoulder as a climbing frame.

nothing about bakugou budges, he just continues reading with the paper in the air.

“it’s getting good, baby!” he laughs, ignoring your jumps and furrowed brows, “eight. listens to me. really listens. makes me feel heard and remembers what i say.”

he looks down at you, whose fingertips are slapping the bottom of the paper. you recognise it all too clearly now. the pink ruled lines, the edges ripped out from one of your old notebooks. your handwriting. “that’s cute. i still listen to you, don’t i?”

“you’re not now! give it back!”

“i’m almost done, two more,” bakugou says, hooking his arm behind your back to keep you locked close to him. you’re both sweaty and sticky. you’ve got no choice but to listen, “nine. cooks. such a good cook! you added five exclamation marks there. ten. fulfils some of my love languages. some?”

“now stop.” you urge. he can’t turn the paper around. he can’t.

bakugou pecks your forehead, his cheeks blushed with all the compliments. he continues skimming the list, rereading it. 

“so this is why you chose to date me, huh?” he looks down at you, pours his lips, “c'mon gimme a kiss.”

if you just grab it out his hands, he won’t see the other side. with pros always comes—

he stops pouting at you.

“give me the paper. i wrote this all a few years ago!”

“if these are the pros, where’s the cons? you must have done a cons list.” 

you shake your head, side to side. he holds the paper away from you. the opposite side, the list of all your cons, written back at you. you loop out of his arm, trying to reach for it.

he notices you staring, eyes fixated and that’s when he flips the paper around. CONS in big red capital lettering.

“this is private! you weren’t meant to see this, you shouldn’t be snooping in my room!” you squeak but bakugou’s already half down the page, pupils running across every line like he’s in a race.

“one. WILL choose his job over me—,”

“well obviously, your job is to save the world!”

“two. odd relationship with his mother? but apparently it’s better than before.”

“it’s so much better now!”

bakugou’s eyebrows drop now, voice getting lower as he continues, “three. argumentative. argues with EVERYONE. his agency workers, the media and his friends.”

“i understand why you argue with them all now! it makes sense!”

“three. his job is terrifying.”

bakugou looks over to you, solemn narrowed eyes and you don’t have a positive word to say about that.

“it is, sometimes i don’t know if you’ll come home.”

“four. he doesn’t do much else besides work. all his friends are from work.” bakugou pinches his nose bridge, “really? you think that?”

“now i don’t! and i know they’re childhood friends and… and we do things together all the time. i know you love to read, game, you’ve got your lego. i didn’t know all of that then.”

“five. don’t know if my friends and family will understand.” bakugou steps away from you, “the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

you huff on the spot, “this was from when i met you! all they’ve seen of you is shouting and yelling on the television. they didn’t know how lovable you are. how well you treat me.”

bakugou looks at you, then back at the paper. scratches his head. “six. inexperienced with sex but it’s really cute. has never had a girlfriend?”

“but number one pro is that you know how to use it. obviously we’re experienced now, we know everything about each other,” you flick your finger between you and your boyfriend. 

“and the girlfriend comment? i can’t help the fact you’re my first.”

“no, i mean yes i know that. it was just a question as to why. it doesn’t mean anything to me now.”

“but it was a factor in whether you wanted to be my girlfriend,” he states.

“well, yeah,” you drawl, “i thought maybe there was a reason as to why. that’s all.”

bakugou raises his eyebrows, looks back at the sheet, “seven. doesn’t always have time for me. travels a lot for work.”

“that hasn’t changed.” bakugou grunts. it’s something he knows you struggle with while dating him. it’s even been a conversation you’ve had a few times throughout your relationship. quality time. you want to spend more time with him but he simply can’t. 

you sigh, grabbing his chin between your fingers so he looks directly at you. his eyes are half lidded, cheeks red and exhausted from the negativity and heat. “we’ve been through this. i’m still gonna stick by you, everything i love about you means more than all the things i find difficult.”

he takes your palm away from your face and squeezes it. but you can tell he’s feeling off. “the last one. eight, he’s surrounded by beautiful women all the time.”

“you’re with celebrities, pro heroes, socialites a lot,” you shrug, “that was jealousy on my part, nothing to do with you.”

“i don’t give a fuck about any of that.”

you nod sharply, “i know! i wrote this a while ago, two years even? a lot has changed.”

bakugou sighs from the pit of his stomach, then flings his head back in a huff. “fuck, baby.” he groans.

then he looks down at you, looking up at him.

“just wanna put it out there, that was private, you weren’t meant to see that, my opinions have now changed and i’m sure you had a mental pro con list for me. i just wrote mine down.”

bakugou folds the paper, “yeah, yeah, i get it. you hate my job that much, huh? it covered half of the fuckin’ cons.

“i also said i liked you were successful and ambitious.” you sit on the back of the sofa, crossing your arms. 

bakugou mirrors you standing, crossing his arms too. “but nothing about my job has changed since we’ve got together.”

you groan, leaning your head on your shoulder, “katsuki, i think you’re making problems out of nothing here.”

“you made a list of the problems with datin’ me.” he frowns, holding the folded paper between two fingers.

“and a list of the reasons why i wanted to date you. obviously the good reasons won if i’m with you now.” you glare at him with a sharp tone.

he begins to pace around the room, paper still in hand. a terrible sign. you watch as sweat trickles down his skin, body flush with heat.

“but, babe. the problems you’ve had with me from before we were dating are still problems now. i still don’t have time for you, you still are terrified every time i’m minutes late from a mission, you don’t think i’d choose you over my job and you don’t think i do anything but work.”

you moan aloud, “and i still want you despite that all. i get the world needs you, heck, i need you if i come across a villain. i don’t hate you for being a hero.”

he stops behind you, on the other side of the sofa, “i don’t want you to resent me when you realise you could have been with someone who does have more time for you, isn’t obsessed with their job, can put you first and doesn’t scare you.”

you hop off the sofa. leaning your forehead on his collarbone. “katsuki. i wouldn’t be here if i didn't want to be. i love you. i choose you everyday. i don’t want to argue with you.”

bakugou doesn’t touch you. there’s a shake to his voice, “i’m sorry i’m not better. i’m gonna try to be. just wait for me, fuck, maybe when i’m slower and the younger lot take over, they’ll need me less. it’s just now—,”

“it’s okay. you have time for me right now but you wanna argue with me," you pout up at him.

“you did put that i’m argumentative,” he looks away from you as your hands link around his neck. 

“look at me.”

shiny lava red pupils find you. you ground him, takes him out of the what ifs and the failures of his past and places him in the present with you. 

“i have dated bakugou katsuki for two years and i love him so much. i love how kind and generous he is, always putting his loved ones first. how he dedicates his life and body to saving the world. how even if he’s tired from a long week of working, he still comes over to cook me a three course meal because he wants to see me eat his food. who was so open and willing to change for me. to change his routines and learn my body. who is argumentative because he wants to make things right. who wanted so hard for my family and friends to love him and manages to see his mother once a week just to check up on her.”

you search in both his eyes and he’s listening, he always is.

“i can write an updated list for you, if you want.”

he shakes his head, stuffs his forehead into your neck and slowly pushes you down into the sofa. you laugh, his hands plastered into your waist as his body crushes you in the plush cushions ever so slightly.

“‘m sorry. i shouldn’t have read it. even though i enjoyed the pros.” he muffles, lips tickling your skin.

you tap his shoulder. “you shouldn’t have but it’s okay. i still need you to get my fan. it’s hot.”

“promise you’ll tell me if you want somethin’ to change between us. i’m not wakin’ up one day to you leavin’ me for a reason right under my nose.” he urges and you can see him pleading. the desperation for you to agree.

“promise. now you promise me.”

“course i promise. i couldn’t even fill out ten reasons as to why i hate you.”

“i didn't say i hate you. and sure you can. you hate my cold feet. you hate how i moan about my job. you hate how i hate your job. you hate how i always want a massage. you hate how i wait until the last minute when you’re tucked up in bed for you to get me a glass of water. you hate how i’m indecisive for what i want for my birthdays and—,”

bakugou sits up, “i don't hate any of that shit. love listenin’ to you and half that shit is cute as hell.”

you pout, “you hate when i wear low cut tops out—,”

he frowns, “that’s foreplay, baby. you let me suck your tits after to make me happy. couldn’t give a shit what you wear.”

“how about how protective my friends are? and the fact i tell them everything?”

bakugou shrugs, “you deserve friends that love you that much and that you can tell everythin’.”

“i get snappy when i’m running late or too much is going on or i’m hot.”

with that bakugou gets up. your fan. though not without hovering over you to give you a peck. then another. you press your soft lips against his though you don’t open up because then you will get even hotter and snappy.

he pulls off you and rises from the sofa, “that makes sense, baby. you’re stressed and uncomfortable.”

you roll your eyes, “stop being so understanding!”

he walks towards your bedroom, but not without turning around to look at you. his fingers grip the door frame, “i love you.”

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO WEAR MATCHING CLOTHES Sitting cross-legged on your bed, your laptop is balanced precariously on your thighs. The cursor has been hovering over the same cream-colored sweatshirt for almost twenty minutes now, your eyes flicking uselessly between the product picture and the tiny sizing chart beneath it as if either one could help with the actual problem here.

Because unfortunately the problem is not the hoodie per se, but that Bucky owns the exact same one. Well, almost exact. His is a beautiful shade of forest green, faded slightly at the cuffs from use and permanently smelling like fresh air, and the cedar and rose body wash he keeps in his shower. You saw it weeks ago, the first time he picked you up to drive you to work because you had planned to grab dinner together later. His broad shoulders easily filled the doorway of your house, holding two coffees and wearing that stupid hoodie that somehow made him look even larger. You remember trying to subtly peek at it while he drove, only to end up staring shamelessly at the way the sleeves strained around his forearms every time he turned the steering wheel.

And now here you are, thinking about matching clothes like a sixteen-year-old girl with a Pinterest board titled someday. It’s embarrassing enough that you need to physically close the laptop for a couple of seconds, before opening it again with a sigh.

You don’t even know why this matters so much. You have never done this before—the soft, easy parts of a relationship. You have never had someone long enough to build small habits with, someone steady enough that you could easily picture yourself sharing jokes only the two of you could understand over morning coffee, or reaching for their hand in the grocery store without spending days working up the courage first. You are still learning how to ask for things without feeling guilty afterward. Still learning how to want openly. And Bucky... God, Bucky makes it so much worse by being so impossibly patient about everything. From the very beginning.

Your first date had barely even started before he showed up with flowers hidden awkwardly behind his back, his left hand rubbing at the back of his neck almost sheepishly when he handed them to you.

“Before you say anything, sweetheart, my mama raised me right and she’d come back from the dead to beat my ass if I showed up empty-handed.”

Your laugh was so loud and unexpected that he stared at you for a good moment like he had just been entrusted with a beautiful, precious gem.

Then there was the second date. And the third. And somehow every single time, he never failed to surprise you with his sweet thoughtfulness. Sometimes it was wildflowers from his property he’d personally tie together with twine. Sometimes big yet tasteful bouquets of stargazer lilies that you would immediately put in a vase and proudly display on your dining table. Once, peonies so full and soft they had shed pink petals all over the inside of his truck.

He opened every door without making it feel performative, always guiding you carefully with one warm hand on your lower back as if that had become instinct before he even realized it. And then came the night of your fourth day, when he walked you to your door, lingering awkwardly while you fumbled with your keys.

You remember smiling nervously. “So… what exactly are we doing here?”

Bucky had taken a long moment to look at you, blue eyes softening under the faint light of your doorstep. “I was hoping I could court you properly.”

Court you. Who even says that anymore? Apparently, James Buchanan Barnes.

You stared at him while your heartbeat climbed into your throat. And because silence had stretched a little too long, he had immediately stepped in to reassure you.

“Only if you want me to, sweetheart. No pressure.”

No pressure. As if he had not already made your entire understanding of men shift off its axis.

Sometimes, it frightened you how naturally Bucky fit into your life. It started with warm drinks and pastries between classes because, “my pretty girl shouldn’t have to survive on burnt coffee from that old thing in the staff room”; with calling you every night just to hear your voice before bed, and taking you out on dates every Friday. Yet he could not stand going the rest of the week without seeing you, which was how sunny Sunday walks around his property became routine, along with Wednesday lunches at the little diner where his aunt’s friend, Pat, worked and spent the entirety of your meals watching the two of you with the sort of fondness reserved for people who are obviously in love yet keep shyly tiptoeing around each other.

Bucky loves intensely in all the quietest ways, which somehow makes asking for things complicated. Because what if one day you asked for something silly enough that made him realize how inexperienced you really were at all this?

Your eyes land back on the hoodie again as you chew at the inside of your cheek. Before you can overthink yourself out of it, you click purchase.

The first time you wear it around him is for movie night next Saturday. You have been shaking with excitement for weeks over the special twenty-fifth-anniversary screening of The Lord of the Rings. Bucky had agreed to come with you without even letting you finish explaining why it mattered so much, only to follow it up with an amused, “don’t gotta sell it to me, doll. I’ll take you wherever you wanna go.”

You almost change three times before he arrives. By the time his truck pulls up in your driveway, your stomach is churning so badly you feel like throwing up. It’s a hoodie that just happens to be like his, so what? People wear hoodies every day, they’re such a common piece of clothing... This is not a confession of undying love.

Still, the moment you pull open your door and find Bucky waiting on the other side like he’s been standing there just long enough to start missing you, you realize the sweater has perhaps not been your most emotionally neutral decision. His eyes find your face immediately, his default frown melting at once. But before he can even say hi, his gaze drops on the cream-colored fabric. You watch with horror the exact moment recognition settles in.

There is a brief, heavy pause, and then that slow, familiar curve of his mouth appears—not teasing in any cruel sense, never that. Just quietly pleased, enough that heat crawls all the way up your neck. And because your brain seems biologically incapable of letting you experience vulnerability like most people, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“I thought the color looked nice.” The words tumble over each other so quickly they barely sound coherent by the end of the sentence.

Bucky blinks, clearly caught off guard by your sudden defensiveness, before one dark eyebrow lifts, amusement flickering across his face in the gentlest possible way.

“Nobody said it didn’t, baby.”

You promptly look away as if the floor might offer some kind of mercy, pretending to be preoccupied with the sleeve of your hoodie while internally mourning what little dignity you have left. Bucky doesn’t let you sit in it alone for long, though. Taking a step closer, his warm presence is grounding enough that all the static noise in your brain fades. His hands naturally find your waist like they have always belonged there, before he softly nudges you forward.

“C’mere, sweetheart. Let me say hi properly.” He murmurs, leaning down to press a slow kiss on your lips, grinning at your unguarded, little giggle when his stubble tickles your skin.

The cold evening air makes you shiver, and you instinctively tug your sleeves further over your hands while Bucky leads you to his pickup truck, parked beneath a flickering streetlamp. You can sense his quiet amusement, though he is kind enough not to mention the hoodie outright. Still, every now and then you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye with that same smitten expression reserved for you only.

Once you reach the passenger side, Bucky opens the door before you can even think about touching the handle yourself, one hand braced against the top of the frame while you climb inside.

“Watch your head.”

You duck obediently beneath his arm, trying very hard not to think about how quickly you have fallen into these tiny routines with him.

As Bucky rounds the hood and slides into the driver’s seat, your heart finally starts calming down. You might survive the evening with minimal humiliation, after all. But then, he just has to reach across and smoothly pull the seatbelt into place for you—the way his knuckles brush your thigh briefly through the fabric of your jeans still manages to send your thoughts scattering again.

“You’re fidgeting.” He mentions quietly, eyes flicking toward your hands where they are twisting nervously in the sleeves of your hoodie. “What’s going on in that pretty head, hm?”

You shake your head, far too quickly to look convincing.

“Nothing. I’m just a little cold.”

Bucky hums under his breath like he doesn’t believe you for even a second, yet doesn’t comment and instead lets his gaze fall on your sweater one more time before returning to your face. The smile that spreads slowly across his lips is so openly fond that your cheeks start burning.

In a careful movement, he leans over the center console and kisses you, his calloused fingers cupping your jaw with impossible tenderness.

“You look lovely tonight.”

That almost makes your heart explode out of your chest.

The next time he picks you up for lunch on your day off, your breath hitches as you freeze on the threshold. Because Bucky is leaning against the hood of his truck in his dark green sweatshirt, looking so boyishly handsome with his sunglasses pushed up into his long hair.

His expression loosens when he sees your features fall in realization. God, he looks so unfairly gorgeous when he gets that look in his eyes, the same one that suggests every sharp edge exists only for the rest of the world, never for you.

“There’s my pretty girl.”

Your stomach flips violently as he pushes himself off the imposing vehicle to cross the short distance, his hands easily settling at your hips the second he reaches you. He bends to kiss you hello, unhurried despite the cold, and your palms unconsciously come up to touch his chest.

“I missed you so much, baby.”

You are still too busy internally combusting to softly point out that you just saw each other two days ago for bowling night with your friends, Natasha and Darcy. Your fingers curl tighter in the fabric, and Bucky notices instantly.

His thumbs stroke once the curve of your waist. “You okay?”

You nod eagerly.

“You wore it.” The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them, gaze still lingering on the hoodie in pure wonder.

Bucky glances down at himself, and then at your own sweater before meeting your eyes, the right corner of his mouth lifting adorably.

“Thought we’d look real cute if we matched.”

You feel dizzy at his effortless answer, devoid of any trace of irony or hesitation. And that’s the thing about Bucky, you realize again as you stand there trying to steady your pulse: he doesn’t treat these moments like anything out of the ordinary. He simply folds them into the shape of his care for you.

Before you can collect yourself enough to answer, he is already guiding you forward with an arm around your shoulders, opening the passenger door ahead of you with that same practiced care. The warmth of the truck hits you almost dazedly after standing still in the cold.

“Heat’s been on for a bit.” He remarks at your blink of surprise as he settles into the driver’s seat, his chin lightly nodding at the backseat, where two of his heavier jackets are folded neatly, placed with deliberate care so they will not shift during the drive. Beside them a fuzzy blanket sits just as methodically arranged.

“I know it’s not the warmest of hoodies.”

When you look back at him, he sends you a small wink. At your stunned silence, his fingers gently move beneath your chin to have your complete attention, your heart already beating too fast for you to pretend otherwise.

“You alright there, doll?” He asks with a small crease between his brows.

You nod too quickly, not entirely sure what words would even hold up under the weight of everything you are feeling right now. Bucky lets out a low sound that might almost be a laugh if it were not so gentle, and then he is leaning in just enough to press a peck to the corner of your mouth.

“Y’know, I think I’m getting attached to this whole matching thing. Sends a pretty clear message.” He murmurs against your skin.

From that point on, it’s an unspoken agreement that has tenderly carved its rightful place between you both. It never turns into a conversation so much as it becomes a habit for the two of you. A jacket chosen to match the tone of your skirt, a top swapped for a darker color, small details that only make sense when you realize he’s genuinely paying attention to you, building your relationship one quiet choice at a time.

And months later, there are mornings when he is sitting at the edge of the bed with coffee in hand, his eyes lazily following you move around his room as you get ready. They eventually land on your shoes.

“You wearing the brown boots today?”

You glance down at your outfit, confirming it with a small nod as you keep applying your mascara. Bucky hums once in acknowledgment, already pushing himself up with a low groan to reach for his own pair in the shoe rack.

“Then I’ll wear mine.” He mumbles casually.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO TAKE A CUTE PICTURE TOGETHER The local café is a half-forgotten hole-in-the-wall tucked between a bookstore and a florist, the kind that only feels busy because the tables are close enough that conversations blur into one another in a soft, overlapping hum. Today it’s warmer than usual for the season, sunlight spilling lazily across the pavement outside almost indulgently after days of grey skies and persistent rain. It coaxes people into lingering longer than they probably intend to as though no one is in any particular rush to leave.

You are sitting across from Bucky at a small round table on the patio, your cups half-full and an empty plate sitting between you, remnants of the slice of red velvet cake you shared earlier still scattered across it. He stepped away only a few minutes ago, murmuring something about the restroom and brushing his knuckles briefly against your shoulder as he left.

In an attempt to occupy yourself while you wait, you take out your phone, your thumb moving absentmindedly across the screen as you scroll through whatever comes up. Until a specific post catches your attention so suddenly it stops you entirely.

It’s one of those photos you have seen countless times while looking for outfit inspirations on Pinterest, clearly curated despite its effortless appearance. A girl sits on what you assume must be her boyfriend’s lap while the camera is angled downward just enough to capture their shoes together, his heavy worn boots resting beside her delicate heels. The entire image is framed in warm light that makes it look like wanting something and simply having it without hesitation.

The contrast is cute rather than discordant.

You find yourself stuck on that picture as your chest tightens, because there are still so many small things that you don’t know how to ask for yet, things that feel too silly to voice even though they linger in your mind longer than you would like to admit. A lap. A picture. His boots beside your pretty Mary Jane heels… It feels ridiculous to desire it this badly, yet you keep staring at your phone as if hesitation could soften the sting of being dismissed. Or worse, laughed at.

You don’t notice Bucky returning until the chair across from you shifts under his weight, the scrape of it pulling you sharply into the present as you instinctively place your phone back on the table a tad too quickly for it to look natural. He sits down pretending to not have noticed any of it, reaching for his coffee.

“Alright, lovely?” He asks, voice unbothered.

You open your mouth, then close it again almost immediately, your mind caught between embarrassment and the awareness of how easily he always seems to understand you. Bucky notices your uncertainty, but doesn’t push, instead loosely rests his forearms on the table to lean closer.

“Hey,” his voice lowers just enough to gently pull you out of your thoughts. “What were you saying before I got up? About yesterday’s meeting?”

It’s such a simple question yet it almost disarms you completely. People don’t usually do that—they interrupt you to start new conversations, change direction, lose track halfway through and then forget about it entirely. But Bucky is looking at you like your words were simply waiting there for him to return to them.

So you blink once, a little startled, then slowly exhale as memories come back with a sharp pang. About that stupid staff meeting. About Ms. Cox.

The words come out carefully at first, testing how much space you are allowed to take up, but the more you speak, the clearer Bucky can see frustration still fresh beneath your composure. 

“There is this student, Mark. Ms. Cox keeps insisting that he’s lazy and just—” You exhale tiredly. “She believes he doesn’t care about school.”

His jaw subtly tenses as he nods for you to go on.

“And I tried to explain that it isn’t that simple,” you continue, your fingers fidgeting on your lap. “Because it’s true that he struggles with math, but he works really hard, always does his best. He just needs time. And she… well, she went off on me.”

His brows draw together. “Went off how?”

Your eyes fall on the table before you adjust in your seat, as if moving could shake off the discomfort.

“She accused me of inflating grades to make myself look like a good teacher.” You admit quietly, the accusation leaving behind an ugly taste of shame on your tongue despite your innocence. “Because students do well in English. Including Mark.”

You can practically sense Bucky biting back his irritation, his frown deepening as he watches you shrink just talking about it.

“And the principal just let it slide?” His voice roughens slightly at the edges despite his effort to keep it even.

You huff out a small breath that resembles a laugh, devoid of any humor. “She has been teaching there forever. They just don’t deal with her anymore. Alice described her as—ah, sorry. Alice is the—”

“The art teacher.” 

You finally look at him, blinking in surprise.

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a small nod, a brief smile crossing his features.

“I remember.”

“Oh.” You have mentioned your colleagues only once since you started going steady, your meager dating experience having taught you that nobody was really interested in your life—especially your job. They focused more on meaningless, polite conversations punctuated by some generic compliment about your eyes, or your dress, that could guarantee them some sort of reward at the end of the night.

“Um.” You clear your throat, trying to ignore the intensity of his gaze. “So, Alice described her as a vindictive woman and since she’s close to retirement, they let her do whatever she wants because it’s easier than arguing with her.”

You hesitate for a second. “Years ago, there was this new physical education teacher...” Your voice lowers a little as if she might appear out of thin air and point her condescending finger at you. “She refused to approve his one-day school trip unless it was on her day off, because she didn’t want her schedule disrupted.”

Your jaw clenches briefly. “He told the principal… and after that she kept filing complaint after complaint about his ‘lack of professionalism’, until the school ended up not renewing his contract the next year.”

“What the fuck?” He mumbles under his breath, his lips pressing together tightly. “Wait—and they just expect you to take it?” His nostrils flare with a slow exhale.

“Pretty much.” You shrug, though it feels heavier than you intend.

For a moment, Bucky just sits there with his jaw tight as he chooses to not push his annoyance outward yet, mainly because he is waiting for you to let it all out. It’s in that pause that your eyes move unconsciously to the side of the table. Your phone is still there, the screen dark now, but not locked properly. You realize it too late, when a notification from that stupid teachers’ group chat—the one filled with nothing but good morning texts, good night wishes, and painfully unfunny memes—briefly wakes it and reveals that picture again, bright and candid.

Bucky’s attention promptly lands on it too. He doesn’t comment, which only makes your stomach tighten further as you hastily reach for your phone, turning it face down with too much force.

“What was that?” He asks casually, quiet curiosity dancing in his eyes.

“Nothing.” You answer too fast and his eyes narrow slightly, more observant than suspicious.

“That didn’t exactly sound like nothing, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, then deflect again, weaker this time. “Just a random picture.” You shrug, hoping to appear disinterested. “I was on Instagram and forgot to close it.”

That earns a pause from him, his head tilting just a fraction as he studies you more carefully.

“A picture you don’t wanna show me?” He asks gently.

You shake your head, eyes shyly falling on his arms. At that, Bucky simply shifts in his seat, his hand crossing the small space between you—not to take your phone, but to find your wrist and gently guide it to his lips. When you peek through your eyelashes, you almost flinch at how close he is now, his thumb reverently stroking your knuckles before his other hand cups your chin deliberately.

“You can tell me anything.” His voice is steady in a way that doesn’t leave room for pressure, only reassurance. “Y’know that, right?”

You shiver at the proximity. You do know, that’s the problem, how could you forget when Bucky stands before you, always so careful and sweet? And still, you are never entirely sure how to stop the words from breaking in your mouth.

“I just… saw something,” you confess weakly. “That I thought would be cute to recreate together.”

Bucky’s expression softens instantly.

“What is it, sweetheart?” 

You swallow thickly, fingers flexing once under his hand. Then, barely above a whisper, you manage it. “I’d like for us to take pictures like… couples do.”

He observes you silently, expression unreadable, until a small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, patient and knowing all at once. He nudges his chair back a little farther to make room for you, patting his thigh once.

“C’mere.”

You blink. “What?”

He nods toward his lap.

“C’mere, doll.” He repeats quietly, reaching for your wrist before you can overthink yourself into refusing, to guide you around the table.

The realization of what you are doing hits in one overwhelming wave of self-consciousness the second your weight fully sinks on his lap. Bucky is bigger than you in every conceivable way, broader and heavier with muscle, solid where you are soft. His thick forearm dusted with dark hair keeps you close to the warmth of his chest, and his strong thighs spread comfortably beneath yours. When his palm settles on your knee to keep you balanced, the rough heat of his skin bleeds straight through the thin fabric of your stockings, and a small involuntary shiver runs through you. It’s humiliating how dizzy it makes you feel, because Bucky appears completely at peace behind you. You are trying not to implode from his touch and there he is, sitting back and holding you as if that’s exactly where you are meant to be.

Your unsteady hands finally reach for your phone, trying to angle it properly, breath catching a little when his fingers flex against your waist.

“You’re thinking way too hard.” He murmurs near your ear, his salt-and-pepper stubble faintly scratching your skin.

“I’m not.” You insist weakly.

Bucky hums low in his chest, unconvinced, the sound of it vibrating through his body into yours.

“Baby,” he calls out gently, mirth lying beneath his words. “You’ve taken six pictures of the table.”

Your face burns.

“I’m trying.” You mumble horrified, sighing in relief when you finally manage to frame your shoes correctly while he chuckles behind you.

“I know. You’re doing just fine, sweetheart. Take all the time you need...” He releases a slow exhale, then under his breath, “I’m definitely not complaining right now.”

The faint rasp in his voice and the way his thumb strokes the skin of your knee only make your pulse stumble harder. Finally, after another moment of fumbling and readjusting yourself against him, you manage to take a few proper photos.

The knot in your chest loosens gradually as you look through them. They are good. Not overly posed or awkward as you feared, but cute and intimate in that effortless way you had envied earlier. His scuffed work boots are beside your neat Mary Janes, your knees tucked between his jeans-clad ones, the edge of his large hand visible against your thigh like a quiet reminder that the man holding you is very much real, and that’s him.

A coy smile brightens your features. It’s a small, absent-minded gesture, yet Bucky is completely enraptured.

“There she is.” A comment under his breath, meant for himself.

You feel him lean closer to look over your shoulder, his chin brushing your cheek as his gaze settles on the screen, and the expression that crosses his face afterward is so openly proud that you feel the sudden urge to squirm out of giddiness.

“They came out pretty nice, huh?” 

You nod before turning back to properly look at him, still smiling.

“Thank you, Jamie.”

The words leave your mouth instinctively, sincere. Still, Bucky furrows his brows at you. His hand leaves your knee to curl delicately around your chin, guiding your face until your eyes meet properly.

“You don’t need to thank me.” His voice low but firm—a fact rather than a suggestion. “I love spending time with my girl. Y’hear me, baby?”

Your next breath catches in your throat so fast you almost choke on it. His expression softens further at whatever he sees on your face, his thumb stroking once your bottom lip before he closes the distance between your lips.

“You ask me for something, I’m gonna give it to you if I can.” He adds quietly against your mouth.

You swallow thickly, answering with an imperceptible nod that makes him hum, pleased. For a while, it’s just you and him. Tucked against his chest with the phone still loose in your hand, you sit sideways on his lap, his arm tightening around your waist the more your body grows pliant. The initial embarrassment melts into pure bliss once his forehead comes to rest on yours, his blue eyes fiercely glinting with devotion as they trace your pretty features.

You would probably stay here all afternoon if you could: no talking needed, just the safety of his arms. Eventually, though, duty creeps back in enough that you stiffen slightly, and Bucky loosens his hold at once, watching you get up. The hand on your thigh lingers for one last meaningful squeeze, goosebumps prickling across your covered skin.

The second your feet touch the ground again, you suddenly become aware of your slow breathing; of how his touch made you completely forget that you were sitting in your boyfriend’s lap, making out in the middle of a café situated on the main street, for anyone to see.

“I should probably go.” You mumble, smoothing your flowy dress unnecessarily to avoid his eyes.

A small smirk tugs at his lips at your clumsy attempt to regain composure.

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

By the time you reach the parking lot, your embarrassment has faded into a fuzzy tingle in the back of your head. Bucky opens the driver’s side door for you without breaking stride, one large hand resting automatically against the top of the frame while you climb inside. Your movements are a little languid as you place your palms on his chest for another kiss—quick and sweet and still a little flustered—but before you can pull away fully, his fingers close gently around your wrists.

“Send me those pictures later.”

You almost flinch in surprise. “You want them?”

That earns you a look.

“Sweetheart,” he starts slowly, like the answer should be painfully obvious by now. “Of course I want the pictures we took together.”

You promise you will do that once you get home, and Bucky lets you go only after one last heated kiss that has you sighing dreamily the entire drive back.

Later that night, long after you have changed into pajamas and curled beneath your blankets, your phone lights up with a message from him. It’s a reel of a chubby orange cat dramatically rolling onto its back for belly rubs. The giggle that falls from your lips is immediate, because you know how much Bucky loves these silly videos.

Still smiling, you tap back to reply but your fingers freeze, because his profile picture has changed. And there, framed in a tiny circle at the top of the screen, are your shoes beside his boots.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WEAR HIS CLOTHES FOR THE FIRST TIME Bucky’s bedroom smells like him. Not cologne, or any sharp, artificial department store fragrance sprayed onto stiff collars and wrists... but a scent warm and lived-in. Cedar and clean detergent tangle together with fresh air drifting in through cracked windows, traces of earth and hay and early morning breeze clinging stubbornly to heavy fabrics, no matter how many times they are washed.

The whole house smells like sun-warmed wood floors and open fields after rain. Like stepping onto his farm and understanding right away why he belongs there.

The shower is running somewhere down the hallway after a long day spent driving deliveries back and forth across town, leaving you curled near the headboard with the remote in your hand, halfheartedly scrolling through movies while waiting for Bucky to come back. Your attention drifts eventually, pulled away from the television by the sight of one of his flannels folded over the chair near the dresser. It’s clean, probably left there after laundry day, thick dark fabric softened with wear. Before you can really stop yourself, your gaze lingers.

There is something strangely intimate about wearing someone else’s clothes. Not just in the obvious sense. It’s like stepping quietly into the shape of their life, wrapping yourself in something that has spent time caressing their skin, that carries their warmth and scent and the evidence of their existence in every seam. And maybe that’s exactly why your heart flutters at the thought. You stare at the flannel for another few seconds before finally setting the remote aside and climbing off the bed, moving almost cautiously toward the chair like it might bite you halfway there.

With a meaningful glance toward the door, you listen to the muted sound of running water, before carefully lifting it from the chair. The moment you pull it closer, his scent fills your lungs completely, clean and grounding and unmistakably Bucky. Without thinking too hard about it, you peel off your own sweater and slip his shirt on instead. The sleeves hang long past your wrists as the heavy fabric settles warmly around your body, and suddenly you are standing in front of the mirror near his dresser, turning slightly from side to side while smoothing your hands absently over the front buttons.

You feel ridiculously happy. Safe, somehow. Because it reminds your body that it never needs to stay on guard if he is there.

For a moment, you simply stand there smiling privately at your reflection. You are so entranced by it that you barely notice the bathroom door opening.

“Hey doll, did I tell you that yesterday those sneaky ducks nearly knocked over—”

Bucky stops mid-sentence. The silence that follows is sharp enough to make your stomach drop.

You glance at him through the mirror with wide eyes and freeze. He is standing just outside the bedroom doorway with his hair still damp from the shower, a grey henley stretched across his chest while he drags a towel over the back of his neck, but all movement stops the second his eyes land on you.

On his flannel wrapped around your body.

His gaze languidly follows your curves like he is trying to commit them to memory, scared you might vanish like some beautiful, cruel dream. Because his girl is standing barefoot in his bedroom wrapped in pieces of his life. And Bucky looks at you like he just forgot how to breathe.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, heat rushing into your face as you turn around. “I’m so sorry, I—I saw it there and—”

The towel drops forgotten onto the end of the bed as he carefully shortens the distance. The closer he gets, the quieter you become, until the only sound left is the faint clucking of the chickens outside.

Up close, you swallow at his gentle eyes, though there is something else lingering beneath them, proud and possessive.

“Are you apologizing for wearing my shirt?” He lifts an eyebrow.

Your lips part unhelpfully, but they close again on a second thought. Bucky’s eyes flick toward the sleeves swallowing your hands before he reaches out, large fingers carefully rolling the cuffs back for you one at a time, movements unhurried and practiced despite the roughness his hands are used to.

“There,” he murmurs. “Better.”

When he finally glances back at your face, there is a spark of amusement dancing in his gaze. “You keeping this one, sweetheart?”

“What?” The question catches you off guard enough that you huff out an embarrassed chuckle.

“The shirt,” he nods at it, still delighted. “Think it’s yours now.”

“Bucky, no. I can’t just steal it.”

“Sure you can.” He shrugs easily.

Your eyes widen. “What—no!”

A real smile finally breaks properly across his face, devastatingly fond.

“Angel,” he murmurs patiently, hands warm against your waist. “You’re standing in my bedroom looking happier than you have all week. Think I’d be pretty stupid to ask for it back.”

You awkwardly tuck your chin down, studying your socks.

“You’re exaggerating.”

A quiet laugh falls from his lips. “You were twirling around in front of the mirror.”

Your head snaps up at that, your jaw dropping indignantly.

“I was not!”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was simply checking how it fit.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Before you can argue back, his hands slide a little more securely around your back to pull you closer, eyes dropping briefly to the flannel.

“Looks better on you anyway.” He murmurs.

“That’s a lie.” You focus on a spot on his neck, too shy to meet his gaze.

“Ain’t.”

“It’s your shirt.” You retort weakly.

“Not anymore.”

The certainty in his tone makes your stomach flip. Bucky watches the reaction happen in real time, something unbearably tender crossing his face at your attempt to further hide from his gaze, before he leans just enough for his forehead to touch yours.

“Y’know,” he starts casually, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your sides through the fabric. “I like seeing you in my clothes a little too much to complain about it.”

Your chest warms at the sincerity in his voice, yet you keep stubbornly staring at his chest, trying and failing to stop the grin tugging at your mouth.

“I think that would get out of hand very fast.” You mumble, finally meeting his eyes.

He smirks down at you. “Would it now?”

“You have a lot of nice flannels.” Your arms wrap around his neck, prompting him to get impossibly closer.

“Mhm.”

“And your hoodies are comfortable.” The tip of your nose brushes his.

“That so?” His brows shoot up playfully.

“And your jackets smell good.” You admit before you can stop yourself.

That finally earns you a proper grin. Far too pleased with himself.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls. “You’re in real trouble then.”

You groan tiredly, throwing your head back in despair but his arms don’t allow you to stray too far from him.

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you.” His hands settle more firmly. “Just thinking I oughta start keeping extras around.”

His brows then lift as though he has just reached a very reasonable conclusion.

“Actually,” he corrects himself, voice thoughtful. “Might need to make a rule.”

You squint up at him suspiciously. “A rule?”

“Yeah.” He nods once, completely serious despite the subtle, teasing smile. “Think the second you walk through my front door, you’re legally required to put on one of my flannels.”

“Legally required?” You ask unimpressed.

“Mm-hmm.”

You shake your head pensively. “I really don’t think you can do that, Jamie.”

“Sweetheart, I own the property.” His expression turns impressively solemn, his lips grazing yours as he speaks.

“Means I make the laws around here.”

A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, bright enough that Bucky beams at the unguarded sound.

“No exceptions either, baby. Could be ninety degrees outside, I don’t care. Flannel goes on.” He hugs you tighter, his next words nothing short than a low murmur in your ear.

“Don’t even need to wear anything else underneath.” A squeak unexpectedly falls from your lips as his palms land briefly on your ass, squeezing the soft flesh before sliding back on your waist.

You sigh fondly despite the heat crawling up your neck. “This is the dumbest rule I’ve ever heard.”

“And yet,” his eyes drop briefly to the flannel before returning to your face. “Here you are.”

At some point, Bucky doesn’t announce it anymore. The moment you step inside the farmhouse, he’s already reaching for one of his flannels and holding it out—doesn’t matter if you’re staying for hours or just long enough to share a meal and a quiet evening that doesn’t demand anything from either of you. And then he’s crossing the distance between you in a few unhurried steps to pull you into his chest. He lowers his face into the slope of your neck, and breathes in deeply, again and again, like he needs the second breath more than the first.

Something unmistakably you—familiar, layered with the faintly sweet body cream you always use—mixes with his own scent that lingers in the weave of the flannel, worn-in and musky. His shoulders drop every time unfailingly, the tension he carries out in the world has no choice but to disappear.

His obsession for your scent doesn’t stop there, it only exacerbates when you are finally lying on his sheets, the two halves of the flannel crumpled at your sides as Bucky pants against your chest. He kisses you desperately, clutching your bare thighs until you are left warm and moaning under his roaming hands caressing your body with reverence. His palms map the dip of your waist, stroking along your ribs, until they encompass the swell of your breasts, gently kneading the skin as his lips trace a wet path from your mouth to that sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you whine so sweetly.

Your lips part around a breathy squeak the moment the calloused pads of his thumbs delicately circle your nipples, a low hum vibrates unintentionally in his chest at how fast they harden.

“Wanna hear you, princess.” He murmurs against your collarbones. “Let me hear how good it feels, c’mon.”

Bucky takes his time. You feel as light as cotton candy in his arms, sighing at every brush of his lips against your nipples. His mouth is hot and his tongue eager against the tender surface.

“Jamie!” You gasp as he starts sucking. His hand fondles the other breast, whimpers filling the dark room as his fingers playfully tug and flick your nub until your back arches so beautifully. His other hand grasps your thigh, leaving behind delicious reminders of his lust.

The gentle licks soon turn into harsher suckles, and your hands shoot forward to anchor yourself—one of them twists the sheets until your fingers hurt, the other sinks into his locks. Bucky exhales sharply at the light sting when your fingers pull at his hair, loving how the wet sounds bounce off the walls.

“Prettiest tits I’ve ever seen.” He growls. 

“Jamie, it’s—oh my God.” Your head falls back when his lips take care of your other nipple, the one left behind now damp and tingling.

“Mhm, I know princess, they’re so sensitive. You gonna come in your cute panties?” You nod eagerly. Bucky’s dark eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features like a predator observing his prey, his mouth wicked on your poor abused nubs. Until the pressure in your belly is just too strong, and to your sheer surprise, your orgasm hits you out of nowhere. Your breasts are tingling with sensitivity, your hips frantically humping the air as your pussy throbs painfully at the lack of stimulation, clenching around nothing.

“That’s it, my needy girl. Look at you, coming just from having your tits sucked.” He grits out, giving your breasts one last, little smack a harsh squeeze. 

Your skin is sticky and your lungs burning as Bucky finally moves between your shaky legs, peeling off your ruined panties with a swift, practiced movement. His calloused hands are firm on your thighs as they spread you open, silently watching your pussy as it pulses and drips, the unbearable ache mixing deliciously with the embarrassment of being this exposed for him—not a single ounce of shame in Bucky as he inspects it more thoroughly. 

First, it’s his thumbs gently spreading your folds, his eyes devouring the way it tenses under his intense hunger. A shiver runs down your spine when his index finger slowly traces the tender slit, marveling at the way your slick sticks to his digit.

“Jamie...” You whine, your body—still so sensitive—lurching at his delicate teasing.

“Look at the pretty mess you made.” He whispers amazed, leaving a soothing kiss on your hipbone. You hear a sharp inhale as he buries his face into your core, his eyes rolling back at how strongly your scent hits his lungs. With blissful serenity written all over his face, his tongue starts lapping at your clit with lazy strokes. A strangled gasp falls from your lips at the sensation, your hips moving helplessly under the arm that blankets your stomach as Bucky hums satisfied at the drops of sweet arousal blessing his senses. 

You almost choke on a delirious moan the moment a long finger slips inside, the hand grasping his sheets shooting down to grasp his wrist instead.

“Gonna bury my face here every morning, sweet girl.” He mumbles, a second finger joining the other inside you. “Make you soak my beard so I can smell your pussy all day at work.”

“Shit!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.

Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare. It’s so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving his hips wild against the mattress. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine. 

When he momentarily pulls away with a wet squelch, he groans in delight at the intoxicating taste. “C’mon princess, time to make a mess on my face.” He rumbles, mouth already latched back onto your clit, sucking with a steady rhythm as his fingers hit your sweet spot at the right speed.

Your body shakes from the unbearable pleasure washing over you, but Bucky refuses to stop, only pressing himself further into your clenching pussy, his tongue insistent as he pumps his fingers quickly.

“‘M gonna—Jamie!” You sob, hips jerking up as he pushes you right over the edge for a third time, this orgasm just as powerful as the others. Thoroughly consumed by him, you tremble and writhe, wailing when you squirt all over his face, soaking the sheets and your inner thighs as well. Bucky is not doing any better, resting his forehead on your mound. He tries to regain his breath after almost coming in his boxers as if touching a pretty, naked woman for the first time.

When he finally has a steadier grip on his self-control, he licks his lips with a low hum, shifting both of you until you are straddling him, your head lying limply on his chest as he plants sweet, little kisses on your forehead.

“Breathe, angel.” He murmurs, voice still rough with arousal. “You did so good for me, lovely.”

You blink, still spent and disoriented, but as his arms gently pull you higher, your sensitive core accidentally brushes against his erection. Bucky is still kissing you, noticing your little shiver but not thinking much about it—he knows you must be sleepy and tired. Yet he couldn’t be far from the truth.

Your hips gently rut against his thigh, squeaking under your breath when it finally touches your naked clit. Bucky’s body goes rigid for a heartbeat, suddenly catching on what’s going on in that pretty head of yours. You keep moving your hips, now thoroughly and shamelessly humping his thigh. His arms squeeze your waist hard, eliciting a surprised gasp out of you.

“What are you doing, doll?” He rasps out, his voice heavy with lust. He planned to take care of himself in the bathroom, maybe paint your tits with his cum if you insisted on helping... But how can he keep his composure with such a beautiful, sweet woman in his arms, so desperate for his touch?

Your head lifts enough for you to meet his gaze. “Please, Jamie.”

“Please what?” One of his hands grasps your jaw. “Use your words.”

You moan shamelessly, the warm tingle in your core impossible to ignore now. “Your cock... please.”

“You’re making a mess.” He mutters absently, his chest heaving at the sweet sight. And suddenly, his tongue is slowly tracing your bottom lip. A whimper escapes you, before his fingers tighten on your jaw as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he would with your pussy. 

“You need my help, baby?” He reiterates, his gaze marveling at your fucked-out expression. At your eager nod, Bucky swallows thickly, fingers digging into your hips until you are forced to stop the desperate rocking motion of your hips.

It takes a single look at your big, shiny eyes and suddenly you are on your back, his cock so thick you start to tear up. “I know, I know. baby girl. It’s big, hm?” He coos, carefully kissing your cheeks and licking up the little tears like a ravenous beast.

“Eyes on me, princess… There you go, that’s a good girl.” Your mouth falls open into a perfect round shape, squeaking as his hips thrust forward leisurely. Bucky takes in the sight of your pussy stretched nicely around his length with pride burning hot in his chest. He would be lying if he said he isn’t getting impatient himself, unable to ignore anymore the fervent urge to see you unravel on his cock.

“Hold on to me.” You obey, eagerly wrapping your arms around his neck, your breasts pressed against his soft torso dusted in dark hair.

Once his cock slams right back into you, you gasp, nails digging into his back as he sets a brutal pace. The sounds of your skin slapping against his fill the room obscenely along your little whines of Jamie.

It only spurs him on because, “Fucking hell—yes, baby. Your Jamie.” Before searching your lips to pull you into a filthy kiss.

His calloused fingers dig into the plush of your ass, keeping you anchored to him just to see your eyes roll back at the delicious friction between your clit and his pubic hair. 

“She’s so tight.” He grunts. “Keep clenching like that and I’ll make you leak for days.”

Your legs squeeze around his waist, drawing him impossibly deeper. “Please.”

He takes note of the way your eyes start to roll back as your pussy flutters eagerly, even if you do your best to keep them on him just like he told you... His pretty angel is always so good for him.

“Jamie...” You breathe out, body squirming between his sturdy arms built by years of hard work in the fields rather than gym. “’M so close—oh my God, yes right there!”

“I know, princess.” He mumbles, never breaking his rhythm. “Fuck, can feel her squeeze me so good, wanna keep me there forever, huh?” His lips twist smugly. “Don’t worry sweetheart, this cock’s all yours.”

Your breath stumbles in your throat as though there’s not enough air. Bucky is right there with you, brows pulled in concentration when he feels the familiar ache in his belly. His thrusts grow deeper, more purposeful, almost primal in their intensity, and you can tell by the tension in his jaw and the slight tremor in his arms, that he’s fighting for control. Even lost in pleasure, he is always putting you first.

“Tell me when you’re close.” He grits out, leaning down to steal a wet kiss that is more tongue than lips. “So I can fill my pussy up. That’s what you want, right princess? Wanna feel my cum drip out of you while you sit all cute watching me cook, hm?” 

Your words come out in a warped, pathetic moan as he stuffs your mouth with two thick fingers. Your tongue is already playing with them, a sad whine clawing out of your throat when Bucky takes them out. It’s not even seconds later that you are tossing your head back, your words barely coherent as you tell him you are coming, his two wet fingers rubbing your clit at the right speed.

“That’s it.” He drawls through his teeth, his rhythm clumsily faltering at the thought of your pussy completely covered in his white cream. “Just like that, beautiful.”

Your vision blurs at the edges as pleasure consumes every single crevice of your body until your brain only knows how to scream your boyfriend’s name. Until there’s nothing but the delicious shape of his cock. You clench so tight his hips can barely move, pulsing and shaking around him as your hazy eyes cross, before rolling back.

Bucky follows moments later, pressing deep inside you as a full shudder travels down his body. His face is insistently pressed into your neck, trying to muffle the roaring groan that rumbles through his chest. The contact grounds him as his cock twitches and swells inside you, borderline animalistic in the way his fingers clutch your hips when he finally fills you up—the thought of leaving a part of himself inside you only prolonging his orgasm.

“Oh, my pretty princess.” Bucky pulls you tighter against him like he cannot bear the thought of letting go yet, both your hearts still hammering in sync as the aftershock pulses beneath your skin. His warm breath tickles your collarbones, and although his limbs are trembling with exhaustion, his hips still thrust lazily inside you to make sure not a single drop goes to waste.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU START REACHING BACK By the time Bucky introduces you to his friends properly, you have already learned something important: everyone else gets a different version of him than you do.

You begin noticing the pattern before he ever points it out himself. People straighten when he walks into a room, some of his new employees still stumble over their words when he speaks to them, and children stare at him in open fascination because he is broad and carries himself with grounded confidence without appearing arrogant. And honestly, you understand it. Bucky looks like someone built to endure anything. His hands are coarse from years of work, permanently marked with small scars and callouses from repairing machinery, hauling feed, and spending entire days beneath brutal weather conditions without complaint. His voice settles low and gravelly in his chest, and whenever he frowns in concentration—which is often—he appears unapproachable to anyone who doesn’t know him well enough to recognize that his silences are rooted in reflection rather than coldness.

Then there is the version of him that exists around you, so quiet in its devotion that you only begin noticing it gradually, through dozens of tiny moments. He automatically slows his pace to match yours whenever you walk together—just enough that your shorter steps never have to hurry to keep up with him. On the nights you stay over, he reaches past you to test the shower water before you step under it.

And somehow, it extends to even the smallest, most ridiculous things. Like the time you gasp at the sight of a spider near the kitchen sink and instinctively dart behind him before you can stop yourself. Embarrassment burns on your cheeks at your own reaction as you quietly ask him if he can please take it outside instead of killing it. Bucky only glances back at you, visibly amused by the fact that you are clinging to the back of his shirt like the spider personally declared war on your bloodline. Then, he easily cups it beneath a glass, slides paper underneath, and carries it out onto the porch with all the patience in the world. And when he comes back inside, there is a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as you mumble a sheepish thank you from the safety of the hallway.

And maybe, the thing that affects you the most is how instinctive all of it seems for him. His care exists in reflexes. In the quick appearance of his hand over the sharp corner of an open cabinet before you can bump into it while bending down. In the way he reaches for your hand whenever a crowd grows too dense around you, thumb constantly stroking your knuckles in reassurance before you even realize you needed it. In the way he notices your social battery draining only by the slight slump of your shoulders, then gently finding reasons to get you home before exhaustion fully settles into your bones.

It feels less like being looked after and more like being... considered. Constantly. Carefully. Which becomes a problem eventually. Because the safer you feel with him, the more affection you want to give in return. And unfortunately, loving someone openly without constantly doubting yourself is still difficult for you.

Despite how naturally Bucky seems to exist inside your life now, there are moments where you feel painfully aware of your own inexperience. You want to reach for his hand first, sit beside him in diners instead of across from him, kiss his cheek whenever he starts rambling about the farm with that subtle enthusiasm that makes him look so unfairly adorable. You want to curl into his lap during movie night and play with his hair and bury your face into his chest whenever he hugs you.

Every little touch from him feels so dangerously addictive now that you know what it’s like to be handled with genuine tenderness. But every single time you think about doing any of it, your brain betrays you. What if he thinks you are clingy? What if you interrupt him? What if he only tolerates it because he knows you have never done this before?

So instead, you hesitate. But the thing about dating someone who observes the world as methodically as he does is that very little escapes him for long, especially when it concerns you. Therefore, he just starts making things easier. When the two of you sit together somewhere public, his hand begins resting palm-up beside yours on purpose—an open invitation without forcing you before you are ready. He starts pulling you gently against his side halfway through movies, and sometimes, while talking with Steve or Sam out on the porch, he pats his thigh absentmindedly without interrupting the conversation at all, silently inviting you closer. Eventually, sitting on his lap is expected and anticipated. And every single time he notices your hesitation before kissing him first, his head tilts downward before you can even decide whether to ask.

But it’s the first time you meet Steve and Sam properly that you understand how clearly his devotion to you reads to everyone else.

Dinner happens at a small place near the edge of town after one of Bucky’s longer delivery days, rain clouds gathering thick and heavy outside while the restaurant buzzes warmly around you.

You keep squirming nervously beforehand despite Bucky reassuring you the entire drive there.

“Baby, believe me, you’re worrying over nothing. They already like you.” He repeats patiently while turning into the parking lot.

You glance over suspiciously. “They’ve never met me.”

Bucky snorts under his breath, one hand settling on your thigh to give it a comforting squeeze.

“Sam’s heard about you so much he already acts like he knows you.”

“That’s not reassuring.” You mumble, sinking a little lower in the seat.

A beat passes in which the car slows as he searches for a parking spot, and you take the opportunity to dramatically exhale like your entire future depends on this night going well.

“You’re meeting my friends, not attending a parole hearing.”

“They could easily be the same thing.” You insist. “Meeting your partner’s best friends is basically like meeting... I don’t know—their adoptive parents.” Bucky snorts, shaking his head.

“Don’t laugh! I’m serious. There’s judgment involved. Silent scoring. Probably some kind of test I don’t know about yet.” You hastily list with your fingers.

That pulls a chuckle out of him, warm and low in a way that only worsens your dramatic suffering.

“Baby—”

“No, because what if they hate me?” You whine, already spiraling. “What if I say something weird? What if I accidentally make Steve uncomfortable? He looks like the kind of man who says ‘language’ unironically.”

Bucky laughs harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly.

“Steve absolutely says language unironically.”

“See? I’m going to swear once and he’s never going to recover from it.”

His grin only grows as the car comes to a stop, but he doesn’t turn it off yet. Instead, Bucky leans back slightly in his seat, head turned to watch you with that infuriatingly entertained expression that makes your anxiety feel personally mocked.

“You’re one to talk anyway.” You quip before he can say anything.

His eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”

“Because let’s talk about the first time you met Nat and Darcy.” You smile innocently, straightening up. “You kept me on the phone for forty minutes because you didn’t know what to wear.”

There’s a beat of silence, before his entire posture shifts.

“Hey, I wanted to make a good first impression.” He frowns.

“You were debating a tie,” you repeat slowly. “For bowling.”

“It was a new environment.” He shrugs.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “It was bowling!”

He simply shakes his head dismissively. “You don’t understand the social dynamics—”

“You were spiraling,” you cut in, now completely turned in your seat to face him. “I remember it very clearly. You kept throwing clothes on your bed that I’ve never seen you wear to this day.”

“I was being thoughtful.” He answers quickly.

“That’s anxiety.”

“That’s being prepared. And my first impression went fine.”

“Yeah, because I talked you out of the tie.”

You lean back in your seat, absolutely delighted now despite your earlier panic.

“I see how it is. I don’t need to worry about meeting your friends, but you needed a forty-minute emotional support phone call about whether you needed a tie for a bowling alley.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, clearly trying not to laugh at being exposed so thoroughly.

“It was a valid concern, I wanted to be respectful, sweetheart.”

“To who? A bowling ball?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, having run out of arguments to defend himself.

A grin takes over your lips as you nod in victory. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Bucky laughs properly at that, fondly shaking his head at you. The sound makes the knot in your chest loosen despite the anxiety, and when his hand eventually reaches over the console to intertwine your fingers together, you finally feel like you can breathe a little more easily.

“Steve and Sam are gonna like you. That’s not even up for debate.” He says anyway, quieter now.

You purse your lips, the teasing softening just a little.

“And neither is the fact that you’re still nervous about a tie.” You add gently.

His head briefly falls forward as he sighs dejectedly. “It was a good tie.”

And that, somehow, makes you laugh all the way out of the car.

Inside, Steve and Sam hug you instead of shaking your hand, and within less than twenty minutes, both men seem to realize something deeply unsettling about Bucky Barnes.

Namely that he becomes ridiculously, unbearably soft around you. For starters, his hand settles automatically against the back of your chair while you sit down. At some point, he subtly pushes your drink closer because he knows you forget to hydrate when too engrossed in a conversation, his attention entirely shifting on you whenever your lips part, no matter what topic.

And then there is the hand-holding “incident”.

You are talking about your disastrous attempt at baking banana bread last weekend, when your eye briefly catches Bucky’s hand resting near yours on the booth seat.

His large, warm palm tilted upward.

Your gaze keeps drifting toward it despite yourself, because you want to take it so bad. God, you need to feel his skin against yours. But... What if you are misinterpreting it and he is ashamed of being affectionate in front of his friends? What if Steve and Sam think it’s excessive?

Without looking away from Sam, who is now complaining about boat repairs, his hand moves another inch closer until his knuckles brush lightly against yours.

Your heartbeat quickens embarrassingly fast at how obvious he makes it for you.

Hoping nobody is going to notice how you keep squirming in your seat, your hand moves before you can change your mind. Bucky’s fingers close around yours like he had been eagerly waiting for you all night. His thumb strokes once over your knuckles as he replies to his friends, completely unfazed.

Across the table, Sam goes still. Steve, on the other hand, is trying very hard to hide a smile behind his beer. Because the thing is, they have both known Bucky for years. They know him as reserved and controlled and difficult to read most of the time. Yet, what they are witnessing now is essentially an imposing Anatolian Shepherd collapsing happily onto its back because someone finally understood that looking scary doesn’t mean hating cuddles.

Once you are back at the farmhouse, rain is crashing heavily against the roof, therefore Steve and Sam help Bucky move a few things into the barn before the weather worsens further. Afterward, everyone ends up scattered throughout the kitchen while you make lemonade because inside it feels warm from all the damp clothes and humid air.

You are standing near the counter slicing lemons when Bucky walks in, settling beside you after washing his hands.

His gaze automatically drops to the knife, then to you. Then back to the knife.

“You’re holding it wrong.”

Your chin snaps up, eyes blinking at him in confusion.

“What?”

Instead of answering verbally, Bucky steps behind you until the softness of his belly is touching your back. One hand covers yours around the handle while the other steadies the cutting board before showing you a safer angle to hold the knife.

“There,” he murmurs near your shoulder. “Less chance of slipping.”

The entire interaction lasts maybe twenty seconds, yet the butterflies in your stomach go absolutely feral. The worst is that Bucky doesn’t even seem aware of what he does to you half the time. To him, this is simply how he loves, through guidance and care.

A little later, after his friends disappear into the kitchen for more lemonade while loudly arguing over the score of some recent football match, you end up curled beside Bucky on the couch, on the brink of dozing off to the soothing sound of rain tapping against the glass. Your head rests on his chest while he absently rubs slow circles along your arm, and eventually your fingers find his hair without much thought.

You expect tolerance at most. Maybe amusement. Instead, the second your nails lightly scratch his scalp, Bucky goes completely still, before his eyelids flutter shut. A deep, slow breath leaves his nose, his posture slumped as he leans unconsciously into your touch. His expression is so devastatingly content that you feel a mix of pride and joy burn hot in your chest.

From the kitchen doorway, Sam witnesses the scene in horrified fascination.

“Steve!” He whispers sharply.

The other man can’t help but burst into helpless laughter because there, curled around you in complete bliss, sits the same man who once made a grown mechanic squirm just by staring at him too long during an argument over tractor parts. Meanwhile Bucky, fully aware you are being watched, slowly opens one eye to glare at them with pure annoyance.

“What.”

“Man, you know your imaginary tail is wagging so hard I can practically hear it from here?”

Bucky silently stares at Sam for exactly five seconds, and without any shame whatsoever, tightens his arm around your waist to pull you closer.

“Yeah,” he rasps out. “And?”

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU NEED HIM THE MOST Bucky simply moves through your life with the quiet assumption that if something can be made easier for you, then of course he will do it.

One freezing morning in late November, you walk outside expecting the usual miserable routine of scraping ice from your windshield before work while trying not to freeze your fingers off in the process, only to stop short at the sight of your car already running softly in the driveway, pale exhaust curling into the cold air while warm light glows through the windshield.

And there he is, leaning casually against his pickup truck with two cups of coffee in his hands. Wrapped in his heavy work jacket, Bucky looks entirely unbothered by the bitter cold biting at his skin this early in the morning. You stare at him with wide eyes before glancing at your car. Then back at him.

“Did you come all the way over here just to start my car?”

His eyebrows pull together, genuine confusion touching his face.

“You hate being cold, sweetheart.”

Bucky never treats care as some grand romantic gesture that deserves applause. To him, love exists in maintenance, in noticing and remembering. It exists in the way he arranges himself around the sharp edges of your life without ever making you feel ashamed of needing help.

By the third month of your relationship, he already knows you forget meals whenever work gets too stressful, so he begins leaving containers of food in your fridge after particularly exhausting weeks, usually with little notes written in neat handwriting.

Eat something besides crackers today.

This one’s got vegetables in it. Don’t roll your eyes.

At first, a mix of embarrassment and old habits makes you protest.

“Jamie,” you sigh one evening while unpacking groceries he absolutely did not need to buy for you. “I can feed myself.”

“I know you can.”

The answer comes calmly, his attention never even leaving the frozen peas he’s putting away in your freezer.

“Then why are you doing all this?”

That finally makes him look at you, blue eyes steady and open.

“Because yesterday you had cereal for dinner and called it a balanced meal.”

Heat floods your face instantly. “It was one time.”

“It happened last Tuesday as well, baby.”

Your eyes squint at him betrayed. “You remember way too much.”

“You tell me things,” he shrugs lightly, shutting the fridge with his hip. “And I pay attention.”

Yes, Bucky pays attention. To everything. He notices the way your head starts to ache more than usual after difficult meetings at work; the moments you shrink because someone talked over you while discussing something important; the days you’ve had too much coffee and not nearly enough water before you’ve even registered it yourself. Once he recognizes a pattern, he simply starts building small routines around it—never demanding, or controlling. But guiding you so tenderly that by the time you notice, he’s already taken the weight you carry and made it easier to bear.

“Three coffees, baby.” He reminds you one afternoon after spotting the suspiciously large iced drink in your hand during lunch.

You promptly clutch the cup closer to your chest.

“This is tea.”

Bucky stares at you for a long moment, before his eyes lower meaningfully to the giant logo on the side of the cup.

“Sweetheart,” he starts patiently. “That thing smells like melted tiramisu.”

Your smile is sheepish. “It’s been a hard week.”

The teasing falls from his face at the exhaustion in your voice, concern replacing it so quickly it makes warmth bloom beautifully behind your ribs. He steps closer without hesitation, one broad palm settling on the back of your neck while his other hand cradles your cheek—a gesture so instinctively soothing that your entire body loosens before you can acknowledge it.

“I know, princess.” He murmurs softly. “Still need water though.”

And somehow—impossibly—you find yourself listening. He never makes care feel humiliating, because every reminder sounds far from correction and more like loving you so much it physically pains him seeing you not taking care of yourself the way you deserve. However, having someone pay attention to you this reverently is still complicated when, for your whole life, you’ve been used to being the responsible one, the accommodating one, the person who notices everybody else’s needs before they can become problems. Teaching only sharpened instincts you already had mastered long before adulthood: constantly anticipating, organizing, soothing, fixing. Somewhere along the way, taking care of yourself became secondary to making sure everyone else was never burdened by you.

Then Bucky arrives and begins undoing those habits piece by piece without ever criticizing you for it.

There is one particular parent-teacher night that leaves you painfully exhausted and miserable, so much that your eyes burn with unshed tears the entire walk to your car. One parent spends twenty minutes speaking over you every time you attempt to explain their child’s struggles in class; another openly questions whether you are “experienced enough” to manage disruptive students, because “you definitely don’t look like you are”. And Ms. Cox still finds enough energy afterward to criticize your “overly emotional teaching style” in front of half the faculty before finally leaving for the night.

By the time you make it home, you feel like an empty shell. You sway on your feet while eating half a granola bar in the dark, then drag yourself into bed wearing one of Bucky’s old sweatshirts—the same ones you shyly asked to have for particularly hard nights where his absence presses heavy on your heart. Yet, you spend nearly two hours staring miserably at your ceiling because exhaustion apparently does not guarantee sleep.

You and Bucky already said goodnight earlier. Normally he insists on calling before bed no matter how busy either of you are, but tonight he could feel how drained you were by text alone. Still, sometime after midnight, loneliness finally outweighs guilt. And even as you beg him to stay in bed and rest, insisting it’s late and he should be sleeping, he still replies with two simple words that make your heart flutter.

Already driving 12:22am

Twenty-five minutes later, headlights sweep across your curtains and you get out of your bed with a pained groan, your legs heavy as you shuffle into the kitchen in fuzzy socks. Bucky is already inside, carrying a paper bag in one hand, concern settling visibly between his brows the second you appear.

“Hey there, princess.” He whispers, leaving everything on the counter so he can pull you against him.

And that’s the moment your body goes frighteningly limp as you realize how badly you needed Bucky to hold you, knowing he would never ask for anything in return.

“I’m okay.” You quickly try to reassure him, but don’t do a very good job when your words come out slurred against his jacket.

His low hum expresses clear disagreement, one hand smoothing slowly over your back before he pulls away enough to cradle your cheeks.

“You ate dinner?”

The hesitation on your face answers for you.

His jaw clenches slightly. “Sweetheart.”

“I wasn’t hungry.” You blurt out, dangerously close to tears.

“I know, angel.” His voice turns to a whisper in front of your distress. “But you had a long day.”

There is no irritation in his voice, only concern wrapped in gentle firmness that somehow makes embarrassment crawl up your throat anyway. But before shame can take you away from him, Bucky leans down to press a long kiss on your forehead.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “I’m not angry.”

Your shoulders visibly lower a little.

“Sit down for me while I make you something warm, okay?”

And there it is again, that tingly sensation spreading low in your belly whenever he speaks like that, calm and assured and already prepared to handle things for you before you can break.

You curl beneath your favorite blanket on the couch while he heats soup and makes some chamomile tea. Watching him in all his composure as he takes care of you, moving around your house, and opening cabinets without needing directions because he already memorized where everything belongs months ago... Well, it nearly undoes you completely.

“You always think about me like that?” You ask feebly once he finally appears with a tray that he momentarily places on the coffee table.

Bucky glances at you from where he’s adjusting the blanket around your legs. “Like what?”

“Like… this.” You swallow, not liking how your throat is starting to tighten. “Taking care of things—of me, before I even notice what’s wrong.”

“‘Course I do, princess.” He answers quietly.

Tears dangerously sting at the back of your eyes, but your teeth promptly sink into your bottom lip before you can succumb to them. There is a brief moment suspended in time in which Bucky’s eyes search your expression, before he moves to kneel on the floor in front of you, palms already reaching for your jaw. 

“You spend so much time looking after everybody else.” He starts under his breath. “I just want... somebody looking after you too.” His thumb strokes the skin of your cheek and that’s when you notice the lonely tear that escaped the last thread of your control.

“I wanna be your safe place. Want you to know you can come to me. Always. You don’t gotta hold it together with me.”

“And when it gets too much out there,” he adds after a beat. “Or here,” his knuckle gently brushes your temple. “I’ll be right beside you. I’ll catch you. Every time.”

You built a relationship based on care and mutual trust, something you never had before but deeply craved. For quite a long time, those sleepless nights spent wondering when it will finally be your turn, soon turned into cruel reminders that maybe, after all, you just were not built for that kind of love. So you kept running yourself into the ground for everyone else without anyone actually noticing how much that cost you. Some people though, Bucky said, weren’t even worthy of those pretty eyes looking their way, let alone your kindness. Still, a small flame of hope kept burning in your heart—the hope that someday, someone would truly see you. Nobody has ever tried to earn your trust enough for you to hand over your vulnerability. But with Bucky, you bloom so easily in the warmth of his love.

Rain has turned part of the farm path into thick mud after a storm, and despite Bucky repeatedly warning you to not wear your pretty shoes near the fields, you ignored him confidently right up until your foot sinks deep enough into the mud to trap you completely. Bucky turns at the sound of your horrified gasp, and immediately starts laughing.

“Bucky!” You whine while trying unsuccessfully to yank your shoe free. “Stop laughing.”

“Sweetheart,” he says through obvious amusement while walking toward you. “Why’re you wearing those heels out here?”

“I didn’t think it would be this bad.”

“Mhm.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re being mean.”

His grin only grows as he reaches you.

“Far from it, princess. C’mere.”

Before you can ask what he means, both hands settle firmly around your waist and suddenly your feet leave the ground entirely. A startled squeak escapes your throat as your boyfriend lifts you effortlessly out of the mud like one of those bags of fodder he so easily carries around the farm.

“Bucky!”

“You were getting stuck.” He smirks.

“I could’ve figured it out myself.” You mumble shyly.

“I know you could.”

His words are tinged with mirth as he carries you back toward solid ground, one arm secure around your waist while your hands instinctively clutch his shoulders.

“Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stand there watching you struggle.” Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with guilt anymore, your hands instinctively curling a little tighter into the collar of his jacket as the real meaning of it sinks deep in your heart.

This becomes another habit somehow. He lifts you onto kitchen counters while cooking because otherwise you “hover too much.” Carries you inside from the truck whenever you fall asleep during long drives home from town. Sometimes, after particularly exhausting school days, he simply hooks an arm beneath your knees and picks you up before you can properly protest.

“Jamie, I can walk.” You mumble sleepily against his collarbone.

“I know you can, baby.”

“Then put me down.”

“No.”

The answer comes calm and completely immovable while he adjusts you more securely against his chest.

He looks down at you. “You’re tired.” As if that is enough of an explanation.

You squint at him, but he raises one eyebrow before your overworked brain can elaborate something witty to retort with.

“You gonna keep arguing or you gonna let me hold my girl?”

Being with him has a way of quieting the constant vigilance in you as your body learns—gradually, unconsciously—that Bucky’s strength never asks you to fear it. All that’s left is a fuzzy, unfocused warmth you can’t quite name. And over time, you begin realizing that what affects you most is not the carrying itself, but what it represents. Around him, you are allowed to take up space without apologizing for it first. You are allowed to keep him company as he works, to cling to him through difficult days and cry without trying to make yourself smaller afterward.

The first time you break down in front of him happens after a bad argument with your mom. You spend nearly ten minutes apologizing between sobs. Bucky listens quietly the entire time before finally reaching up to tenderly wipe your tears with his thumbs, brows drawn together in soft confusion.

“Princess,” he asks gently. “Why’re you apologizing for being upset?”

You open your mouth, but then close it again helplessly. Because once again, you were about to slip back into the bad habits you are carefully working through together. Bucky’s expression morphs instantly in silent understanding.

“C’mere, baby.”

And just like always, you go.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO BE PART OF HIS WORLD For a long time, you are convinced that helping Bucky with work will only make things harder for him. Not because he ever said that—quite the opposite, actually. But he moves through the farm with effortless capability, making everything look so easy. He knows where every tool belongs, which fence post is beginning to loosen before anybody else notices, the sound each engine is supposed to make—immediately catching when something is wrong.

Meanwhile, you once managed to stall your own car three times in a row trying to leave the school parking lot because your brain was too tired to function properly. So naturally, the idea of “helping” him feels laughable. Standing in the middle of his world feels strangely similar to trying to communicate in a language you don’t speak fluently yet. Still, that doesn’t stop you from wanting to try. Loving Bucky means wanting to understand the shape of his days and exist inside the life he built long before you arrived in it. You want to know what his mornings look like at sunrise, learn the routines his body slips into automatically after years of repetition, and more than anything, you want to stand there beside him without feeling like a guest.

His blue eyes catch the golden afternoon sunlight so prettily as he glances up from where he’s crouched in front of the fencing, near the south pasture.

“What’s up, lovely?” One corner of his mouth lifts when you linger there without answering right away, your hands fidgeting against the wooden post as if looking for something to ground you.

“What?” He teases lightly. “My girl misses me already?”

You huff a quiet laugh through your nose, eyes dropping briefly to the tools scattered beside him.

“Maybe a little,” you mumble. “I just wanted to see what you were doing.”

His expression softens instantly at that. “C’mere, then.”

You step closer without thinking.

“You wanna help?”

You hesitate under the weight of the question. “Only if I’m not gonna be in the way.”

The offended look Bucky gives you makes you chuckle lightly. He frowns, standing to full height while wiping his hands against his jeans.

“You being here is the opposite of in the way.”

And there it is again—that wonderful ache in your chest. You shift your weight from foot to foot, head ducking a little at the sheer love in his words. His rough fingers slowly hook beneath your chin to tilt your face back toward him.

“You wanna stay with me while I work?” He asks softly.

You nod silently.

“Then stay.”

Simple as that. No sighing. No tolerating your presence to avoid arguments. No making you feel like affection must be earned through usefulness.

After that, he begins finding small ways to pull you into his world. Nothing overwhelming that leaves room for you to panic about messing things up.

“Hold this for me.”

“Pass me that small wrench, pretty girl.”

“Sit over there where I can see you, and watch your step.”

At first, your help is mostly symbolic. You hand him tools, hold flashlights, keep him company while he works beneath trucks or repairs broken equipment in the barn. At some point, Bucky quietly sets up a small table near his workbench for you, sanding the wood smooth and making sure to buy a comfortable pillow for the chair so you can sit there for hours grading assignments and planning lessons while he moves around you.

One afternoon, while you are perched on the workbench as he works beneath the hood of his pickup truck, you accidentally hand him the wrong tool three times in a row. By the third attempt, you groan dramatically. Your face falls into your hands.

“I’m fucking useless.”

Bucky leans back enough to look at you, expression deeply unimpressed.

“Hey.” The single word lands firmly enough that your head snaps up at once. “You ain’t allowed to talk about my girl like that.”

You simply stare at him as he reaches out to squeeze your knee before taking the wrench from your hands.

“Besides,” Bucky adds casually. “You’re real cute when you boss me around with the wrong tools.”

You burst out laughing despite yourself, shyly looking away once you notice he has been busy admiring you with a smitten grin.

Every single time insecurity starts curling around your throat, ugly and uninvited, Bucky is there to loosen it with his careful hands before it can choke you. Dismissing insecurity is far too easy, yet that’s what most people do. It makes them uncomfortable and impatient, so they wave it away with empty reassurance. They joke about it, call it overthinking... They turn vulnerability into a shameful weakness. Because acknowledging it properly would require them to sit inside someone else’s discomfort for a while. But Bucky never treats your vulnerable moments like inconveniences he has to endure. He looks at them directly in the eye until they stop feeling quite so monstrous inside your head.

The way you feel warm all over has nothing to do with the late afternoon sun spilling gold across the land. He had sounded genuinely insulted, because loving you also includes protecting the way you speak about yourself. He cannot stand cruelty directed at you even when it comes from your own mouth.

Your pulse flutters embarrassingly beneath your skin.

His attention returns to the engine eventually, muttering something under his breath as he reaches deeper beneath the hood. Your eyes focus on the rolled sleeves exposing his strong forearms slightly soiled with grease, then slowly travel up the faded flannel stretching across his broad chest, before noticing the crease between his brows. The low hum he gives every now and then when something cooperates correctly makes your pussy throbs, your mind clouded with memories of your thighs around his head.

Your legs swing idly as you sigh, watching him work for another silent moment.

“You know,” you murmur thoughtfully. “For someone who says he likes having me around, you sure are ignoring me right now.”

Bucky snorts softly without looking up.

“I’m working , sweetheart.”

“Mhm.”

He glances at you briefly, one eyebrow lifting. “What?”

You exhale dramatically, leisurely looking around the shed. “I think you’re pretending to fix the truck because you secretly enjoy making me suffer.”

A low chuckle rumbles out of him at that, though he still turns another bolt calmly like you are not trying to derail him on purpose.

“You surviving okay over there, pretty girl?”

“Barely.”

“You’ll make it.”

The problem is that he sounds entirely too entertained by this. Your eyes narrow slightly at his tone. Then, after a moment of consideration, you shift a little closer along the edge and let your thighs part slightly, your hands landing on the wooden surface by your sides to slightly push your chest forward.

Bucky notices immediately from his peripheral vision, but all he gives you is a low, “Careful, doll.” Without any real heat in it.

You stare at the side of his face for another second, then toss your head back enough to deserve an award.

“Mhm...” You hum mournfully. “If my boyfriend really loved me, he would stop fixing stuff and pay attention to me.”

This time Bucky laughs unguarded, the sound rough around the edges as he finally leans back enough to look at you.

“Oh, so that’s what this is?”

You try to appear unbothered. “What?”

“You being a needy girl.”

Heat crawls immediately into your cheeks, still you keep your eyes on his.

“I am not needy.” You insist.

His mouth twitches, incredibly amused. “No?”

“No.”

“Mhm.”

You huff softly, crossing your arms while he turns back toward the engine with entirely too much satisfaction for your liking. And unfortunately—for the both of you—you are an incredibly stubborn woman. Which means your brain immediately decides to make things worse by jumping down the bench and silently approaching the vehicle until you are leaning down the edge of the hood, right beside your boyfriend. 

“Maybe there are more interesting things you could be doing with your hands right now.” You murmur, eyes dragging slowly over the length of his body.

The wrench stops turning at once. For one very dangerous second, the entire world seems to go still with it. Bucky exhales slowly through his nose before straightening to his full height, wiping his palms across his jeans with deliberate calm that somehow feels infinitely more threatening than any other reaction.

“Oh, you’re trouble today.”

You try to hold his gaze without shrinking under it, but that becomes significantly harder once he starts edging closer to you, the stupid tool that confused you completely forgotten. The light teasing in his face has shifted into something heavier, a kind of seriousness that has your panties completely ruined.

“Looking at me like that while I’m trying to behave...”

You swallow. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

His nostrils flare for a brief moment, one large hand sliding around your waist while the other braces on your hip, and before your brain fully catches up, he is backing you a few slow steps toward the side of the shed. The wall presses lightly against your back, Bucky’s frame crowding you back into stillness, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him through every layer between you. His thumbs stroke your sides rhythmically as he studies you with an expression that almost makes you forget how to breathe.

“You’re playing with fire, doll.”

You tilt your chin up despite the way your pulse stumbles. “I just wanted your attention.”

Bucky’s jaw flexes once. “Oh, you got it.”

His mouth claims yours like he is afraid you will disappear if he doesn’t, the hand on the curve of your waist tightening possessively while the other traces the length of your neck, until his fingers dig into your jaw to keep your head tilted exactly how he wants it. A small, unintentional whimper is muffled against his mouth as your fingers curl tight into the front of his shirt, and Bucky exhales softly through his nose like the sound nearly undid him too. It is rough, urgent... Too much and still not enough.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough for his forehead to rest briefly against yours. Both of you breathe a little unevenly, his palms still heavy on your skin, as though he has no intention whatsoever of letting you wander too far now that he finally has you pliant and whining for him.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, gaze frantically going back and forth between your hazy eyes and your lips glinting with his spit.

“I need you, Jamie.”

And he is kissing you again, slower this time but no less distracting, and you are just beginning to melt properly into him when his hands slide beneath your sundress, harshly grabbing the back of your thighs.

“Jamie—”

“C’mon, up sweetheart.” He rumbles in your mouth, already pushing you higher against the wall.

Your giggle dissolves into a wanton moan when his tongue slides back between your lips, fervent and eager, your fingers tangling into his hair while his grip tightens instinctively on your ass.

“Fuck.” He pants wrecked, his bulge pressing insistently against your covered core.

“Jamie, please.” You toss your head back as his lips frantically move over your neck and cleavage, more lapping and biting at your skin than actually kissing. 

“So fucking sweet.” He grunts, humping you like an animal right in front of the open door of the shed. 

See, Bucky is… well, particularly insatiable. It’s not enough to spend Sunday mornings slowly grinding into you until you are begging him to make you come, tears staining your cheeks as he coos at you. It’s not enough to bend you over the kitchen counter and thrust his cock into your pussy from behind, his warm and heavy body pressing you down as you hold onto the edge of the wooden surface for dear life. It’s also not enough for his fingers to not-so-subtly slip beneath the hem of the blouse you just spent ten minutes adjusting to your liking, just to squeeze your tits because “They’re missing me, doll”.

And he never seems to care if you are late for something, or how long it takes... or where you are. Like that time he pulled into the deserted parking lot of a random mall on the way back from your cousin’s engagement party because one of her friends had flirted with you a few too many times—even with Bucky standing just a couple of feet away, talking to your aunts while openly glaring at him. He growled an amused, “Try not making a mess on the seats, princess” before you ended up squirming and moaning in the backseat of his pickup truck, still fully clothed as his hand slid down the front of your unbuttoned pants. He was three fingers deep inside your pussy, his other hand gripping your jaw to keep your eyes on his as he whispered how good he was going to fuck you later in his bed, and how good he’d make you cream all over his cock. His dick was straining against the confines of his pants, painful and throbbing because you were so pretty with your lips parted around your little, unrestrained whimpers, your half-lidded eyes staring hazily at him, and then… the bright flash of red and blue lights blinded you both in an instant.

By the time the two police officers knocked on the window car, you were both just about composed—his jacket lay on his lap to hide the impressive bulge while you leaned against his shoulder, carefully performing a convincing enough bout of nausea to explain why you had been parked there so long. They told you that someone had reported a vehicle acting suspiciously nearby and Bucky quickly chimed in, matching their story just enough. However, the car in question disappeared down the road the moment you parked. A brief, measured silence followed, until one of the officers glanced at you. Then at Bucky. Then back at his partner, clearly deciding that whatever they might have walked in on was not worth pursuing further. 

Or that time your first picnic date turned into Bucky keeping a hand on your mouth as he fucked you right in the middle of the blanket you had so carefully arranged, imagining quiet naps beneath the trees and lazy kisses. Instead, you had squirted all over it after Bucky had growled into your neck that you needed to be quiet, or else one of his employees might catch you. Still hard, he hastily lay between your thighs for his earned “dessert”.

You have always managed to get away with it before—never caught, never interrupted, always just out of reach of consequence. Until now.

The wall rattles with a particular hard thrust of his hips, loud enough that the sound travels straight through the large space, followed immediately by a sharp, unceremonious clatter from somewhere above your head. Before either of you has even processed what’s happening, something tumbles from the nearby shelf and lands directly on Bucky’s head with a force that makes you both flinch at the same time.

Your boyfriend jerks back instantly, a harsh curse slipping out under his breath as one hand flies up to the exact point of impact, while his other arm tightens around you, still holding you close out of reflex even as he recoils.

“Oh my God—” You gasp, eyes widening in horror as you register what just happened. “Bucky!”

“’M fine.” He grunts automatically, though the tight set of his jaw and the faint squint in his eye suggest otherwise.

You wriggle out from his hold with anxious urgency until he sets you back on your feet, quickly reaching for his wrists as though you can physically prevent any further damage. He keeps muttering under his breath about “fucking shelves” and “the motherfucker who put that damn thing there.”

“Sweetheart, it was just a flashlight, not a bullet.” He grits out to reassure you.

“Who cares, it hit your head!” You argue frantically. “Move your hand, let me see.”

There is a long, theatrical pause, during which Bucky clearly considers refusing out of principle alone, but eventually he exhales through his nose and lowers his hand with exaggerated reluctance, revealing nothing particularly dramatic beyond a faintly annoyed expression.

“There,” he sighs. “Still alive.”

You stare at him with genuine devastation shining in your eyes.

“Oh, baby.”

And that is the moment everything shifts. Because your tone changes completely, your panic dissolving into something softer and infinitely more dangerous as your hands come up to his face without hesitation, cradling him with careful precision while your thumbs brush lightly over his cheeks. You inspect him with big, worried eyes, pouting at him like he has just survived something far more dramatic than an ambush by a shelf.

Bucky, for his part, goes still in a way that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with your attention. It’s almost humiliating how quickly his entire focus narrows down to you. The way your thumb absently brushes his cheek. The way your voice drops into a gentle, breathy coo every time you ask if he is alright. The way you keep smoothing your thumb over the bruise like it physically pains you to see him like this. And somewhere in the middle of it, a thought forms with unsettling clarity—he really likes this.

“You poor thing,” you murmur mournfully. “Does it hurt?”

Bucky blinks once, twice. “A little...” He admits slowly, though the word feels less like an answer and more like an experiment he is conducting purely for the sake of seeing how you respond.

You frown. “Oh, Jamie.”

He leans into your soft palms without thinking, eyelids lowering in complete bliss.

“Mhm.”

“Do you feel dizzy?”

“... Think I might now that you mentioned it.”

The crease in your brows deepens at once, fingers sliding into his hair as you begin checking for other bumps, your touch careful and thorough in a way that turns his brain into pure mush.

“You need ice.”

“Mhm.”

“And water.”

“Probably.”

“And you should sit down for a minute.”

At that, something entirely too satisfied slips into his expression, subtle but unmistakable. Because you are standing in front of him on the verge of tears, treating this huge, rough man like a wounded woodland creature.

“You’re real sweet when you worry about me.” He murmurs, smitten.

You roll your eyes even as your hands stay on his face. “Someone has to take care of you.”

That’s all it takes. He is not going to discourage this behavior in any way, shape, or form.

Bucky lets you guide him toward the chair beside the workbench without resistance, lowering himself into it with slow obedience. The moment he is seated, you are immediately between his knees, hovering, checking, fussing, entirely focused on him as though nothing else in the world currently matters. Which, unfortunately, becomes the highlight of his entire week.

“There’s a bump.” You murmur to yourself, brows drawn together in concentration.

“Mhm.” He agrees gravely, as if this confirms a deeply unfortunate outcome for his future.

“You could’ve been seriously hurt.”

And Bucky just watches you, completely lost in the way you move around him with anxious care, your hands never quite leaving him. There is something recklessly addicting about being the center of your attention that settles into him far too easily, like it has always been waiting there for you to unlock it. It goes to his head faster than the flashlight ever could.

“Are you still feeling dizzy?” You fret.

Bucky tilts his head slightly as if genuinely considering it, though the truth is he could not care less about his symptoms.

“…Little bit.” He decides finally.

Your eyes widen. “You do?”

“Might need mouth-to-mouth.” He adds, entirely deadpan.

You stare at him in disbelief. “James.”

“What?” A pause, thoughtful. “I got a concussion, sweetheart. Have some compassion.”

“You don’t have a concussion.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Your voice briefly cracks with amusement.

He sighs as though genuinely disappointed by the medical community. Still, he looks unbearably pleased with himself.

“Stay still,” you mutter pensively, already turning toward the small freezer tucked away nearby. “I’m getting ice.”

Bucky watches you go with an expression bordering on lovesick, his lips twisting into a soft curve. By the time you return, he has already shifted slightly, spreading his knees just enough to make space for you again. His hands find your hips as soon as you’re close enough, steadying you, holding you in place while you press the ice gently against the bump, your face still pinched with concentration.

“Too cold?” You ask softly.

“Nah.” Then, after a beat, entirely too casually, “Still think you should kiss it better, though.”

You roll your eyes, yet your small smile betrays you. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Can’t believe you’d say that while I’m injured.” He retorts, tone solemn. “I got hit real hard, doll.”

“You said it was a flashlight.” Your eyebrow raises skeptically.

“Still could’ve knocked loose my precious brain cell.”

That finally does it, a laugh slipping out of you despite the anxiety still lingering in your stomach. It’s soft and breathless and completely unrestrained, and Bucky’s hands squeeze your waist, as though he is physically anchoring himself to it.

“What am I going to do with you?” You sigh, fingers threading carefully through his hair. It occurs to you with a fond, helpless kind of clarity that you have accidentally created a monster. One who is absolutely going to treat every minor inconvenience like a life-threatening injury, if it means being doted on by you.

This time, there is no hesitation when he answers, voice quieter but absolutely certain.

“Keep spoiling me like this.”

The words come out lazy and teasing, yet they land heavier than either of you anticipate. Because he means it a little. Maybe a lot. Your expression softens in response, the final threads of panic melting away into something far more vulnerable. Then, much to his delight, you lean down and press a long kiss to the top of his head.

“There,” you murmur. “Better?”

Bucky goes still beneath you, before his arms wrap more firmly around you, pulling you just a fraction closer until his chin can comfortably rest on your torso.

“Yeah,” he whispers, reverent eyes looking up at you. “Way better.”

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU SPEND YOUR MORNINGS TOGETHER The two of you are stretched across his bed after a late dinner and a movie downtown, the television flickering low pale light across the room. One of Bucky’s older hoodies hangs from your shoulders, and the comforter pooled around your legs still carries faint traces of that comforting earthy scent that always seems permanently stitched into everything he owns.

You are trying very hard to stay awake. The week has been horrible: your students restless from too many rainy recesses indoors, paperwork piling endlessly across your desk, and parent emails arriving faster than you could answer them. By the time Bucky picked you up earlier that evening, your body had already been aching with fatigue. Still, you are determined not to fall asleep here. Because despite the fact that Bucky has never once made you feel unwelcome in his space, there is still a nervous little part of you convinced that accidentally crossing invisible boundaries will somehow ruin everything. Falling asleep in his bed feels far more intimate than kissing him does, strangely enough, because it means trusting him enough to stop monitoring yourself.

So every time your eyelids begin slipping lower, you stubbornly force them open again. Unfortunately, Bucky notices the way your responses slow down halfway through conversations and the increasingly delayed reaction every time he asks you something about the movie. Your body keeps unconsciously curling closer and closer toward his warmth before you catch yourself and straighten again. At one point, your head dips toward his chest for too long you abruptly jerk yourself upright.

Bucky glances at you, his hand leisurely rubbing along your arm, and one corner of his mouth already threatens to lift.

“You don’t gotta stay awake for me, doll.”

His voice comes low and soothing beside you, yet your eyes widen abruptly.

“I’m awake.”

Bucky hums softly, deeply unconvinced. “You sure?”

“Yep. I was listening.”

“To what?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, your eyes fluttering shut in defeat when you realize you absolutely set yourself up for that.

Bucky’s chest shakes slightly with restrained laughter at your weak glare.

“I’m serious.” You slur, shifting upright again beneath the blankets with all the determination of somebody seconds away from losing consciousness. He hums patiently, still rubbing slow circles against your sleeve.

You try very hard after that. You focus on the movie, ask questions about the actors… You even sit up straighter just to prove you are perfectly fine. Then Bucky’s hand slides absentmindedly beneath his shirt to rub slowly along your bare hip instead.

And honestly, after that, you never really stood a chance. Bucky glances down after a couple of silent minutes and finds your body curled into his side while your breathing evens out gradually beneath the faint sound of the wind outside. And something about the sight hits him so deeply it hurts. Because he knows this is not easy for you yet. That you are still learning how to be yourself around another person without feeling like an inconvenience. 

Your boyfriend slowly adjusts himself against the headboard so you can settle more comfortably on him, one hand pulling the comforter higher around your shoulders before he lowers the volume of the television. You stir faintly at the movement, brows pinching briefly in your sleep, but his hand promptly strokes your back with gentle movements.

“There you go,” he murmurs quietly. “Go back to sleep, pretty girl.” The tension melts from your muscles so quickly beneath his touch that Bucky’s eyes linger on you in silent wonder for a long moment. He presses one long kiss on your forehead, and sometime later, sleep finally finds him too, quiet and unguarded with you tucked safely against his side.

The next morning, you wake feeling unexpectedly well-rested. For several peaceful seconds, your mind drifts lazily through the hazy border between sleep and awareness. It’s only when your body stirs with a slow, languid stretch that you realize you are pressed against something solid.

Solid, pleasantly warm, and… moving?

Memories crash into you all at once—the dinner, the movie... Bucky’s bed.

Your eyes fly open.

Early sunlight catches along the broad expanse of his bare forearm where it rests heavily around your waist, like he fell asleep making sure you were always close throughout the night. Mortification hits you like a punch in the stomach. You can’t believe you were careless enough to fall asleep in his bed without discussing it first, the surprise quickly curdling into guilt as you picture him stuck with you there, too kind to wake you up.

Trying to not be swallowed by panic until you are completely alone, you carefully shift beneath the blankets only for Bucky’s hold to tighten automatically around you. A sleepy hum leaves him, followed by his voice a second later, raspy and deep.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

You turn carefully enough to find him already watching you through heavy-lidded eyes, hair messy from sleep and jaw still shadowed with yesterday’s stubble.

“I’m sorry.” The words come out before you can even think about it.

Bucky blinks slowly, his soft smile falling at once. “For what?”

“For falling asleep here.”

“You were tired.” He frowns.

“I know but… I didn’t mean to bother you.”

The second the words leave your mouth, something in Bucky’s expression morphs into painful understanding. You genuinely believe this inconvenienced him.

“You silly girl,” he murmurs fondly, pulling you closer by your waist. “You fell asleep during a movie. That ain’t exactly a crime, y’know?”

You stare down at the comforter instead, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “I just didn’t wanna impose.”

Long fingers are already sliding beneath your chin, guiding your face back toward him with impossible patience.

“You think I’d rather have you driving home exhausted in the rain at midnight? Hm?”

Your lips part slightly. “Well—”

“No, baby.” His thumb delicately brushes your bottom lip. “I’d rather have you here with me.”

It feels hard to breathe properly when faced with the certainty in his voice.

“I liked waking up next to you.”

The confession lands directly beneath your ribs.

“You did?” Your eyes observe him wide with hope.

“‘Course I did.” A sleepy little smile tugs at his mouth. “I...” He huffs out an abashed chuckle, and you recoil a little, completely caught off guard. Because Bucky has never once looked this flushed since your first date.

“I’d really like it if you stayed over more.”

“Really?” It’s nothing short of a whisper.

“Mhm.” His hand drifts slowly along your side as his gaze lingers on your face with devastating devotion.

“Don’t really like the idea of you driving home late all the time anyway, and…” He pauses briefly, almost thoughtful. “I wanna wake up with you in my arms.”

The room suddenly feels far too warm. Bucky shifts slightly closer again, his other arm coming under you to anchor your body to his, his nose teasingly grazing yours.

“Wanna have my mouth on you before either of us even gets outta bed, and be late because we inevitably get carried away with our little kisses.” He whispers lazily against the slope of your neck, pressing a peck on your collarbone that makes you shudder.

“Wanna make breakfast together and watch you steal half the bacon off my plate after you said you weren’t hungry.” His mouth barely brushes your cheek. “Wanna sit at the kitchen table while you talk my ear off about your day before it even starts.”

Nobody has ever spoken about wanting you in their life as a fantasy too fragile to touch. But Bucky has already made space for you in his future without hesitation.

And then he completely ruins you by adding under his breath, “You look good here, sweetheart. With me.”

The same hesitation holding you back melts completely after that.

“I liked waking up next to you too.” You whisper, cheeks warming up at your own brave confession. But the bright smile he gives you is completely worth it. 

Staying over becomes less of an exception and more of a habit neither of you wants to break. Soon enough, pieces of you begin appearing around the farmhouse: a spare toothbrush beside his sink; a brand new box of your favorite strawberry lipgloss that Bucky bought for you to specifically use when you stay over; your favorite cookies tucked into one of the kitchen cabinets—because Bucky noticed you always look for them first in the mornings.

He never rushes you into the day. Even when he has technically been awake for hours already, he moves through the morning with a steady, unhurried ease, as though the world itself knows it can take a break around him.

Sometimes you wake to find him already watching you quietly from the pillow beside yours, one arm still draped across your waist while pale sunrays spill across the sheets between you. Most mornings, you simply cuddle closer for a little while, listening to him breathe, memorizing the warmth of his arms around you, letting yourself exist without urgency for once.

“Morning, baby.”

His voice still sounds rough around the edges from sleep when he leans to meet you halfway, pressing a slow kiss on your mouth that lingers far longer than necessary because neither of you is in any hurry to separate yet.

Downstairs, the kitchen already smells faintly of coffee he started earlier. You are halfway through pouring cream into your mug when dread hits you like a bucket of icy water. Bucky notices immediately from his seat at the kitchen island, where he’s reading the newspaper like every morning.

“What happened?”

You sigh softly, your head falling back with a groan. “I still have to finish prepping activities for today.”

Instead of looking disappointed that your attention has shifted elsewhere, Bucky simply studies you thoughtfully for a moment before setting his mug down.

“Show me.”

You turn in surprise. “What?”

“Show me what you gotta do.”

“You wanna help me lesson plan?” Your eyebrows raise in amusement.

“Correction, I wanna spend my morning with you.”

So eventually you spread everything across the wooden surface: worksheets, glue sticks, colored markers, laminated reading cards, paper cutouts for today’s classroom activity. Bucky watches the process unfold with intense concentration, a deep crease between his eyebrows while he studies your materials.

“This all for one class?”

“Mm-hmm. Reading exercise, drawing activity, vocabulary review…” You point at each group of items.

Bucky gives you a slow nod, despite still looking vaguely overwhelmed by the amount of paper involved. Without thinking much about it, you hand him a stack of cut-out shapes that needs to be organized by color. He takes them at once, no hesitation whatsoever. Several minutes later, you glance up and nearly snort out loud when you realize he’s sorting them not only by color, but by shade. After that, he busies himself with other simple tasks, like passing markers to you in color order because he noticed you unconsciously arrange them that way yourself, and flattening laminated sheets carefully beneath one rough hand while you cut around them.

At one point, Bucky picks up one of the worksheets and studies it with intense concentration, his brows slowly knitting together the more he reads through the page. You barely pay attention at first, too focused on cutting out paper stars for the reading activity, until silence stretches suspiciously long. When you are done, you find Bucky still staring at the paper as if studying a government document.

“These kids gotta circle the adjective?”

You blink once. “Yes?”

He glances down at the paper, then back at you. “They know what an adjective is?”

“Most of them.” You chuckle at his genuine curiosity.

Bucky shakes his head like the information has sincerely overwhelmed him.

“When I was their age, I was eating dirt behind the barn.”

“Bucky.”

“I’m just being honest, sweetheart.” His finger taps the worksheet once. “These little kids are out here identifying pronouns and shit at eight in the morning.”

You are laughing too hard now imagining a smaller, frowning Bucky eating dirt and running around the pasture hugging lambs probably larger than him. Bucky watches you with obvious satisfaction, until his eyes narrow at another page on the table.

“Is that a frog?”

You grin at him. “That’s the reading mascot, Sir Ribbits.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “The frog helps them read?”

“He encourages them.”

Bucky stares at the cartoon amphibian for another long moment before giving it a satisfied nod.

“Good for him.”

After hunching over papers for what feels like hours, you stretch your arms with a tired little moan. Bucky is already rounding the table to rub your stiff shoulders, and instead of flinching, you simply lean back into it.

By the time everything is finally packed away, the kitchen table is covered in marker caps and paper scraps. He gathers the last stack of worksheets into neat piles before you can even reach for them.

“You’re weirdly good at this.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you prop your elbow on the table and rest your chin against your knuckles.

Bucky glances up from the papers. “You let me into your world,” he says simply. “Figured I should learn it too.”

He never expected you to abandon pieces of yourself to fit into his life more easily. Instead, he stepped gently into yours, observing every detail with patience and the kind of love that makes ordinary mornings feel sacred without either of you even realizing it.

A strange heaviness weighs in your body on Thursday morning but Bucky is so warm, and still dozing beside you with one of his large hands resting on your stomach. So you yawn, lazily letting your eyes blink at the window just enough to not abandon that pleasant, fuzzy state of drowsiness. But then they accidentally land on the clock on your nightstand and the realization is like electricity in your veins.

“Oh no.”

The words catch painfully in your throat while you scramble upright so fast the mattress shifts violently beneath you.

“No, no, no, no—”

Bucky wakes with a jolt at the desperation in your voice, his brows pulling together while he pushes himself up on one elbow, still heavy with sleep but already alert.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

You are throwing the blankets aside, heart hammering painfully while you frantically open your closet. “I’m so fucking late.”

He glances once toward the clock and sits up fully.

“Okay.” He says calmly, rubbing one hand briefly over his face before standing. “Hey, sweetheart. You need to breathe.”

But your thoughts pile over each other in a chaotic succession to acknowledge the note of seriousness tinging his voice. Stumbling around your bedroom, you mentally list everything waiting for you at school, and fuck! You still need to print the spelling worksheets—

Suddenly your chest feels too tight for your lungs.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you whine shakily while yanking open dresser drawers with far more force than necessary. “Why didn’t my alarm go off?”

Bucky watches you for approximately three seconds before deciding this has gone on long enough.

“Sweetheart.”

You barely hear him.

“Where are my tights? Fuck—”

The sound of your name in his low voice is like an arm dragging you out of the fog. You look up just in time to see him step directly into your path, his palms settling carefully on your upper arms before your nervous pacing can continue.

“Sit down for me.”

The words are not sharp, but there is enough firmness in his voice that your body pauses anyway.

“I don’t have time to sit down.” You argue weakly, still breathless.

“You got thirty seconds.”

“Bucky—”

“Thirty.” His thumbs stroke once over your arms. “Then you can go back to panicking all you want.”

And somehow, despite yourself, a tiny startled laugh almost escapes your throat. Your spiraling does not scare him, he has already decided he can handle it.

Reluctantly, you fall back on the edge of the bed, your right knee already bouncing anxiously. Meanwhile, your boyfriend moves around the room with military efficiency despite being startled awake not even five minutes ago, opening drawers you left hanging crooked and pulling out clothes with far more success than you had managed one minute earlier.

“This sweater okay?” He asks, holding up the brown-colored knit you wear most often to school.

You nod quickly. “Yeah.”

“What about bottoms?”

“The dark jeans. Not the—no, the other ones.”

A sleepy smile pulls at his mouth. “Doll, you own six pairs of those.”

“They’re different.”

“Mhm. I’m learning.”

He lays the clothes neatly beside you before his eyes meet yours.

“I’ll get the shower running.” You are already half-way up but he stops you promptly with a hand on your shoulder. “You stay put for one minute and focus on your breathing.”

Your body slumps back on the mattress dejected. “I don’t have one minute.”

“You do,” he calls back over the hallway. “You just decided you don’t.”

And annoyingly enough, hearing him say that steadies your heartbeat embarrassingly fast. Bucky never meets your panic with more panic, but with this quiet expectation that life will go on if you slow down to take a breath.

By the time you finally hurry into the kitchen twenty minutes later, still trying to button one sleeve, you stop short at the familiar sizzling of the pan. Bucky is standing near the stove in grey sweatpants and an old dark henley, hair still messy from sleep and posture relaxed while he slides scrambled eggs onto a plate.

“Sit.” He says after spotting you hovering on the threshold.

“Bucky—”

He turns toward you fully then, watching you with that deeply patient expression of his.

“C’mere.”

You comply with a sigh as he slides the plate in front of you alongside a toast, some jam and a travel mug of coffee already prepared exactly the way you like it.

“You need protein.”

You massage your temples to soothe the impending headache. “I’m gonna be late.”

“You’re already late,” he points out calmly, leaning against the counter. “Now, you can either be late and fed or late and miserable.”

You stare at him and he promptly raises one eyebrow. “You done fighting me on this or you got another argument ready?”

That finally pulls a reluctant laugh from you. “You’re bossy in the morning.”

He shrugs easily, now understanding why you arrive home every afternoon looking like somebody has been ruthlessly peeling pieces off you since sunrise.

He then helps without making a performance out of it. Your coat appears folded neatly over a chair, and your keys get placed directly beside your coffee as you try to eat faster. When your lunch bag nearly gets forgotten on the kitchen counter, Bucky simply hooks two fingers through the strap and places it near your coat.

“Every morning you skitter through this part like a startled little thing.” He murmurs eventually.

Your answer is a tired sigh. “Because I’m always running behind.”

“Nah,” he corrects gently, stepping behind your chair to put his hands over your shoulders and press a kiss to your temple. “You just got it in your head that if you ain’t running yourself ragged, you’re not working hard enough.”

The words hit uncomfortably close to home, leaving you staring down at your empty plate in silence. Bucky promptly kneels beside you, intertwining his fingers with yours.

“You hear what I’m saying, princess?” He mumbles softly.

“A little.” You nod reluctantly.

“You don’t gotta earn rest by wearing yourself thin.”

Your throat tightens unexpectedly, not used to have your exhaustion treated like something deserving tenderness instead of expectation. Before the moment can settle too heavily inside you though, Bucky glances toward your bag where papers are sticking halfway out.

“You got everything?”

You finally look up, straightening just a little. “I think so.”

“That usually means no.”

You groan softly. “Please don’t start.”

He chuckles under his breath before walking over to the bag for a checkup, clearly having observed this exact routine unravel before. Within seconds, he pulls out your half-empty water bottle.

“You forgot to fill this.”

“Oh.” You frown.

“And your portable charger.”

“Oh.” Your shoulders slump.

“And doll?” His eyes lift to you knowingly while he holds up the folder with all the notes for your lesson currently bent sideways. “This thing’s fighting for its life.”

Exasperated, you hide your face behind your hands while he fixes the folder carefully before zipping everything properly closed. But the bag is too full and when your fingers close around the handle a few minutes later, the zipper gives away anyway, and frustration spikes sharply enough that your eyes sting.

“Why won’t this stupid thing—”

Before you can fight with it further, Bucky steps in and takes the bag from your hands. One smooth motion and the zipper slides perfectly into place.

“There.”

Your entire nervous system settles slightly from that tiny act alone.

You finally make it to the front door—still flustered, still behind schedule, still trying to mentally catch up with the day waiting outside. But you are no longer drowning in it.

You grab your car keys, expecting some hurried goodbye while Bucky cleans the kitchen. Instead, he is standing directly in front of the door, and without a word, his hands reach down and fix your collar where it folded awkwardly.

“Text me when you get there.”

“I will.” His eyes search your face for another moment, cradling it between his warm palms.

“You did good.”

You stare at him incredulously. “I overslept by almost an hour.”

“And you still got up,” Bucky comments simply. “Still got dressed. Still ate breakfast. Still remembered your stuff. That’s what matters, baby.”

He never measures your worth through perfection, only through effort. Through whether or not you are being gentle enough with yourself while surviving difficult days.

He leaves a long kiss on your forehead, completely unbothered by the clock ticking loudly behind you.

“Now go teach your little gremlins.”

“They’re not gremlins.” You roll your eyes fondly.

His left eyebrow raises in skepticism. “One of ’em tried to lick glue yesterday.”

“He said he wanted to know if it tasted like blueberries because the bottle was blue.” You mumble defensively.

“Mhm.” He presses one last kiss to your lips. “Tiny gremlins.”

You shake your head, chuckling as you reach for the door. And while walking to your car, you realize with pleasant surprise that your breathing is a little steadier. Controlled. Because Bucky stood beside your panic and refused to let it carry you away.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU ARGUE FOR THE FIRST TIME Pickup was already chaotic: one of the first graders had burst into tears after losing her glitter-covered pencil somewhere near the cubbies, a little boy had refused to put on his raincoat because he insisted it was “for babies,” and by the time the middle school students started flooding the shared hallway, you already felt like hiding beneath your blanket and sleeping for two days.

That’s when the shouting starts—two eighth graders near the front doors, chest-to-chest, yelling loud enough to make half the younger kids stop in place.

You don’t even think before stepping in.

“Hey!” You call sharply, moving between them before either could swing properly. “That’s enough.”

One of them backs off immediately. The other glares at you. He is taller by several inches, angry in the ugly, reckless way teenagers sometimes become when they realize they can intimidate adults physically now. His face twists the second you tell him to step away from the younger students.

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I absolutely can,” you answer promptly, trying to keep your voice collected because several of your students are staring with huge frightened eyes. “Go cool off in one of the classrooms.”

He laughs, a sharp and bitter sound, before stepping closer.

“You think because you teach stupid little kids that you can boss everybody around?”

You ignore that part. “Watch your language.”

That only makes him angrier. “You gonna write me up?” He mocks. “Go teach somebody the alphabet or something.”

He starts talking over you, muttering insults under his breath, waving his hands too close to your face while you try to de-escalate things without frightening your students more than they already are.

And then Bucky walks in. He has come to pick you up because your car is still at the mechanic after the tire issue earlier that week. The second he steps through the school doors and sees some teenage boy towering over you while a crowd of scared children has shrunk back against the wall, something in him visibly sharpens.

Once the boy swings one hand again while barking the umpteenth insult aimed at you, too close to your shoulder this time, Bucky is there in seconds.

“That’s enough.”

His voice cuts through the noise so coldly that even the younger kids go quiet.

The boy freezes. Honestly, anybody would in front of a six-foot-something man wearing rough work clothes still dusted faintly from the farm, and a face that rarely softens around strangers.

“You’re done yelling at her, and you better start showing some respect to your teachers.” He continues evenly. “You understand me?”

The boy mutters something under his breath about you not being his teacher, prompting Bucky to take a step closer. The younger snaps his head up, before taking a step back.

“Try again.”

Silence.

Then finally, begrudgingly, “Yes, sir.”

The principal arrives not even a minute later after hearing the commotion, quickly pulling the boy away while apologizing profusely to you both, and the altercation ends as quickly as it started. At least physically. Emotionally, it’s heavy as a boulder on your shoulders, because the entire drive home, Bucky is quieter than usual, so tense that you feel the need to tentatively reach for the handle at your side and roll down the car window for some fresh air.

His hand still rests on your thigh, he still opens your door, and asks if you have eaten. But there is something bothering him underneath all of it. And eventually, while he is cooking dinner later that evening, it finally surfaces.

“You shouldn’t have stepped between them like that.”

You look up from where you are sitting at the kitchen island grading some assignments. “What?”

Bucky keeps stirring something in the pan, shoulders tight beneath his henley. “He was bigger than you,” he continues carefully. “And he was already angry.”

“He’s a kid.”

“He’s fifteen.”

“He’s still a student.”

His jaw clenches briefly. “And if he had hit you?”

With a slow sigh, you decide to put your pen down—these are all signs that you are not getting out of this conversation anytime soon. 

“He wasn’t going to, I had it under control.” You rebut tiredly.

“Didn’t look like you did.”

The second those words leave his mouth, something ugly inside your chest twists painfully. His voice is controlled, far from cruel, but those words feel like a knife ruthlessly stabbing an old scar that refuses to heal properly. And suddenly, you are twenty-two again, standing in your parents’ kitchen while your mom frowns at your teaching degree paperwork.

Teaching little kids? What are you gonna do with that?

You’re wasting your time, this won’t pay bills.

“Well, I handled it anyway.” You look back at the paper in front of you, quietly.

Bucky exhales through his nose, still focused on the stove. 

“Sweetheart, I know you were trying to help, but—”

“I did help.” You frown at his back.

“You can’t just jump between two angry teenagers.”

“I’m a teacher.”

“And I’m saying you don’t gotta throw yourself in front of people to prove that.”

That one hurts too. It tastes like doubt, criticism... disappointment.

“I know how to do my job.” You croak out.

Bucky finally turns then, brows drawn slightly.

“I didn’t say you don’t.”

But his voice is firmer now, frustration slipping through the cracks of his apparent composure despite himself, and when he gestures with the wooden spoon in his hand, his tone rises just enough to make you flinch before you can stop it. The movement is barely noticeable, more out of surprise than anything. Except Bucky freezes.

You don’t even realize your eyes have dropped somewhere on the counter in front of you until his voice changes completely.

“Sweetheart.” A soft, tentative sound, but you are already shaking your head.

“It’s okay.” Your voice sounds wrong and dismissive even to you and Bucky’s expression shifts into painful realization.

He sets the spoon down without another word, turns off the stove, then gingerly walks toward, still keeping his distance so you won’t feel cornered.

“C’mere a second, baby.”

You hesitate, because your body already knows the shape arguments are supposed to take, even if your mind is trying to remind itself that this is your Bucky. Your Jamie.

Still, somewhere deep inside you, disagreement has tied to punishment long ago, to that awful tightening in the air that used to settle over rooms after somebody got upset. You are used to conversations turning cold the second emotions become inconvenient; to silence stretching for hours or even days because you were the one expected to smooth everything over—apologize first, speak softer, take up less space. Growing up, anger always came with withdrawal attached to it. Simple disagreements morphed into slammed cabinets and heavy sighs and someone suddenly acting as though your mere presence had become irritating. And even though Bucky has never treated you that way, your instincts still brace for him to go quiet in that unbearable way that turns a home into a suffocating prison.

But his hand rests on your back as it gently guides you toward the couch, settling beside you but still leaving enough room to breathe. Bucky does not like the way you move cautiously around him, the way you slowly lower yourself onto the same couch that has held you both through late-night talks that stretched until early morning, and movie nights that ended in soft, unhurried kisses.

“We’re not doing silence, okay?”

Your eyes fall on the floor. “I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.” His voice stays gentle. “You started disappearing on me halfway through that conversation.”

“I was listening.” You stare at your fingers fidgeting on your thighs. 

“No, angel.” He shakes his head once, his eyes never once straying away from you. “You got quiet because you thought I was gonna turn into somebody I’m not.”

The stinging pressure behind your eyes becomes unbearable. Bucky braces his forearms on his thighs, leaning forward with a slow exhale instead of pressing closer.

“I’m not mad at you.” He adds in a whisper. “I was worried for you.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I know.”

“Do you?” His tone is impossibly feeble now, because suddenly this is not about the hallway anymore, but a habit that was acquired through mortification and fear. Bucky studies your face for another second before speaking again.

“Ain’t no reason for you to be scared to talk back to me, sweetheart.” His brows pinch faintly. “And if I say something that hurts you, I need you to tell me.”

You let out a shaky breath, your voice coming out weaker than you intend to. “It wasn’t just that.”

Bucky straightens at once at the first crack in your armor, unconsciously getting closer. 

“Then help me understand.”

Eventually, with trembling hands and wet eyes, you open up. About your mom and how every time you came home exhausted during your first teaching year, she would look at you like you were failing at life itself. About how your dad used to scoff whenever you talked about your students, because “Teaching kids how to write their name isn’t a real career”. About how even the tiniest mistake sounded like proof you were incapable.

And the more you speak, the worse Bucky looks. By the time you finish talking, it feels like a weight has finally been removed off your chest, yet he looks genuinely sick with guilt.

“Baby,” he mumbles, reaching for your hand. “I wasn’t doubting you. I would never do that.”

You shrug weakly. “I know you weren’t trying to.”

“But I still made you feel that way.”

That’s what finally breaks you, because he’s not defending himself, nor minimizing it.

Tears spill before you can stop them, and your Bucky is already there with open arms to catch you.

“C’mere, babygirl.”

You climb into his lap without hesitation, burying your face against his neck as his arms wrap around you securely. One large hand slides slowly up and down your back, and you try really hard to swallow down your sobs, but you only end up making a bigger mess of his shirt.

“I’m so sorry, princess.” He whispers against your temple. “And I should never’ve raised my voice at you.”

“You weren’t yelling.” You answer shakily.

“You still flinched.”

The shame in his voice makes your heart ache. His hold tightens around you instinctively at your whimper.

“I wasn’t angry at you.” He mumbles urgently. “I was angry at the whole damn situation. At that kid thinking he could talk to you like that after nearly starting a fight in front of your students.” His jaw tightens briefly before he continues. “Couldn’t stand there listening to some mouthy little bastard trying to scare you in front of those little kids.”

Your eyes close in sorrow as the image of their startled faces comes back cruel and still fresh. 

“They were terrified.” You sniffle and his arms squeeze you just a little tighter. 

“I know why you stepped in.” he sighs. “You love those kids like they’re your own for eight hours every damn day, and you can’t stand the idea of any of ’em feeling helpless in a place that’s supposed to be safe.” His palms cradle your cheeks to slowly coax you out of his chest, the urge to see you so strong it pulls hard at his heart. 

“You walk into that school every morning and spend your whole day teaching them how to read and write and believe in themselves. And you’re so fucking good at that, angel. You teach ’em how to be brave enough to admit when they don’t understand something. How to speak up without being scared of failing. How to be kind with each other when the world already gives them enough reasons not to be.” A faint, helpless sort of admiration softens his face then, like he still can’t believe he gets to love and be loved by someone as precious as you. 

Your lips shake as you give him a pained smile, tears still sliding relentlessly down your cheeks.

“Years from now those kids probably won’t remember every worksheet you gave ’em, but they’ll remember how you were patient with ’em. That you listened.” His teeth clench when his voice wavers a little. 

“So yeah, I know exactly why you did that. But that boy still thought he could stand there and talk to you like you were nothing.” He exhales slowly, forehead leaning against yours. “And baby… I got scared too.”

Your chest heaves, something akin to panic swirling in your stomach, because you have never seen your boyfriend look so devastated.

“You matter to me more than being right in an argument,” the words come out rough, his throat working hard around the tight knot lodged there. “So if I get scared and it comes out wrong sometimes, I need you to remember it’s only because the thought of something happening to you tears me apart.”

You nod slowly before folding yourself back against him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you bury your face in the warmth of his chest. And then you simply exist together for a long while, curled into him with your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt while his strong arms hold you safely close to his heart.

The living room has gone quiet around you, the stove forgotten for the moment, as your breathing gradually evens out. He is the one who breaks the silence first, clearing his throat lightly as his lips brush your forehead.

“We’re gonna argue sometimes,” he murmurs carefully, almost reluctantly, like the thought alone upsets him as well. “I can’t promise we’ll never get frustrated with each other.”

Your arms tighten around him at that.

“What I can promise you,” he continues softly, pulling back just enough to look at you properly, one hand coming up to cup your jaw with impossible tenderness. “Is that I’m not gonna stop loving you when things get hard.”

A fresh set of tears settles at the corners of your eyes, because that’s the part you never learned growing up—that the love of the people close to you was not supposed to be conditional.

Bucky’s thumb brushes beneath your eye. “And I’m really, really sorry, sweetheart.” His voice full of genuine regret. “I hate that I made you feel small for even a second.”

You shake your head urgently, not liking his expression. “You didn’t mean to, Jamie.”

“Yet I still did it.” He shifts slightly beneath you then, settling you more comfortably against his chest before continuing quietly.

“Next time one of us gets too worked up, we stop.” His tone is thoughtful now, already trying to build something safer for you with his bare hands. “Nobody keeps pushing the conversation just to win it. We sit down, we breathe, maybe hold each other if that’s what you need, and then we talk when it actually feels like us again instead of our anger. How’s that sound?”

You nod eagerly, before letting out the tiniest watery chuckle against his shoulder.

“That sounds very therapist of you.”

Bucky huffs a soft laugh of his own through his nose. “Probably because I’m thinking real hard how I never wanna be the reason my girl cries like this again.”

A sob threatens to spill out at the pain beneath his words, so you press your face against his neck insistently—as if that could physically stop your own anguish. Bucky plants a gentle kiss on your temple.

“And if I ever get loud again,” he continues with quiet embarrassment, brows pinching in guilt. “You tell me straight away, okay? There are no excuses for it. Don’t sit there holding it on your own while I’m thinking everything’s fine.”

You nod slowly. “I can do that.”

“Promise?” He mumbles, teasingly pushing the tip of his nose against yours.

“Promise.” You leave a tiny peck on the corner of his mouth and only then does some of the tension finally leave him.

His hand slides upwards, fingertips scratching lightly at your scalp just how you like, a soft sigh escaping him at the feeling of your body melting against his. 

“You okay now, babygirl?” The whispered question comes out so sweetly, so sincerely worried, that it nearly brings you to tears all over again.

He gets a simple nod as an answer, and that’s enough for him to understand you are still quite overwhelmed to communicate with words. Bucky considers your body for a moment, his eyes moving carefully over you like he needs to be absolutely certain before he believes it. Your shoulders are no longer drawn up near your ears, and your hands have loosened, clutching lightly at his shirt instead of gripping it desperately. Your breathing has finally settled as well, slower and steadier against his chest. Even your eyes have lost their heat, no longer shiny with panic but tired and present in the moment. Only when he seems fully convinced that you are no longer bracing for something awful to happen does his expression finally ease.

“I got you,” he murmurs quietly against your forehead. “Even when we get things wrong, I still got you.”

Later that night, long after your chagrin has faded and dinner has finally been eaten cold straight from reheated plates, you lie on him with your ear resting directly over his heartbeat. Usually Bucky melts into the sheets whenever you cuddle him like this. Tonight, he stays strangely rigid beneath you.

Lifting your head slightly, you look at his handsome features kissed by the dim, warm light coming from the lamp on his nightstand.

“Jamie?” His fingers pause where they have been tracing absently along your spine, eyes fixed emptily on the TV screen.

“Hm?” He blinks once, hastily turning toward you, like your voice had suddenly pulled him out of whatever thought he had disappeared into.

“You alright?”

The silence that stretches afterward allows anxiety to creep onto the edge of your ribs, before he carefully maneuvers the both of you so you are lying on your sides, facing each other.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Always.” His jaw clenches before he meets your eyes.

“Were you scared of me?”

You almost flinch back. “What?”

“Tonight.” He grunts, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Or before. At any point.”

You stare at him in genuine disbelief. “Bucky—”

“I know I ain’t exactly…” He huffs. “Mr. Friendly with strangers.”

You snort softly because the statement sounds so painfully sincere.

“I’m serious, doll.” His gaze absently lands somewhere on your collarbone. “Most people think I’m angry before I even open my mouth.”

You frown at the tinge of sadness in his voice.

“And then tonight happened,” he continues quietly. “You flinched when I raised my voice and—”

“That wasn’t because of you.” You quickly correct him.

“But I can’t stand that your body reacted like that around me.”

You push yourself upward, cupping his face between your hands until he finally looks at you properly. “James Buchanan Barnes,” you whisper solemnly. “I have never been scared of you. And never will.”

His expression softens at the full name.

“You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel safe.” His eyes still refuse to meet yours, but from the blush settling high on his cheeks, you reckon it’s out of shyness rather than bitter insecurity.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” He shakes his head once. “I see a good,” you murmur softly. “Gentle, patient man.” Your voice lowers even further at that, warmth blooming through your chest when he finally looks at you. 

“You always reach for my hand before we cross a street without even thinking about it. You remember which side of the bed I sleep better on; you peel oranges for me because you know I hate the smell on my fingers, and you always turn the porch light on before I get to your house so I never have to walk up in the dark alone.” An adoring grin tugs at your mouth then. “You look at me like I’m the prettiest girl in the world. All the time—even when I’m exhausted and cranky and covered in glitter glue from school projects.” 

“So no, Bucky. I don’t think there’s anything about you to be scared of.” You sigh dreamily, lying back down. “You’re my Jamie.”

He swallows hard, jaw tightening for a moment as he fights for control over the tears threatening to spill.

“I love you.” He whispers abruptly, like he can’t hold it back anymore.

Your breath hitches, and then your smile breaks open so wide your cheeks start to ache. “I love you too, Jamie.”

The second the words leave your mouth, Bucky is pulling you over him for a feverish kiss that steals the oxygen from your burning lungs.

That night, he carefully rolls until he’s the one resting on your chest, his arms locked securely around your waist. And for the first time in your life, disagreement ends with someone offering silence as a space to settle instead of weaponizing it.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN HE THINKS ABOUT FOREVER You are sitting with crossed legs on the couch in one of Bucky’s flannels and thick socks, Alpine dramatically sprawled on your lap as one tiny paw stretches lazily beneath your chin. Her purring is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs every time your fingers drag slowly through her white fur. She arrived in the middle of January wrapped inside one of Bucky’s old flannels, small enough that at first you mistook her for some white bundle of fabric against his chest. You still remember the way he had stepped through the front door that evening with rainwater clinging to the shoulders of his jacket and damp locks at the nape of his neck, one large hand carefully cupped beneath the trembling kitten like he was afraid she might dissolve if he held her too tightly.

“Found her near the south fence,” he had explained quietly while you fretted over them, your heart already breaking at the sight of the little thing. “No collar. Could barely stop shivering to eat.”

Alpine had looked miserable then, all wide blue eyes and soaked fur, but the second you reached for her, she had pushed her tiny face straight into your palm with a desperate little squeak that made Bucky huff a soft laugh. And that was it for you.

Months later, Alpine rules the farmhouse like she personally pays the mortgage. She follows Bucky everywhere when he is home, winding around his boots while he cooks or trying to climb directly into his lap whenever he sits down for more than five minutes. But with you she turns even softer, almost spoiled in the way she melts instantly against your affection. The moment you walk through the front door, she is meowing to be picked up, trotting across the hardwood floors before you even have time to take your shoes off. Sometimes she is eagerly waiting on the back of the couch like she somehow heard your car turn into Bucky’s lane.

He pretends to find it deeply offensive.

“Think she likes you more’n me now.” He had grumbled once while watching Alpine stretch shamelessly in your arms instead of his. You laughed, finding him extremely adorable.

“She sees you every day.”

“Exactly,” he had replied, narrowing his eyes at the cat like she had personally betrayed him. “And apparently that means nothing anymore.”

Tonight is no different.

“There’s my pretty girl,” you murmur as your hands delicately cradle her face. “Yes, there she is. Sweet baby.” Alpine answers by shoving her tiny face directly beneath your chin.

“Oh, you want more attention?” You gasp theatrically. “What a shocking development!”

From the doorway, Bucky watches the entire thing unfold in silence with the shadow of a fond smile lingering on his lips, one shoulder leaning against the frame separating the living room from the kitchen and thick arms crossed loosely over his chest. There is dirt still faintly smudged along one forearm from work outside, his flannel pushed up to his elbows, hair still slightly messy from where he dragged his fingers through it earlier. But all of that roughness fades beneath the look in his eyes. Because you are sitting there treating that tiny stray kitten like she hung the moon. Carefully kissing her head. Adjusting the blanket around her. Holding her with such tenderness, like this is the only language your body knows how to speak.

“Needy thing.” You murmur affectionately before pressing another kiss between her ears.

“You say that like you’re any better.”

The sound of Bucky’s teasing voice makes you glance up immediately. Alpine notices him too, her ears perking instantly before she lets out a tiny chirp of recognition. Still, she makes absolutely no attempt to leave your arms. The floor creaks softly beneath his boots as he finally pushes away from the doorway and walks toward the couch. You give him a sweet smile before your attention drops back to the kitten currently trying to chew on the sleeve hanging over your hand.

“Your daughter is biting me again.” Bucky snorts quietly as he lowers himself beside you, one arm immediately stretching around your shoulders.

“My daughter?” He repeats, pulling you closer. “That cat stopped being mine the second you started baby-talking her.”

“Mmh, that’s not true.”

“Princess, you carried her around this house for three hours yesterday because she sneezed once.”

You frown. “She was sick.”

“She had dust on her nose.”

You gasp softly in mock offense while Alpine flips onto her back, completely unconcerned with the argument happening over her custody. Bucky watches you scratch carefully beneath her chin, your entire face softening without restraint every time she purrs louder. Something in his chest pulls so hard it almost feels unfair, because you have no idea how gorgeous you look, and that he could stand there for hours just watching you pour your love out so freely.

Bucky reaches down then, scratching gently beneath Alpine’s chin until the kitten practically melts in your lap. “She sits in front of the door when you leave, y’know.”

Your eyebrows lift in surprise. “She does not.”

“Mhm.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Walks around crying for twenty minutes like her entire life just fell apart.”

“That’s dramatic.” You tell her with an exaggerated pout.

“Says the woman holding her like an actual infant.”

You look down instinctively. She has, in fact, moved to lie against your chest beneath the blanket with only her tiny head visible. “… Okay maybe a little.”

Bucky chuckles softly, the sound settling warm and deep inside your chest. You eventually notice his silence as somewhere deeper in the house the dryer hums low and steady. The air smells faintly like coffee and detergent and the water lily and sheer musk candle you lit earlier before sunset. When Alpine decides it’s time for the second round against the buttons of the flannel, your smile fades gradually as you become aware that Bucky’s still looking at you.

“What?” You ask softly. He blinks once like he has to pull himself back into the room.

“Nothing.” He murmurs automatically, though it’s very clearly not nothing.

Your eyes narrow a little. “James.”

His expression shifts then, softening even further until it almost looks thoughtful, his gaze drifting toward Alpine.

“I keep picturing something,” he breathes out absently. “Not in a big, dramatic way. Just… small things stacked together.”

Your breath catches quietly.

“Waking up,” he continues, almost like he can see it somewhere in front of him. “And not having to rush outta bed right away. Coffee that gets cold because neither of us remembers it’s there. A kitchen that’s too full of noise for how early it is.” His frame moves with the faint breath of amusement that slips through his lips, but it never breaks the softness of the moment.

“And coming home at the end of the day knowing it doesn’t matter how it went out there,” he adds more quietly, finally meeting your eyes. “Because there’s still you here.”

You can barely breathe now, your heart doing a strange little stutter. He says it so easily. Like these thoughts have existed inside him for a long time already. Like he’s visited them before and kept coming back to them over and over again.

Bucky shifts slightly closer on the couch without even seeming aware he is doing it, his free hand settling warm on your knee, his thumb brushing back and forth on your bare skin.

“I don’t know all the details yet,” he whispers, eyes moving from your eyes to your lips. “But I know it keeps coming back to the same thing. You being here. That’s the part my mind doesn’t change.”

Bucky leans closer until his forehead finally rests against yours. “If someday you decide you want kids, I’ll build something bigger for us. A place with too much noise, toys everywhere and muddy boots by the front door.” His smile grows almost boyishly giddy now, soft laughter warming his words. “Maybe a little boy with your eyes... and a little girl with your smile.”

Your chest rises sharply, your love for this sweet man soaring so suddenly in your heart it almost hurts. Tears burn hot behind your eyes before you can stop them.

“And if you don’t want that,” he continues gently, certain that every path still leads to you anyway. “Then we’ll keep the farmhouse just the way it is and spoil every animal we’ve got. Those damn ducks already act like they’re running the place anyway.” A watery laugh escapes you despite the lump in your throat, and Bucky smiles at the sound, his nose brushing lightly against yours.

“You wanna travel? We’ll travel. You wanna stay here forever teaching little ones while I complain about tractors and rain?” His hand squeezes your knee once. “Fine too.” Then the teasing fades from his expression entirely.

“Any future is right if you’re in it.”

Your vision blurs completely to the point a few small tears escape anyway, Bucky reaching up almost instinctively with his rough thumb to carefully brush away the wetness beneath one eye.

“I love you,” he whispers, thick with emotion. “I just need you.”

You stare at him for one helpless second before you finally cup his face.

“I love you too, Jamie.” You manage shakily, chuckling at how wobbly your voice must sound.

And yet, you couldn’t care less, because his lips are on yours—soft, reverent. One hand moves on your waist while the last rays of sunset spill warm gold across the walls around you.

Alpine promptly puts her front paws on your chest halfway through like she refuses to be excluded from this sweet moment. You feel Bucky laugh gently against your mouth at the feeling of fur brushing against his neck, but even then, he stays close enough that your foreheads still touch.

“Everything else,” he murmurs quietly, like a promise made as much to himself as to you. “Can figure itself out around that.”

END NOTES: as I mentioned in another post, nowadays it’s hard to find someone who is willing to put real effort into a relationship, but with this story I wanted to focus on the more positive side of dating—especially how someone like this reader, kinda insecure and with little relationship experience, might navigate certain situations for the first time + the degree of trust it takes to let yourself be vulnerable for the first time with someone. honestly there was so much more that I wanted to write, but because of the 1000 blocks limit, I had to cut out many scenes, shorten the smutty parts and make longer paragraphs (hope it doesn't look bad). I also intend to further explore the non-sexual d/s dynamic in other stories, because this one-shot was just a collection of moments so I thought it'd be better to keep it pretty tame. what was your favorite moment 🥰? thank you so much for reading 💕

that twisting in your stomach becomes stronger, and you immediately pull out your phone, finding toji's contact and dialing it fast. you press the phone to your ear, feeling a bit nervous as it rings and rings. it's fine, it's fine. he's probably out or went to w—

your spine stiffens when you hear the ring from the coffee table. toji's basic ass ringtone you've begged him to change a million times before.

his phone's there on the table, and something in your gut tells you that he didn't forget it on accident. you cut the call on your phone, picking up his and turning the screen on. his lockscreen is a picture of your small potted succulent—the one that's currently sitting on your windowsill. why he made it his lockscreen, you never bothered to ask.

but you don't have time to dwell on any of that, because there's a note on the table, set deliberately under the phone.

even before you read it, you can feel your stomach plummet.

"thanks. for all of it. don't wait up for me."

for a second you don't believe it, and you try to convince yourself it's a hallucination of some sort by reading it over and over again. ten short words scrawled across a half ripped slip of paper. it's cold, almost like a business transaction, and you can't quite describe what runs through your mind.

on the table he's not only left his phone, but also his last paycheck and his set of keys to the apartment. it's icy, and cruel, and you try to tell your brain that it is inherently toji—the same toji who bared his teeth and snipped at you that night in the alleyway by your house.

you huff out a disbelieving laugh, one that has zero mirth, and stand there like a fool. your mind jumps from place to place, trying to think of a solution as it takes over in frenzied panic.

you're out the door without shoes on, feet cold against the pavement as your gaze darts down both sides of the street like you're expecting to see his hulking figure and tail. when that's unsuccessful, you stumble back into your house and stupidly try calling him again, only to curse loudly when his phone buzzes mockingly on the table once more.

it takes you a good thirty minutes to actually process that he's left no way to contact him. no second notes, no hints around your apartment. it's like he's completely erased his presence from your life. you feel hysterical running around your home trying to figure out what he's done and why he's gone.

a part of you is trying to calm your brain by saying he wouldn't go just like that, coming up with all sorts of excuses that don't hold enough weight by the end of your spiraling. but after a couple of hours of radio silence, it becomes clear that toji isn't just gonna walk through the front door.

there's no way he would just leave without saying anything to you. and even if he did, it's not like he could've gone far… right?

and that's how you find yourself standing at a bustling construction site, the sounds of barked orders and clanging steel in your ears. you feel oddly out place surrounded by these hulking workers hefting materials around.

"can i help you, miss?"

the man is older, graying hair at the temples and crow's feet pronounced. he's looking at you inquisitively, clipboard balanced in his calloused palm. you clear your throat awkwardly.

"yes, hi. i was just wondering if you've seen toji recently? i'm his—uh, we're friends and he hasn't been home in a few days so i was wondering…"

the old man frowns thoughtfully. "no ma'am. toji came by a week ago and requested a site transfer form. he hasn't come back here in a few days. i assumed he was moving, so i didn't really question it much. that bastard was always so secretive."

your stomach sinks with each word, panic curling around your lungs. there's no way he actually just left. the old man pauses to study you, before grinning good naturedly as realization flicks over his face. "hey whaddya know? that asshole really did have a girl he liked back home!"

and hearing that just makes you feel sicker.

the next couple days, you go anywhere you can think toji might be. nanami pats your shoulder with a comforting frown, telling you he hasn't seen toji but he'll keep an eye out and call if he does. the old man at the convenience store asks you where your grumpy dog friend is when you go in to buy a snack, to which you can't even think up answer.

and now …

you're trying hard not to cry as you stand in front of shoko's apartment door. it's honestly the last place you can think of—just because you remember telling toji that shoko had offered her place as a hiding spot in case things ever went south.

as soon as she opens the door, you're babbling to her, tears stinging at your lashes as you tell her he's gone and you have no idea where. she's trying to shush you, holding your hands tight and the dip in her brows deepening further at your distraught expression.

you're briefly distracted by the sight of a head popping up behind her—white hair that easily masks the white spotted ears atop his head. you pause your rambling awkwardly, gaze trained on the striking cerulean gaze and otherworldly gorgeous features contorted in a defensive scowl. he presses close against shoko's back, ears pinned out in a way that you recognize as threatening—toji used to do the same.

"what are you doing—?" shoko glances behind her, her own dark ears flicking at the sound of him.

the hybrid—a snow leopard, you realize now—wrinkles his nose pointedly, intense blue eyes trained on you. "smells like pure distress," he huffs, glancing at her. "just wanted to make sure you're good."

"i'm good, idiot." shoko rolls her eyes, nudging him back and drawing you into her apartment. the snow leopard watches you warily, thick spotted tail thrashing behind him. "this is my friend from work. the one with the wolf i told you guys about?"

the hybrid's eyes flicker with recognition, and shoko introduces the two of you quickly. satoru, you learn, is the snow leopard hybrid who was previously owned by flashy rich socialites who kept him for display—the same one shoko had allowed into her home a few months ago.

she guides you into her place, and in that time the other hybrid she spoke of joins the group—the panther. suguru, his name was, with his beautiful, dark features and slowly flicking tail. they both sit next to shoko on the couch, and you can tell they're wary of you. you can't blame them—after all, their pasts weren't that far off from toji's.

shoko does her best to shut them up and lets you explain, and you do so to the best of your ability, trying hard not to cry. you trust her enough to tell her about the murders, about the cops, about toji's fear of being thrown back in that cursed place, and about his disappearance. the three cat hybrids listen carefully, silent.

finally shoko heaves a heavy sigh. "jeez… that's…" she shakes her head sadly. "sorry babe. he hasn't come by here. and i haven't seen him lurking around or anything."

you put your face in your palms, shoulders drawn tight. "my god… what was he thinking, running away like that…? he didn't even tell me anything."

suguru clears his throat, before murmuring, "i mean i don't… really blame him."

you glance up, and the panther continues with a sympathetic frown. "the guy had a lot to be scared of. it's one thing to escape that place—" he rubs a palm over his neck absentmindedly. there you can see his numbers branded in dark ink: 0203. "—but coming out and then having to hide because you murdered some pretty famous people must've stressed him out. plus i doubt he wanted to, you know, get you in trouble."

your heart splinters at the thought—the thought that toji might've ran away because of you. "i… never wanted him to feel like he had to constantly live in fear," you say miserably.

"i doubt that's something he could avoid." suguru leans back into the couch, arms crossing over his chest. "he ran away from underground—he was always gonna be looking over his shoulder."

"is that how it is for you?" you ask him with a rueful frown. the panther's face goes carefully neutral, eyes flicking over to shoko, who nods reassuringly. he looks back at you and heaves a sigh.

"i'm… a little bit different." suguru admits, scratching one of his dark ears tensely. "i didn't exactly run away—well i did but… they actually sent me to be put down."

you can't keep the surprise out of your expression as he continues explaining.

"i'd been down there for years, and after one of my fights i just… lost it." his expression goes chillingly dark. "i hated the imbalance, hated that the humans who were so scared of hybrids were also there to watch us killing each other. i wanted them to know what it felt like. i wanted to get rid of the problem at its source—humans. so i killed about 15 guards."

your jaw slackens, but shoko and satoru just remain quietly resigned as suguru speaks.

"i'm sure your wolf friend has told you, but the penalty down there for killing even a single human is to put us down." suguru tongues his cheek as he recollects. "i managed to escape when they were taking me to the facility to be put down. i laid low for a while, but i never heard that they were looking for me. i suppose they figured i'd die on the streets—to them i was dead anyway. so they didn't put much effort into finding me."

the panther watches your reactions with strict attention. "your friend toji is different. from what you say, he was a big money maker. no wonder he was so freaked about getting caught and sent back there—they'd actually want him back."

you mentally try to sort through the information, and the panther smirks wryly. "what? you scared now that you know i killed humans?"

despite yourself, you laugh, but it comes out pained and disheartened. "no not really—it sounds like they deserved it so i'm not really scared of you per se …" you huff out another scoff. "but who knows? toji always said i had shit survival instincts …"

shoko laughs quietly, sympathetically reaching forward to touch your knee. "i'm sure he'll be back. maybe he just wanted to leave until the heat dies down to keep you safe. and i doubt he went far. i have a feeling we'll find him. plus, from whatever you told me, it sounds like you both are pretty close."

"i'll say," satoru snorts, rolling his eyes. it's the first time he's spoken since you all sat down. "he's so obvious about it, and i haven't even met the guy."

shoko shoots him a warning glare, but you quirk a brow in confusion. "what do you mean?"

"you smell of him," satoru mutters, crossing his arms. his ears twitch in mild agitation, and your confusion doesn't wane.

"mhm, it looks like he's scented you," suguru comments lightly, tilting his head.

"yeah." satoru wrinkles his nose, ears flicking irritably. "reeks of dog."

you blink owlishly. you'd heard of scenting before but not in much detail. shoko seems to catch your hesitation and interjects quickly. "it's not bad! it's just a thing most hybrids do to people they're close to or care about—like family or really close friends or—"

"—a mate," satoru interrupts pointedly. shoko glares at him, and then smacks his head hard enough that he yowls at her. "what?! it's fucking true—!"

"point being … he clearly thought you were important enough to leave his scent on you," suguru placates, shrugging. "whatever it is, hybrids don't just scent random people. they do it when they wanna either protect or stake a claim."

your heart stutters embarrassingly, but you manage a nod, looking between the three cat hybrids. "well, thank you guys … i know you said you haven't seen him but if you do—"

"i'll call you asap." shoko smiles comfortingly, reaching out to squeeze your hand. "and the three of us will look around nearby too."

"thanks sho," you smile back, but it feels weak and forced. she seems to see the sadness in your expression as you stand up, because she gives you a side hug even though she's not the biggest fan of touch. you thank the three of them at the door, and shoko tells you she'll keep checking in on you, before letting you leave.

it feels like crap, for lack of better word, to leave unsuccessful in your endeavors. a part of you is so irritated at the stupid wolf hybrid. after all you did to bring him into your home, into your life, he fucking runs away. sure, you could understand his anxiousness, but that's something the two of you could have faced together… right?!

(it's almost embarrassing when you realize you'd be willing to throw everything away if it meant keeping toji at your side. you think that maybe that's far too selfish to be acceptable.)

a week passes, then two, then three. you spend your time searching, bugging your friends, hoping and praying that the grumpy wolf you've come to love shows his face again.

but he doesn't.

you're not prideful enough to hide the fact that it makes you miserable. even now, a month and a half later, it feels like you've barely smiled. you feel annoyed, upset, a little cheated, and far too worried about him.

but it seems like no matter how hard you search, toji doesn't want to be found.

a few weeks later, you head into a small cafe you and toji have frequented together before—run by a sweet elderly koala hybrid. not that you expected to see toji or anything, but a distraction from rotting in your apartment and feeling its emptiness was welcome.

you peruse the menu, order something decent, and chat with the old lady. when she notices toji's absence, you can only stammer out a flimsy excuse ("oh haha! he just went to visit his family for a few weeks!").

when you leave with your drink, you pass by one of her staff members who's sweeping the street outside. the only reason he catches your eye at first is because of his sheer size—it was hard to believe the sweet little lady you had just spoken to employed someone so dangerous looking at her quaint little coffee shop.

not that there was anything wrong with that. it was just an observation because… well, he was dangerous looking.

massive, hulking in a way that reminded you of toji, vibrant pink hair, and markings on his face that matched the black tiger stripes on his ears and tail.

you're about to look away when you catch sight of the numbers branded on his neck—1101. oh. so he's from underground too.

you don't mean to stare, but when he catches you looking, his temper seems to flare within a millisecond.

"what the fuck are you lookin' at?!" he snaps, claws extending and tightening around the broom he's holding. you take a step back warily as his tail puffs up. you were the last person to assume hybrids were scary, but this dude just seemed to not have the greatest temperament.

"sorry," you mumble, catching yourself and looking away. "you just remind me of someone i knew."

the tiger snorts, rolling his eyes. "whatever the fuck that means," he mutters, before going back to his work without giving you another glance. you clear your throat awkwardly, and start moving again.

but as you walk by him, he freezes. his scarlet eyes go wide, then narrow, and then a firm claw is snaking around your arm.

"hey—!" you start to protest, but he whirls you around to face him, a heated scowl on his face as his nostrils flare.

"where the fuck is he?"

"what?!" you balk, startled and more than a little freaked out. "what are you—?"

"that dumb shithead toji. i need to beat his ass for just taking off and leaving me to deal with that bastard shiu—"

but the rest of his words are lost on you. you hear the name toji and immediately lock in, grabbing the tiger's shoulders without any set of proper survival instincts. he snarls at the sudden intensity of your gaze, more confused than angered, and starts to curse, but you interrupt him resolutely.

"you know toji?!"

he curls his lip at you. "know him? that fucker has been annoying the shit out of me for years! i should kill him for fucking taking off without a word—"

"you came from there too?" you interrupt him, feeling a bit hysterical. "underground? have you seen him?"

your barrage of questions and the no doubt crazed look in your eyes seems to piss him off further.

"hold the fuck up, lady." the tiger tears you off of him with an irritated growl. "who the fuck are you anyway?"

you huff, irked at the lack of information, and he quirks a brow dangerously—half angry and half judgemental at your clear disregard for your own safety. you spend the next three minutes giving the tiger—sukuna, he called himself—a rundown of your time with toji. he mocks and laughs at your utter stupidity when you mention you just took toji in off the streets, but you're too eager for information or a connection to the damn wolf that you don't even care.

"well damn ..." sukuna smirks after you finish speaking, a sharp feline thing that would make anyone shit themselves. "that bastard really settled down with someone."

"oh no—" your cheeks warm unwittingly. "not like that, but you know, i do care about him. and now he's run off …"

sukuna's smirk drops into something more neutral, and he drags a rough palm over his chin. "well it's not like i've seen him. and the dick didn't leave any way to get in contact with him after he ran from that shithole."

you don't put much effort into keeping the disappointment out of your face, exhaling heavily. sukuna studies your face with something that looks like disinterest, but his eyes are focused and assessing. "… the guy's always been paranoid—always wanted to run."

"yeah i get it …" you rub your eyes wearily, changing the subject. "did you just escape?"

"few weeks ago," he grunts, smacking the end of the broom against the ground absentmindedly. "that fuckass dog ran, and a few of us decided to try the same thing."

he smiles sharply, thinking back. "after one of my regular fights, i killed a few human guards, which immediately got me sent to the slaughterhouse. ran from there—wasn't too hard. fuckin' idiots."

oh, you think back. the same way suguru had escaped.

"made it out and then didn't know what the fuck to do with myself. by the third night i was fucking starving, but then i bumped into that old hag." he juts his chin towards the sweet old koala padding around her coffee shop. "fed me, let me sleep inside. then said if i wanted a job, she needed someone to help her with heavy shit and all that …"

sukuna rolls his eyes, but there's no malice to it. "figured it's free cash until i can find a place …"

"makes sense. toji only waited a few weeks to let his wounds heal before he started working too …" you trail off at the thought, lips twisting sadly—gods above, you missed him so bad.

sukuna's lip curls, and he shifts a bit. "yeah well it's not like they treat us like royalty down there."

you glance up at him, gaze calculating as it drags over his face—his ears raise in a show of wary threat. "what?" he snaps.

"… are you? injured i mean …?"

he sneers at you, sharp teeth flashing irritatingly. "none of your goddamn business."

at this point you've dealt with toji's meanness, and on top of that you're pissed he left—so right now the angry scowl on this tiger's face isn't setting off any warning bells, so you continue speaking without a care. "scratches from your fights, maybe? toji had a bunch of those … took a few weeks to get better."

"fuck off," he grumbles, arm subconsciously tensing—guarding, you realize—and you sigh.

"it'll probably get infected, y'know? and then you'll suffer and die a horrible death," you say matter-of-factly, and he throws you an incredulous glare.

"dramatic much? don't you have places to fucking be?"

"just admit it and i'll leave you alone."

"fucking—!" he cuts himself off and yanks his sleeve up with a snarl, exposing a couple of deep gashes, still struggling to heal on their own. "you happy now? god, you're fucking annoying as shit!"

you're sure he has many more wounds across his body, and his anger isn't really phasing you for some reason (no survival instincts, toji had said to you), so you cross your arms and begin speaking.

"i have a doctor friend. he's a bear hybrid named kento nanami—i can give you the address. he helps out hybrids, especially strays and runaways. but specifically, he has a human assistant who can help y—"

"you're crazy. i'm not asking for help from a damn human," sukuna growls, lip curling angrily. but you roll your eyes, fed up with the stubbornness of hybrids.

"oh please. would you rather die of infection? no. so shut up and listen to me." you huff at him before continuing on. "one of nanami's workers is really skilled with stitches and wounds. and they're pretty well versed with injuries like that."

you point at his arm. "they can patch you up, give you any meds, and help you slowly regain function in that arm. plus nanami's clinic keeps your identity secret, so it's safe."

sukuna's staring at you with open distrust, but his ears flick, hanging onto every word as you talk. "you should go visit. ask for that human—their name's uraume. they're really good. and nanami will be happy to help. i took toji there, too. you mention his name or mine, and nanami will know who we are."

sukuna's eyes are narrowed, but he studies you with a new sort of interest—like you're a small animal on display at the zoo which he finds somewhat entertaining. he spends the next few minutes grumbling as you give him your contact information and nanami's number, but he doesn't hesitate to take both. you tell him, no matter how pointless, to give you a call if he happens upon any mention of toji anywhere, and you get a semi-convinced grunt in return.

he seems about done talking to you, turning back to his sweeping duties with a roll of his eyes and the contact information tucked in his pocket. you can't help but smile wryly—he was mean, but still just another distrustful hybrid. so much like toji.

you wondered if they got along.

satisfied with your outing even without much progress on the toji front, you turn to leave… but pause when something hits you.

"… how'd you know?" you call out to sukuna's back curiously, watching his gaze land on you once he turns. "that i knew toji?"

"you kidding?" he grunts, gesturing to you with a heavy hand as he rolls his scarlet eyes. "the idiot scented you. you reek of him all over. fuckin' possessive bastard, so damn obvious …"

you stare at his back as he turns away to continue sweeping, swallowing tightly. it's only slightly sick, but for a solid second, all your sadness at toji's abrupt departure takes a back seat just so you can feel strangely pleased about yourself. shoko's hybrid friends had said the same thing—scenting—and while you don't know exactly why he did that before he left you, the implications aren't making you feel anything but sickly thrilled.

"whatever it is, hybrids don't just scent random people," suguru had said. "they do it when they wanna either protect or stake a claim."

(what a thought.)

****

you… are pathetic.

you feel pathetic, anyway. because toji's been gone for almost three months, and you're still moping. going to work and coming back to an empty house feels like crap. picking up your phone to text him about groceries only to catch yourself feels like crap. passing by his bedroom where everything looks too neat and pristine and unlived in feels like crap.

essentially, you've forgotten what it was like to live without toji. a part of you truly wonders how you ever got on without him. it baffles you how quiet your apartment is when you're by yourself, how boring watching tv is without an influx of snarky comments, how uneasy it feels to not constantly be bickering or laughing with someone.

it's your patheticness that keeps you stupidly hopeful that he'll come back. sure, the hope's been dwindling as more time passes, but still you hang onto it with desperation—because you don't wanna think about having to move on without knowing where he is and how he's doing.

which is why you've gone back to the beginning. it's like clockwork, the way you come home from work, take out the meat pieces you've cut up from the fridge, and dump them in toji's designated plate. everyday without fail, you slip your shoes on, head into the alleyway beside your apartment, and wordlessly put his plate on the floor—just as you did for him all those months ago.

the only difference this time is that the plate remains untouched.

with each passing day, that still full plate hurts less and less. not because you aren't saddened that he hasn't come back, but because you're losing hope that he ever will.

and that thought aches like nothing else has before.

month 1, month 2, month 3… and no sign of him.

your mind has started settling on the idea that toji is lost to you forever, only tucked within the deepest recesses of your mind.

(perhaps that was the place he was always meant to be from the start.)

****

toji comes back because he can't tell himself no.

it's a mixture of things, really. his new tiny room is above a takeout place that always seems to have the faint smell of burnt oil and old cabbage. the entire space—the bed, the little desk, the small stupid thing that passes for a kitchenette—was barely wider than his outstretched arms. it's not like he hasn't lived in worse conditions, but after your sweet apartment, soft couch, and warm shower, toji feels spoiled and a bit too miserable.

he misses your place.

it wasn't like you lived the most luxurious life, but toji had been blessed by the comfort that your space provided him after so many years of torture. and now that he didn't have it anymore, he fucking missed it.

he misses your worn welcome mat, misses the expired bag of pita chips in the back of your cupboard, misses the stack of old mail you've opened but always forget to throw out. he misses your tv remote that has the plastic back missing, misses your one too slow faucet, misses your ladybug toothbrush holder. he misses his bedsheets, misses his place at the foot of your couch, misses the way your doorbell sounded just to rile him up. he misses his damn dinner plate.

unfortunately, no matter how much he wanted to deny it, your place was home for him.

more than anything though… he misses you. he misses your dumb voice, your cute laugh, your ridiculous work gossip. he misses your fuzzy pajamas pants and your complaining and your occasional snark. he misses seeing you pretend you don't get teary eyed at dog movies, misses watching you get mad when he put things on higher shelves, misses feeling you drag him to eat ice cream when he swears he doesn't like sweet things.

it's stupid really, but he kinda wishes he took the phone he'd been using with him. there are pictures of you on there—stupid selfies you'd send from work or screenshots he'd taken when you facetimed from the grocery store to ask what he wanted. you'd probably call them unflattering and yell at him for doing you dirty, but they were you and… toji was lacking in you right now.

so it was inevitable that he'd go back. he's been this embarrassing mixture of curious and worried about you. curious if you're holding up okay, if you're taking care of yourself, if you've started hating him for leaving you behind. worried that his crimes have caught up to you, that you're not living on without him, that you're still hoping he comes back.

(but that selfish, sick part of him does hope that last part is true. that you're aching for him the same way he's aching for you.)

toji knows that he's dying to go back because he let his stupid feelings pull the wool over his eyes. he knows that he's gone crazy about you even when he promised himself he wouldn't.

as utterly ridiculous as it sounds, his stupid fucking heart got in the way.

but… his biological brain wasn't helping matters.

toji knew that it was only a matter of time before the lack of suppressants that had been shoved down his throat during his time underground would start catching up with him.

it's a weird feeling. a month after he leaves you and he's quietly munching on a piece of fried chicken in his small room—tired after a heavy workday—he starts feeling the first tinges of something different. a dull ache behind his fangs, the smell of the chicken more pronounced to his nose, the subtle warmth to his skin.

it was strange… awkward. he hadn't felt anything resembling a free natural rut since his first one at eighteen years old. after that, it was just the muted dull horniness that came once a year while locked up in that fucking cell—no relief, no companion, nothing at all. what's worse is that those suppressants truly lived up to their name and compressed the normally longer rut cycle into a few measly days of heated discomfort.

but because those pills were effective in dulling down the intensity of his ruts and shortened the length of them, toji had forgotten just how they truly felt. the languid descent into the pre-rut haze, the slow build of agitation, the increased temperatures.

he'd find himself prowling the short length of his little rented room, teeth bared in a perpetual snarl as he let his mind race and settle on you—your voice, your pretty face, your scent.

and then he'd find himself pissed off for no reason at all.

it took a week for him to realize the anger and tension was because he was slowly entering his rut after so many long years without a real one, and the idea of it had sent him into such a deep panic he spent three days locked in his place out of fear of doing something crazy.

like going back to you.

toji holds out for another week before a combination of all these factors—the rut, the curiosity, the worry, and the sheer longing he has for you—wins out.

it's really easy for him to find his way back to your neighborhood, your apartment, you.

(something so easy for a dog to find its way home.)

by the time he's there, hiding across the street like some kind of sick stalker, he's internally kicking himself for coming back. you probably hated him for leaving in the first place, and who's to say you even wanted him back? he couldn't blame you—he'd left like a jackass. he wishes that he'd left a nicer note, maybe a gift to remember him by, maybe a way to keep in contact even though he had left to keep you safe.

toji fully intends to just check that you're doing okay and then leave again. that's all …

except he's underestimated how much you seem to care about him.

because his jaw clicks when he sees you come out of your apartment, fuzzy pajama pants and his plate filled with meat in your hands. he thinks he might vomit. he watches you head into the alleyway, set it down in that spot he first met you all those months ago, and then head back into your apartment looking like you wanted the sky to crash down on your head.

even looking utterly depressed, you look like some kind of sweet angel. toji knows that's his own personal bias, but as he's always said, he doesn't think there's a more beautiful human out there than you. your hair's a bit longer than he remembers, eyes a bit duller. but your pjs are the same, your slippers are the same, your walk is the same.

he'd been gone for three whole months. but also, he'd only been gone for three months.

toji feels like crap. but … he also feels really fucking pleased. not with himself, but at the thought of you missing him. missing him enough to spend every day hoping that he'd come back for that plate of food. it's a sick joy—but it's there all the same.

he stands there in hiding for a long time. for a second he thinks about bolting—keeping you safe and away from all his messed up behavior. but then the responsible part of his mind takes a back seat for the more reckless part, and he makes a bad decision.

****

it's another dull friday evening when you set down toji's plate in the alleyway with a sigh, before heading back inside. despite the days all feeling like they were blending together, you are glad it's the weekend. maybe you can sleep through most of it, or mindlessly watch some crap on netflix—anything that would help take your mind off the very significant absence in your apartment.

you heat up your dinner and eat it listlessly, trying not to look at the empty chair where toji would sit across from you. you can still picture the way he'd tear into his food, drag his tongue over his scarred lips as his pointed ears twitched with satisfaction.

(thinking about him this much couldn't be considered healthy for you.)

you dejectedly head out into the alleyway before bed, totally expecting to see another untouched plate as usual. but you freeze in your tracks when you realize that it has been licked clean.

you stare at it for a second, mind trying to catch up with the thought that the plate is empty. at first you think that it might've really been some stray cat, the same thing you assumed when toji first started eating the portions you left out. your mind tries to come up with all sorts of excuses as you head back to your door, frowning dazedly at the plate.

but then a mild shiver travels up the length of your body. your hair stands on end, your spine stiffens …

and then you just know.

when you turn around, you're not even surprised or happy or anything really. you just look at toji with a frown—a bit of anger, a bit of relief, and a lot of hesitation. he's standing in the street without a single expression on his face, perfectly blank and crisp.

he looks good at least—not underfed or feral or hurt. nothing like the wolf hybrid you first met in your alleyway months prior. his ears flick, and you think there might be a hint of awkwardness in the movement, but you're not quite sure.

(you're doubting you really ever knew how to read toji in the first place.)

when he stays silent, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets, your brow twitches. irritation starts creeping up your spine, hands curling tighter around his empty plate. for a second, you're struck by the fact that he left. and not only did he leave, he had the gall to come back and stare at you without a word. no apology for going so suddenly, for all the stress he put you through, for being a fucking coward who left you in the dust and took the deepest parts of you with him.

so, as much as you try, you can't keep the strained anger out of your tone when you push the door open and pin him with an intense stare.

"get inside, toji."

and without a moment's hesitation, he does just that.

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Adulthood is a bummer. Everything is so different now—you don’t gossip with Toru every day or giggle with Mina in passing periods. You don’t tease Ochako about her rapidly growing crush or share headphones with Kyoka during lunch. You don’t study with Yaomomo or sit in Tsu’s room and have deep discussions about philosophy. Class 1B isn’t there to rival you and your peers. Mister Aizawa isn’t popping around at the oddest moments in that ridiculous sleeping bag.

And then adulthood is nice. Some things never change—Bakugou is yelling about something in the distance like a maniac, while Midoriya rubs his neck sheepishly. Todoroki says something with that deadpan face of his, and that only seems to set the blonde off even more. You can’t help but huff, rolling your eyes fondly.

Class 1-A is trauma-bonded, and fuck if it’s not one hell of a bond—adulthood claiming your lives and free time or not. You’ll find the time to get together like this at least once a year—with someone as good at planning as Yaomomo and someone as persistent and vocal as Iida, everyone makes it to the Class 1-A routine meet-up.

If only you weren’t so fucking devastated at this meet-up, you could have appreciated it properly. But you are, and there’s nothing to do about it now but suck it up—and hey, there’s always next year, right?

That’s what you tell yourself as you robotically hug each girl goodbye. That’s what you tell yourself as you watch your former classmates—turned occasional colleagues—file out of the bar and head off in different directions, dispersing along all the paths life has dragged them down separately.

You stand there for a good second after everyone leaves—you’re the only one left, you’re sure. Alone. As always, you think with a self-deprecating scoff, you’re alone. Even when you’re surrounded by a room full of people, you’re alone.

You should just get an Uber home. It’s late, you have morning patrol, and it’s getting really fucking cold, the night breeze biting at your skin. But you stand there anyway, stiff and unresponsive, because you are, despite trying to shove it all aside for one night, devastated. And so fucking alone.

“The hell are you still standing out here for?” comes a gruff voice from behind you.

You jolt—and that’s how out of it you are, because who the hell sneaks up on you so easily? You’ve honed your fighting abilities and reflexes better than that. You’ve made sure your skills are good enough that you aren’t crept on so easily. So why didn’t you hear Bakugou coming up behind you? You have no clue.

“Bakugou,” you mumble, “why are you still here?”

“Hah?” He looks at you, mildly irritated. “I asked you first, Stretchy. Answer me before you ask me stupid questions.”

Stretchy. Even after all these years, Bakugou calls everyone by those obnoxious nicknames he comes up with instead of their actual names. You’ve noticed a long time ago that he always goes one of two routes when picking his stupid little names: by physical appearance or by quirk. It just so happens he chose to use the latter for you—ever since the day your body stretches out like elastic in front of him for the first time, you’ve been Stretchy. Have been nothing else. Will probably never be anything else. 

If you weren’t so emotionally downcast, you might’ve rolled your eyes and snapped back: my name is not Stretchy! But you don’t have it in you. So you just mutter, “I’m getting an Uber.”

“So get it, then,” he grumbles. “The hell are you waiting for? It’s the middle of the fucking night.”

You don’t point out that it’s…kind of sweet, in a blunt, Bakugou sort of way, that he’s concerned about your safety. Or that it’s pointless to be, considering you’re a pro hero too—one who patrols in the middle of the night on a regular basis. But anyone who’s shared years with him, classroom and battlefield alike, knows better than to argue with him over meaningless things if they value their eardrums.

“Yeah, whatever,” you mumble, pulling out your phone to call the damn Uber. You should’ve just driven yourself, but you’d been too exhausted—and, frankly, too sad—to deal with the thirty-minute drive. It’s not like you can’t afford to waste the money, anyway.

You tap your screen once. Then twice. Nothing.

Huh.

You press and hold the power button. Still nothing. You’ve got to be fucking kidding, you think.

As if your week couldn’t have gotten any worse.

First, you get ghosted by your almost-but-not-quite boyfriend, who was never really your boyfriend, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that he almost, just almost, was by anyone’s standards. Then, after he gets you fucking attached, you find out he ghosted you for some other girl with way nicer fucking tits and longer legs than yours (no, you did not stalk that girl’s socials, thank you very much. You just happened to stumble onto it and accidentally…tapped the tagged user. That’s all). Then, you miss out on enjoying the one night you look forward to every year because you can’t pull yourself out of this stupid, heavy funk. And now, finally, your phone is dead. Completely dead. No Uber, no ride home, no immediate access to the ice cream in your freezer to have a good, necessary cry.

And Kaminari has already left, so he can’t charge it with his quirk. Great. Fantastic, even.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” Bakugou’s voice cuts through your spiral as he glares at you. “Were you here to be social or be on your damn phone all night? How’s that thing already dead, huh?”

“I wasn’t on my phone,” you shoot back, a little more petulant than intended. “I just…forgot to charge it before I got here.”

He stares at you with what can only be pure, hard judgment. “You people are so poorly prepared for everything, it never fails to piss me off.”

Well. If your week couldn’t get any worse, you now have to have Bakugou Katsuki, of all people, call you an Uber and get you home, which means you have to tell him your address. Which means you will, inevitably, lie awake all night wondering if he’s going to look up your apartment and judge it. Not that you think your place is bad, or that Bakugou is even the type to care about that kind of thing—but your brain is not exactly known for being reasonable once it gets going.

At the same time that you say, “I’ll pay you back if you call me an Uber,” he exhales sharply and snaps, “Well, fucking follow me, then.”

You pause.

“What?” you blink.

He’s already started walking off, and your question only seems to irritate him further. “Exactly what the fuck I said. Follow me.”

You do—only because you have to, if you want to ask him again to get you the damn Uber. “Bakugou, I’ll pay you before the Uber even gets here, okay? You don’t have to worry about your money—”

You hear the sharp beep of a car unlocking, and then a sleek, obnoxiously fancy Porsche lights up from the inside. Bakugou yanks the passenger door open and jerks his chin toward it, already glaring.

“Get in. And don’t talk like I can’t afford a fucking Uber—I’m not so desperate for money that I need you coughing it up that fast, you damn loser.”

“You…what?” You just blink at him, stupidly.

Bakugou looks like he’s just about one minor inconvenience away from exploding. He tips his head back with a long, aggravated groan. “God damn it, Stretchy—I’ve got shit to do in the morning, okay? Get. In. Did you hear me that time? For fuck’s sake, your hearing can’t be that bad.”

“…Why?” you ask, somehow even more stupidly.

You can’t help it—this doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to do. And it definitely doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to be doing for you of all people.

“Can you just fucking get in the car so I can drive you home and call it a night?” he grits out.

His eye is twitching now, just slightly, and you decide you would actually like to make it home tonight, so you decide not to push your luck. You walk over and get into the car without another word. It’s best not to piss him off to the point where he changes his mind on helping you altogether. That would be rough.

The door slams shut behind you almost immediately after you’re in, and Bakugou is in the driver’s seat just as fast. “Put your seatbelt on,” he mutters, reaching for his own.

He says this as you’re in the process of reaching for it, and you sometimes forget just how unnecessarily annoying Bakugou can be. And bossy. Very, very bossy.

“I am,” you mutter back, rolling your eyes.

”Here,” he only grunts in response, handing you a charger, and you wordlessly take it, plugging in your phone.

”Thanks,” you say quietly. “Good thing you were still there, huh?” You give him a sheepish look.

His only form of reply comes as a flat look. You wither under it.

”What were you still doing there while everyone was gone anyway?” You mumble.

”Taking a phone call,” he mutters. And then, because he’s apparently still as petty as he used to be back in the day, he glances at yours and adds, “Because I keep mine charged.”

You all but pout at his pointed statement, huffing as you start to defend yourself. “Okay, well, I never make this mistake usually. I just—”

You cut yourself off when your phone lights up from charging and turning on, catching your attention at the same time it does Bakugou’s. Well—that was pretty fast, at least. You almost wonder if the five percent he’s managed to get you to will be enough to last you on an Uber ride home. That would be better than a long thirty minutes sitting next to the agitated lump of blonde hair next to you, right?

You can’t entertain the idea for even a second longer than you had it, though. Because Bakugou is already muttering under his breath, “Finally,” before looking at you and saying, “now send me your address so I can type it in.”

”You know, if you were this pressed for time I could’ve just typed the address into your GPS myself,” you say dryly.

”Great idea,” he says just as dryly, “next time, maybe I’ll try that when you talk less. Now gimme the address, idiot.”

Well. You give up on your idea of the Uber and you do. And you watch as he slots his phone into the holder on the dash, your message lighting up the screen—Stretchy. That’s your contact name.

Of course it is. (But then again, it’s a miracle Bakugou even saved your contact at all—you’d always assumed he had the class group chat muted.) You fight the urge to roll your eyes again and just slump back into your seat instead, resigning yourself to your fate for the night as he taps on your message and pulls up your address in his GPS.

The engine hums to life, low and smooth, and the car pulls out onto the road. You sink a little deeper into your seat, letting your head fall back for a second before, against your better judgment, your eyes drift over.

Bakugou drives like he does everything else: so absurdly impressively, it’s actually ridiculous. It’s just driving, and yet he makes it look like it’s something only he can do so well—one hand on the wheel while the other rests on the gear shift, relaxed. His posture is easy, shoulders set, gaze sharp on the road ahead. And it’s just one of those attractive things men do for no reason.

It’s…annoying. How natural he looks. How good he looks.

The streetlights flicker over him in passing streaks, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brows, the way his eyes narrow just a bit when he switches lanes. Bakugou looks so annoyingly good, and you’re helpless to notice it.

Because that’s just the thing—you’ve always noticed it.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought he was attractive back in high school. You definitely did. It was hard not to. He was bulky and muscular and tall with a good face—he even wore baggy pants and a tight-fitted shirt for his hero costume. He did all the right things (without meaning to, of course) to be attractive to the average girl.

But his attitude? Well…that’s another matter.

That had killed the attraction before it could ever be anything more than a passing thought. A surface-level thing. Something you’d notice and immediately shove aside because Bakugou Katsuki was not someone you entertained a crush on unless you were actively trying to make your own life harder. And you definitely didn’t need that, so you never put much thought into it.

And yet, now, years later, watching him drive like this, you’re painfully aware that it’s…still there. That lingering attraction that you undeniably have for him. Persistently so.

You tear your gaze away before you can get caught staring. What the hell is wrong with you? It’s just Bakugou. You’ve known him for over a decade, and you’ve never been affected by him like this, and you won’t start now. Your broken heart and devastating loneliness are getting to you. That’s all.

The silence stretches—not uncomfortable, exactly, and you’re sure Bakugou would prefer it this way, if anything. But still, you feel like it’s too stiff for you to handle, so you do what you’re best at. Awkwardly making small talk to fill in the awkward silence, even if it’ll annoy him.

(If anything, you hope it will.)

You clear your throat. “So.”

He doesn’t look at you. “So?”

“…Busy lately?” you try, immediately regretting it. God, that was lame.

He huffs quietly through his nose. “Yeah. Work doesn’t exactly stop for heroes.”

“Right,” you nod, even though he isn’t looking. “Same.”

Another beat of silence. You glance at him again, just for a second, and immediately regret it when you notice the way his hand shifts slightly on the wheel, forearm flexing.

Holy fuck.

“Your new agency’s…uh. Doing well?” you ask, grasping at anything that sounds remotely normal. Remotely interesting. Bakugou would love talking about himself—right?

“Tch. Obviously,” he mutters. “We’re not half-assing shit over there.”

“Yeah, I figured,” you say quickly. “I’ve heard good things.”

He shoots you a brief sideways glance, like he hardly believes it. “From who?”

“People,” you shrug, already cringing. “Around.”

“Hn,” he grunts. He looks back at the road. “Well, they’re right. I’m gonna be the best agency soon, too—you’d do well to remember that.”

You press your lips together, trying not to smile. God, he’s insufferable. You hum, letting your head rest back. “Kaminari said you’ve been working yourself to death without some sidekicks.”

“Dunno why you’re listening to that idiot,” Bakugou scoffs. He looks a little sulky at the mention of having no sidekicks—like it’s a sore topic. (You’re not surprised in the slightest when Kaminari tells you that no sidekick stays for long after getting a taste of Bakugou’s abrasiveness.) “Dunce-face talks too much.”

“He said you don’t take breaks.”

“I don’t need breaks.”

You snort softly. “Yeah, okay.”

That earns you another glance, longer this time, but the sulkiness is gone, and there’s something almost amused sitting underneath it. Barely there, but it’s there. “Worry about yourself,” he says, turning back to the road. “You’re the one who looks like shit tonight.”

You blink, then scoff. “Wow. Thanks.”

“You know what I mean,” he mutters.

Yeah. You do. You’re sure you looked miserable and stiff as a board all night. No way the girls didn’t notice, but they know you well enough to know you’ll come to them on your own time—and you will. When the time is right, you’re sure you’ll vent away about men and their shittiness and their lack of communication and commitment when you’re feeling up to it.

For now, though, you’ll just sit here and be driven home by Bakugou Katsuki, who seems to know something is up, yet does not comment on it as he does a surprisingly nice thing for you. And for some unknown reason, that makes something in your chest feel just a little less heavy.

The rest of the car ride goes rather smoothly, and you pull up to your apartment in what feels like a surprisingly fast amount of time. Time…doesn’t seem to drag on with Bakugou, even when it’s silent. Of course, he’d actually entertained your small talk when you tried here and there, but you find that there’s almost…comfort in Bakugou’s silence.

He parks in front of the building. And then, he surprises you as he says bluntly, “You've been actin’ weird all night. What’s with you?”

You stiffen, jaw tightening. “Nothing, I don’t know what you’re—”

“That’s bullshit. I’m not fucking stupid,” he cuts in, flat.

“Well, why’s it your business?” you snap, sharper than you mean to.

Bakugou shrugs, like it really doesn’t matter either way. “It’s not. But I drove thirty minutes in the opposite direction for your dumbass, so I’m curious why.”

You huff, looking away toward your apartment building, arms crossing tighter over yourself. “It’s nothing. Just…a shitty week.”

“Tch.” He leans back slightly, still watching you. “Shitty how?”

“Just stuff,” you mutter. “It’s not a big deal.”

He clicks his tongue, clearly not buying it. “Liar.”

You shoot him a look. “Excuse me?”

If there’s one thing that Bakugou is that people tend not to give him credit for, it’s that he’s perceptive. Observant. They make the mistake of thinking that he always rushes right in, charges head-on without an ounce of a plan or a single thought in his brain other than brute forcing his way out of everything. But that’s farther from the truth than anyone would assume. Bakugou is so smart, it just adds to the list of reasons why he’s infuriating.

He’s smart, and he notices things, and he always has a pretty fucking good idea of what he’s talking about.

So when he says, “You’ve been off all night. Quiet—and not your usual type of quiet,” you look at him funny. You never assumed he’d have a good idea of what he’s talking about when it pertains to you.

“Wow. Since when do you know me so well?”

“I know all of you freaks—have to if I’m gonna beat you all and be number one,” he shoots back immediately. Then, after a moment, “You still seein’ that guy Dunce-face was talking about?”

You still. Just for a second. How did…how did he know that’s what was wrong? (And why is Kaminari airing your business out like that? From now on, you’re going to stick to the girls, and that’s it—Kaminari has lost his gossip privileges.) And of course, Bakugou catches the way you stiffen almost immediately, so he catches on that he was right. “Hah. Knew it,” he mutters. “Sparky says the guy’s lame as shit.”

“It’s not—” you start, then exhale sharply. “It’s nothing.”

“That means you’re not seein’ him anymore, I take it,” he says. “So was he a jerk?”

You groan, dropping your head back against the seat. “Can you not?”

“No,” he says, without hesitation. “You’re sitting here acting like shit over some guy?”

“I’m not acting like shit,” you snap, even though you know you are. “And he’s not just some guy, either.”

“You are acting like shit,” he says flatly. “What, you love him or something?”

“No,” you sputter, “we didn’t even know each other like that for it to be love.”

“So then what’s the big deal?”

You look away again, jaw tight. “I don’t know! It’s like…it’s just…” You trail off and sigh. “It’s stupid.”

“Yeah,” Bakugou shrugs. “Probably.”

Your head snaps back toward him in disbelief. (At least now you know there is at least one thing he’s not good at—he can’t comfort people for shit.) “Wow. Thanks, asshole.”

“But you’re clearly stuck on it,” he continues, unfazed. “So it’s not stupid to you. Are you gonna be fine, or are you gonna go up there and spiral all night?”

“Still don’t see how it’s your business,” you grumble.

It’s only silent for a moment before Bakugou grabs his keys and turns the ignition off on his (very fancy) car. His door opens and closes, and before you can even get an idea of what’s happening, he pulls your door open and gestures for you to get out.

“Let’s go,” he says.

“W-what?” you stutter.

“I said, let’s go,” he rolls his eyes, “We’re goin’ up to your place, and you’re gonna give me a bottle of water and somethin’ to snack on. Least you can do for making me drive all this way.”

It’s his way of keeping you company for a bit longer. This much, you know.

Bakugou is a complicated guy. He’s mean and rude and crass and loads of other unpleasant things that people could use to describe him in order to convey that he’s…not easy to get along with. Not even a little. 

But he’s a good person at heart. It’s undeniable. People are always safe around Bakugou, even if it costs him his life (though really, it hardly ever does because he’s just that good), and even if it takes every ounce of his blood, sweat, and tears. He does it because it’s in his nature to do so—ingrained in him since the day his quirk was manifested. He’s the best at winning against bad things, and it helps people—imperfectly, sure, and not always in a very heartfelt manner, but as sincerely as it comes.

If he decides to come up and spend time with you for a bit to keep your mind off of your broken heart, it’s not because he pities you or feels this self-righteous sense of justice. He never does what he doesn’t want to do. So he wants to do this—and it’s because in his own, weirdly unexpected way, he cares. 

Perhaps it’s not entirely unexpected, though, you suppose—after all, Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life. All of you. 

—

When you let him into your apartment, he takes a quick glance around. Lingers over the small trinkets and items you keep as decor, and then marches his way over to the kitchen as he mumbles, “What sorta snacks you got?”

You pull out one of the bags of red, hot, spicy chips from the convenience store that you keep stashed away—they can’t be good for you, but you figure you only live once—and hand them to him. He perks up minimally. 

Bakugou likes spicy things. It’s one of the first things you ever learned about him, actually about him as a person and not just him pertaining to the nature of the hero course, and for some reason, it’s a detail you seem to remember. 

He grabs the bag and slinks off to your couch while you grab your long-awaited ice cream and slump onto the opposite end of it right after, which isn’t too far, considering your couch is not that large. His feet are thrown over your coffee table, and you don’t care enough to bother with scolding him about how ill-mannered it is. 

“So,” he grunts, popping a chip into his mouth. “Why the pity party? He dump you or somethin’?”

“We weren’t together,” you mutter, digging your spoon roughly into your frozen treat. You’re long past the point of wondering if it’s a wise idea to tell Bakugou all your woes—he’s already here, so you figure, why the hell not? “I don’t think it qualifies as a dump.”

“Ah,” he huffs, chewing as he seems to get whatever clarity he was searching for. “So he ran off before things got official, and now you’re sulkin’.”

“I’m not sulking,” you click your teeth—all of which is said through a rather sulky tone, so he only snorts and raises an eyebrow at you. You just respond by glumly taking a spoonful of your ice cream as you add, “And it’s not even like I fell for him that hard, okay? It’s just…the principle of things—he shouldn’t have strung me along like that, and he could’ve just told me instead of disappointing me when things seemed to be going great. And, he definitely never implied that he was seeing other people, so it’s particularly low of him to do all that just so he could see another girl who is clearly so opposite of me, so I’m not even sure I was his type, rather than an easy situationship. Except I didn’t give him what he wanted easily, so I bet that’s why he lost interest so suddenly when he realized he wasn’t going to get what he—”

“Holy fuck,” Bakugou groans, “you sound like the damn nerd with all that mumbling. Okay, so some guy wanted to get in your pants, you didn’t let him, and he got bored. Big deal—just means you picked a fucking loser. So don’t do that next time.”

He says it like it’s so simple. It’s never that simple. Men are so naive. 

“Thanks for the stellar advice,” you say sarcastically, shooting him a flat look.

He only smirks, shrugging as he hums, “Yeah, don’t mention it. Don’t get used to it though—I’m not a fuckin’ therapist who solves your shit for you.”

“I’ll try not to depend on you too much,” you roll your eyes. You take another spoonful of your ice cream and sigh tiredly as you slump back against your cushions, and he sighs heavily and throws his head back exasperatedly. 

“Look, I know I’m not always the most…fuck, I don’t know the word—”

“Kind? Compassionate? Empathetic? Understanding—”

He shoots you a withering glare, and you huff as you trail off. “Anyway,” he fixes you with a pointed look, “even though I don’t get all bent up outta shape over nonsense like this, I’d get it if you were head over heels for this bastard. But it sounds like you didn’t even like the loser that much, so I’m failing to understand why it matters that bad.”

“Because,” you sigh in exasperation, “I just…I don’t know…I wanted someone to choose me and like what they see, okay? No one ever cares to even bother getting to know me, and I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why.”

“You just haven’t set your sights on the right guy yet,” he shrugs, “big fuckin’ deal. You’ll stop being dumb and choose a good one eventually—I’m willing to believe you’re capable of at least that much.”

“They really ought to give you your therapy license,” you say dryly, your face as unimpressed as your tone. “I bet people would pay good money to hear this.”

“I’ll consider it if my agency is a bust,” he snorts, shooting you a sly smirk as he leans back into the couch, one arm slung over the backrest. “Seriously though,” he adds after a second, side-eyeing you, “you’re makin’ this deeper than it is. Some shallow guy bein’ shallow is a stupid reason to get all in your head about shit or whatever.”

You press your lips together, staring down into your melting ice cream. “Well, that’s easy for you to say,” you mutter.

“Hah?” he grunts.

It is easy for someone like Bakugou. Someone who’s always good at everything and knows it. Has enough confidence for two people and then some. You’re certain that if Bakugou actually let women come near him long enough to entertain the idea of a romantic relationship with him, they’d be at his feet the way they are for Todoroki. Women have a thing for men they feel like they can change, can make soften up just for them. He’d be a magnet for the fix-it type of girls if he were actually interested someday, and it only frustrates you further when he talks like your problems are so simple. 

“This is how it’s always been for me—even back in high school, it was the same thing.”

Bakugou’s brows knit slightly. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”

You stare intently into your pint of ice cream, stabbing the spoon in and out. “Like…with guys. It’s always been like this.”

“That’s bullshit.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“I was there, in case you forgot,” he says, as if that alone settles the matter. “Don’t rewrite shit. You got asked out once by that extra.”

You frown. “That’s not—okay, first of all, that was just so he could try and show off his support gadgets to the agency I did my work study with. It doesn’t count. And second, that’s not my point.”

“Then what is?” he shoots back.

You hesitate, then sigh, dragging your spoon through your ice cream again. “Like…I don’t know!” You gesture with your hand vaguely, “I’m never memorable…or the sort of person that stands out enough for people to be interested, you know? Even Mineta made a list once when we were in school—did you know that? Ranking all the girls. And I was last. Like, dead last for whose tits he’d want to see in order. And I know it’s stupid—it’s Mineta. But some part of me wondered why I was last, and…I just figured maybe when I got older, got more confident, and figured myself out, then it’d be different. But it’s not. It’s just the same thing again—and now I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why I was last on that list.”

Silence settles heavily between you. Bakugou stares at you incredulously, like you’ve just said something that’s genuinely incomprehensible. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me, right?” He scoffs.

You don’t meet his eyes as you bring your legs up to your chest and hug your arms tightly around your knees. “What?” You frown, sulky and self-conscious.

“You’re tellin’ me you’re still hung up a decade later over that small fry not wantin’ ta take a peek at your tits? Why the fuck would you even want him to see them?”

“I don’t want him to see them,” you defend, huffing. “But like…fuck, c’mon! If the perveiest, creepiest guy you know doesn’t get excited at the thought of seeing you naked, who in their right mind will?”

He looks at you in pure distaste. “I knew you were an idiot, but I thought you weren’t this much of a fucking idiot, Stretchy. Sitting here wanting people to see you naked. Fuckin’ absurd.”

“Don’t be purposely dense,” you snap. You don’t know why it matters so much that Bakugou understands where you’re coming from, but it does. It’s important that he understands. “I’m not…I just…all my life, I’ve never been the one people want. There’s always someone better. Hotter, or smarter, or funnier. Nobody wants me—not even for the wrong reasons. How can I expect anyone to want me for the right ones?”

Bakugou is silent. For a moment, you think he finally understands. Think he’ll finally have an odd moment where he’s compassionate and gentle and you see eye to eye and have a heart-to-heart about your lifelong insecurities and your raging sense of inferiority when it comes to anything outside of your job. (Because at least you can give yourself that much—you’re good at your job.)

But then he says, “You’re so dumb, it physically hurts to watch you sometimes.”

And you bury your face into your knees and just sigh. Why did you have any hope for anything else? Why did you expect Bakugou Katsuki of all people to have empathy for your lack of confidence? The walking epitome of confidence is sitting on your couch, and you had the gall to think he’d even try to understand you.

But then he takes you by surprise.

“You see the shit people say on the internet about you, don’t you? You got fans. They think you’re hot.”

You blink as you lift your head back up. “Well, sure, but—”

Bakugou cuts you off. He looks at you like you’re dumb as he speaks, and you almost wonder if you are with the way he holds so much conviction in that gaze of his. Like he believes wholeheartedly you’re a stupid fucking idiot with stupid fucking thoughts.

“But fucking what? That means you’re clearly not the ugliest girl on the planet. You’re sociable enough that you got plenty of friends, too, and you have talents. You’re half decent enough at hero stuff. You’re tellin’ me you think no one wants you? You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever.”

All things aside regarding the…well, delivery of his statement, it’s a pretty nice statement. Something about the idea that Bakugou believes someone could definitely want you makes your chest feel rather light. It’s kind and comforting in an odd way, despite the rough and borderline mean way of saying it. That’s Bakugou for you, though, you suppose. Always doing good in the least seemingly good way possible.

“You’re being weirdly thoughtful,” you fix him with a look as you stir your ice cream around. You fight back a small smile. 

He huffs, throwing another chip in his mouth before he mumbles, “I’m always thoughtful, you loser. I’m fuckin’ awesome, you’re just blind as shit.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you smile.

“Just eat your ice cream before it turns into soup,” he grumbles.

You take his advice for once, scooping up another bite just to give your hands something to do. The cold bites at your tongue as you think on his words. You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever. Are you? Are you air-headed to think that? No one has given you a reason to think they do want you—but he seems to say it like he knows it’s true. Like he knows someone wants you exactly in the way you want to be wanted. It eats away at you in your head. Does he know who? Is it someone from your old class? A friend of his? Kirishima, or Sero, or hell…even Todoroki? (You rule out Kaminari rather quickly—you almost pity the guy for how long he’s pined after Jirou.)

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s already looking at you. You freeze for half a second, catching him eyeing you down, and he doesn’t even bother pretending otherwise. Just watches you, eyes narrowed slightly like he’s trying to figure something out, trying to search for something that he can only find in you.

“What?” you mutter, a little defensive.

“Tch.” He looks away first, shoving another chip into his mouth. “Nothin’.”

You don’t buy that for a second. “You’re staring.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You literally were.”

“Eat your damn ice cream,” he snaps back, but there’s no real heat in it.

“Why’re you being all weird all of a sudden?” you mutter.

He scoffs. “You’re the one who’s weird. Don’t start projecting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You roll your eyes as you go back and forth with him, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips again, uninvited and almost second nature somehow. It lingers longer than you expect. Who knew it could be so easy to smile in Bakugou’s company? You wonder if the you from high school would be shocked to see this now—hell, you think the you of last week would be shocked to see this, too. 

You look back at him, and he’s still staring—softer this time, less like he’s searching for whatever it is he was searching for a moment ago, and more like he’s staring just to stare.

“What?” you ask again, furrowing your brows.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you—looks at you hard and good and…and so full of certainty and conviction like earlier. Certainty for what, you wonder. You have no idea, but it almost feels like something is shifting in your relationship with Bakugou—or perhaps, something that was always there that you never knew of is revealing itself. It makes your stomach twist.

What relationship do you even have with him? Outside of being semi-friendly? You shared a class with him for three years and fought through a dark, heavy disaster side by side. It’s unfair to say you don’t know him that well—he was your friend. That much, you think, is fair to say. Perhaps not your closest friend, nor a lifelong one. But a friend all the same. 

So what is it? Why does it feel like there’s something that’s making itself noticeable now, all these years later? What is it exactly? Your head spins as you try to figure it all out, all while he just keeps on fucking staring.

“Nothing,” he mutters finally, but it sounds distracted. It sounds like his mind is elsewhere, and his body is here. 

“You’re still staring,” you whisper.

His jaw tightens slightly. “Stop sayin’ that,” he mutters.

“Then stop staring.”

“I was making eye contact, you fucking idiot.”

“I think you were staring.”

“No, the fuck I wasn’t.”

“You’re looking right at me as you say that.”

“'Cause it’s called fucking eye contact—are you dumb or something?”

You stare at him. He stares right back. And then, because you’re you, you break it first—huffing out a quiet laugh and shaking your head. “I see. Are you just now realizing I’m super gorgeous or something?”

“Tch. Weren’t you just going on about how no one seems wowed by you?”

You glare at him. “Low blow. And I said that’s how it seems to be for some reason—I never said I agreed with it. Personally, I think I’m rather delightful, and people should notice it more.”

“Yeah, real charmer,” he mutters.

You bump your knee lightly against his without thinking. “Shut up.”

It’s small. A casual touch, if anything. You didn’t think much of it—in fact, it almost came to you naturally. But sitting on your couch and spilling your heart out and sharing snacks with Bakugou feels so oddly familiar, though, that perhaps your judgment is a little clouded. 

He stills at the small touch. Your smile fades a little when you realize it—when you realize he didn’t just brush it off like it’s casual. His gaze drops again, slower this time, to where your knee is pressed against his. And then back up. Did you cross a boundary? Did he find that weird? Is he uncomfortable? Was that a more intimate gesture than you thought it was? 

You’re sitting there spiralling in your head as you just watch him, waiting for him to say something. Anything. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he leans forward slightly—just enough that the space between you closes so that only a few bare inches remain. Your breath hitches.

“Bakugou—”

“You’ve always been pretty dumb,” he mutters, voice low.

You blink. “What?”

“Exactly what I said,” he closes his eyes and sighs, like he’s tired and conflicted and…and something else. Something else you just can’t decipher, no matter how much you try. “I don’t get how you don’t fucking see it.”

“What do you mean?”

He doesn’t answer. But he does open his eyes—deep and sharp vermillion eyes that are looking at you, and he seems to have made a decision that he’s almost a little hesitant with. Like he’s reluctant to fully go through with it, but still. He’s determined. That much you can tell—you know what a determined Bakugou looks like, and this is it. This is it if you know it, and you know that you know it. 

And then he leans in.

He leans right in, pressing his lips to your and kisses you softly. It’s so soft—softer than any touch you’ve ever felt. So careful and considerate, as if you’re a fragile petal that’s on the verge of falling off the stamen, and he’s taking every ounce of willpower to keep you tethered to where you are. Keep you from falling away. Keep you there and whole and pieced together so that even the most delicate of touches doesn’t ruin you. 

You almost wonder if he thinks he would—ruin you, that is. You wonder if all that careful consideration is because Bakugou believes you’re a fragile petal that could blow away, and he’s nothing but a harsh, cold wind that would blow you off your balance and carry on like it’s just his nature to do so. 

And then he pulls back just as fast as it happened to look at you, brows furrowed slightly like he’s bracing for you to shove him off or yell at him.

Your brain is still catching up. He just kissed you. Bakugou Katsuki just kissed you. You stare at him, wide-eyed, and for once, he actually looks uncertain. Nervous, even—almost disappointed. And it does something weird to your chest.

“Fuck, I shouldn’t have done th—”

“You just kissed—” 

You both speak at the same time. You pause, he does too, and then his jaw tightens. “Yeah. I…that was stupid. Sorry—I…fuck, I don’t know what I was think—”

You don’t know why you do it, but you lean forward and kiss him again. It just happens before you can process it—some invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable force that makes you just do it.  

And instantly, without even questioning it, his hand comes up, quick and certain, as it grips lightly at your jaw to steady you so he can kiss you properly. 

It’s slower this time. More deliberate. Less like he’s being careful and more like he’s trying to savor it now that he knows that he can. His lips press into yours as if they fit like puzzle pieces, and his tongue slides past your parted mouth to press against your own. Your breath catches, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt without you meaning to.

It’s weird, but it’s not—kissing Bakugou. He’s the last person you ever expected to kiss tonight, maybe even ever, but fuck does it feel like it’s the rightest thing you’ll ever do. 

“How the fuck do you think no one wants you?” he grumbles between kisses, like he’s personally insulted by the idea. It’s starting to occur to you that perhaps he is just a little insulted by the idea. “You’re so…so fuckin’ dense.”

“No one has ever made it clear,” you snap, bringing your hands around his neck and tugging on his hair as he kisses you deeper.

He hisses, but it only eggs him on to kiss you harder, more fervently. “You want it clear? Then here the fuck you go.”

He kisses along your jaw. Down your neck. Across your collarbone. When your shirt slips off, you don’t even have the clarity to stop and think about what it is you’re doing—it just feels that natural and right to let him do it. He takes in the sight of your tits in your bra, grabbing a handful of them with large, warm hands as he scoffs.

“These the tits that small fry didn’t wanna see? I’m fuckin’ glad—I’d be pissed as hell if he got to see these.” 

He pulls off your bra. Rips it right off your back and makes you gasp as you feel the claps fly clean off somewhere in the distance. 

“Hey—”

“Oh, shut up,” he huffs, “it’s a fuckin’ bra. I’ll buy you some more if you’re that pressed over replacing one.”

Before you can even scold him for tearing your undergarments and being so nonchalant about it, his mouth latches onto a nipple, sucking and rolling his tongue over the nub as it hardens under his touch. You gasp, arching into his touch, whining when one of his hands moves to cup your other breast and use his fingers on the neglected nipple. 

“Oh my—fuck,” you breathe, your heart rate getting faster as your breaths come out more labored. 

Bakugou grins against your tit, still sucking and licking—and when you feel the faintest pressure of teeth around your nipple while his fingers pinch around the other, you let out a sound that you’d be mortified about if your mind wasn’t so stuck in the clouds, hazy and unclear.

He kisses down the valley of your breasts when he finally pulls away—right down your belly and right above the waistband that’s sitting against your skin before he looks up at you for permission. “This okay?” he grunts. 

You nod quickly as you breathe heavily. 

He gives you an unimpressed look as he raises a brow. “Use your words,” he says firmly, “I know you can—can’t you?”

“Yes,” you whine, “yes, this is okay. J-just…get on with it.”

That satisfies him enough, it seems, because he’s pulling all the cloth that separates your core from him down, revealing your dripping cunt as he lets you kick off the cloth that pools at your ankles. 

“Look at you,” he coos, grinning smugly at the sight of your arousal smeared along your folds and your skin. He leans closer to get a better look, and you whine in shame. “Fuck,” he grunts, parting your legs with strong hands along your inner thighs as you try to close them from embarrassment. “Quit that,” he hisses. For whatever reason, you obey. “Fuck, you are so wet.”

“Bakugou,” you whine again, horrified, “what is wrong with you?”

He gives you a deeply bothered look. “Katsuki,” he snaps.

“What?” You furrow your brows. Why is he introducing himself to you as if you’ve never met him before—does this man forget that he and you not only shared a class for three fucking years straight, but you fought a war side by side? Of course, you know his first name is Katsuki—

“For fuck’s sake, Stretchy,” he says in pure exasperation, “you’re so dense, you make rocks seem weightless. Say Katsuki, not Bakugou—s’weird to hear that during sex. That’s my fuckin’ mother’s name, too, y’know.”

“Thank you for that mental image,” you fix him with a glare, “and I’m not denser than a rock—”

He licks a stripe along your pussy to shut you up, and fuck does it work. Bakugou—or…well, Katsuki, you correct in your head—is so good at everything he does, it’s almost infuriating. But you aren’t a liar, and you would be lying if you said you weren’t grateful for him being so good at eating you out. It’s like his life depends on it, the way he laps away at your folds, pressing his tongue into your cunt and pulling back away to roll over your clit. It’s so…so fucking good.

It feels good. Feels right. Somehow, it feels like this is natural and like he’s supposed to be there between your thighs. You’d expected yourself to be a bit more self-conscious about him seeing you like this, doing things to you like this, for a bit longer. But you’re not.

Instead, you’re throwing your head back into the couch as you moan, “Katsuki—mmhhh.”

“Yeah?” he grins, so smug and handsome at the same time. Just unfair. “You like that, huh?”

“B-be quiet,” you huff, whimpering when a finger sinks past your folds and stretches you open, “you always talked too much.”

“And you always talked too little,” he counters, “tell me how good you feel and say my name like that again while you do it,” comes his blunt demand.

And he earns what he asks for, of course, because a second finger follows that first, and it makes you whine out his name in response like it’s an inevitable chain of events. He’s pumping his digits into your wet cunt and pressing into your sweet spot like it’s that simple. His mouth closes around your clit, and he sucks, his tongue working some sort of unearthly magic along the bundle of nerves as you practically sob in pleasure.

Good, good, good—everything that Katsuki does is so good. He’s so good at everything, it blows your mind. Literally. You can hardly think as he fucks his fingers into you and builds that familiar pressure up in your lower belly. They’re longer and thicker than your own—and all those years of explosives at his fingertips have really roughened up the skin. They’re calloused and scarred. And they feel amazing when they glide along your walls. The friction is so different when it’s his fingers and not yours—they hit angles and stretch places you never hoped to do so yourself.

Like he can read your mind, he asks, “Feels nice?” with a low voice.

You can barely think, let alone form a proper response. Everything feels too sharp, too overwhelming—your breath catching, your body reacting before your brain can keep up. You roll your hips into his fingers as they thrust into you, grinding down onto his mouth so his tongue can lap away at your clit.

“Yeah—” you manage, voice uneven, “so…so good, Katsuki—”

“I know, baby,” he murmurs. Baby—he just called you baby. And it’s…sweet. He says it oddly sweet and oddly gentle as he kisses your clit and smiles into your thigh when the kisses trail along the insides of them. His fingers are still pressing into that soft, sensitive spot in the back of your walls, still applying pressure exactly where you see white every time, and all the while, he seems to be so unexpectedly happy to be doing it.

You stare down at him, watching him between your legs, and when vermillion eyes intensely stare right back, piercing and calculating and yet so…so soft, you can’t look anymore. Just close your eyes and let it happen as your body starts to creep towards that familiar sensation of euphoria.

“Katsuki,” you whine, voice cracking.

“Jus’ let it happen, sweetheart,” he hums, “gonna cum for me?”

“Yeah,” you whine some more, “yeah—fuck. M’gonna cum.”

“Then do it, baby.”

You do. Katsuki is there to work you through it. Your walls spasm as you fall—no, plummet—off the edge, and he doesn’t hold back for an instant. His fingers are fucking into your tightness, the squelching sound of them gliding against your wet folds invading your very good hearing. His tongue is rolling back and forth against your swollen clit—so unforgiving and ruthless in his pace.

You can feel your back arch off the cushions of your couch, your hips working on their own accord as they move and grind down into his touch. Katsuki devours it all—laps away at your juices and groans at the taste of you. Groans right into your pussy and leaves you shuddering at the vibrations his gruff voice leaves against where you’re most sensitive.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, “driving me crazy here, y’know—sucking my fingers right in, I don’t even have to do much myself.”

When you’re done chasing your high, chest heaving as you catch your breath and slump back against your couch, his mouth doesn’t stop. He just stays there, pressing his lips where he can along your thighs, kissing and sucking into your skin, leaving blossoming marks in his wake while you try to gather some coherence in your mind.

“Fuck,” you say breathlessly. “I…just…yeah. Fuck.”

He snorts. “You’re too easily impressed,” he mutters.

“Yeah, well,” you glare, not meeting his gaze, “it’s not like I’ve ever done…this—” you vaguely gesture at him between your legs, “—to have a proper assessment of your skills.”

He looks at you. Bewildered. “Wait—you’ve never been fucked?”

“I’m not a virgin!” you sputter quickly, “not…not that there’s no reason why I can’t be a virgin—but I’m not, okay? I’ve been fucked.”

“So what is it then?” he raises a brow.

“I’ve never had someone do…this,” you gesture again.

“Eat you out?”

“Why do you have to go and say it like that?” you whine, covering your face with your hands—you’re sure said face is bright red and flushed.

He’s always been so vulgar. Even when you were kids. At least then, he was just vulgar with his language and not the connotations, but right now, he’s being vulgar about everything. And it’s seriously fucking with you right now—in more ways than one, evidently.

Katsuki only snorts, looking at you in mild amusement. “If you can’t say it, you got no business doing it. And you gotta have better standards, too—the fuck do you mean you never been eaten out before?”

“Men are not so giving,” you glare at him, “they’re in it for themselves. You’d know that if you weren’t a man.”

“Well, I am a man,” he shoots back, “and as a man, I know I’m pretty fucking giving. Cause I got standards and shit for my performance, and you should fuck people who have standards. And while you’re at it, you should get some god damn standards yourself, too.”

“I think you should take off your clothes instead of sitting there and lecturing me,” you huff. 

To your mild surprise, he stands up and pulls you into his arms, lifting you up easily—seriously, what is he built from?—before mumbling, “Where the fuck is your room?”

You mumble out, “Hall to your left—s’the door on the right at the end.”

In what feels like record time, he’s there, tossing you onto the mattress softly enough that you don’t feel the recoil of impact harshly, but hard enough that you do a little bounce. He chuckles as you glare, easily lifting the black t-shirt he’s wearing over his head. It reveals his bare torso and…shit.

It’s not as though you’ve never seen Katsuki shirtless. Of course, you have. You’ve trained with him and battled alongside him, and more than once has he been shirtless, or even had his shirt burned clean off. It’s nothing new to you that he’s muscular and well-built and so fucking broad—but fuck. He’s really bulked up since you last saw him shirtless. The biceps you can see from his short-sleeved shirt were already proof of that, but seeing him now without it, seeing his pecs and the clear indents of every ab while the broadness of his body is on full display, is just something else, entirely. 

And you’re staring. Because how could you not? Of course, you’re staring. You’re only human, no matter how superhuman this society is—you can’t help it that you’re simply in awe as you look at him. 

And he seems to notice it instantly, because he gives you a teasing grin as he murmurs, “Likin’ what you’re looking at, huh? Makes sense.”

“Would you be quiet?” you huff. You sit up as he unbuckles his belt, watching as he strips himself of his pants and boxers in one go, easily revealing his erection as if there are no second thoughts. 

It must be nice being so easily sure of yourself, you think. Everything about Katsuki’s life seems like it must be so nice. Good quirk. Good intuition. Good looks and an equally good body. Good everything—he must never overthink things. He must never overthink if the person in front of him likes what he has to offer and if it’s good enough to like for longer than one short instance. Of course, it’s good—it’s him. 

It must be nice being Bakugou Katsuki, born to be so confident and so great at everything. 

At least that’s what you think until he mutters, “Quit starin’, you freak,” with a huff. His ears are pink at the tips, and he doesn’t meet your eyes, and…it’s weirdly adorable that he’s shy. 

You smile, endeared as you reach over, grabbing his hand, pulling him down to hover over you in bed, his arms caging you while his nose bumps against yours. You can see his eyes better from here. Closer than you’ve ever seen them. His lashes are darker than the rest of his hair—almost a light brown that flutter so beautifully when he blinks. 

You hum, kissing his mouth with a soft peck, there one second and gone the next. He frowns, almost pouts, at how quickly it’s over. 

“Don’t get all shy on me now, Blasty,” you murmur.

“I’m never shy, Stretchy,” he shoots back. 

Your hand moves between your bodies, hesitantly reaching for his hard, swollen length. There’s a blonde patch of hair between his thighs that is neatly trimmed, and he’s got a small birthmark at his hip bone. As for his cock—it’s…well, it’s big. Thicker than it is long, but no less impressive. You figured it would be. Of course, just like everything else he’s got, he’s blessed to be impressive. 

You wrap a hand around his cock, stroking slowly as he shudders and lets out a soft, breathy groan. Your hand barely wraps around the girth of it, fingers just shy of meeting, and you look down to watch your fist slide up and down the length of him. He’s slick with pre cum that dribbles from his tip, twitching a little when you squeeze at the base experimentally as you stroke him. 

“S’that even gonna fit?” you gape at the sheer size of him, and that’s all it takes for that minimal shred of shyness to leave him. He has the nerve to look at you smugly—so wholly amused. 

“Course it is,” he snorts, smirking slyly. “Got you all nice and prepped, didn’t I? B’sides—isn’t bein’ stretched out and all kinda your thing?”

You give him a dirty look. Your quirk doesn’t work that way, and he knows it, but you suppose it’s naive to expect anything less from Bakugou. Of course, he’d throw in a cheeky, asshole-kind of poke at your meta abilities when he sees fit. 

“Be quiet,” you warn.

“If that’s what you want,” he hums, “then you should fuckin’ do something about it.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in, kissing him hard and rough, earning a deep, satisfied rumble from his chest as you do. His cock nudges against your inner thigh, grinding against you for a short moment before he stills, jaw gritting tightly as he forces himself to be patient and mutters, “You got a condom?”

“On the pill,” you peck the corner of his lips, “so just fuck me—fuck me, Katsuki.”

That’s all he needs to hear. His tip is nudging against your entrance, sliding along your folds, and gathering the slick that’s practically dripping so he can coat himself in your mess. It’s filthy, and it makes you shudder as you feel the hot, heavy weight of him simply brush against you. 

“Fuck,” he groans, “gotta feel you—m’gonna go insane.”

He’s pushing past your folds, sinking inch after agonizing inch so slowly, so carefully, you almost want to hiss that you won’t break. But something stops you—the way he stares between your bodies, that dazed look in his eyes with wide pupils as he watches himself sink into you is enough to force you into submission and be patient. 

For him—just for him, you’ll be patient. 

“Baby,” he drawls, his voice a low, rough purr, “baby, you’re so fuckin’ tight—god.”

“Fuck, Katsuki,” you whimper. He stretches you out good—fills you up and then some as he presses into all the right spots. “S’so deep—need more, please.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he presses a soft kiss between your brows before his hips are moving. 

It’s slow at first, like he’s testing the waters, and when your head throws back into your pillow as you whine in pleasure, it’s like every worry in his head about hurting you flies out the window. His hips snap faster into you, his thrusts go a little deeper, his movement a little more frenzied. By the time he sets a fluid pace, it’s quick and rough and so fucking good. 

“Wanted this for so long,” he grits his teeth, letting out a long moan as you clench around him. “Shit, wanted this for so fuckin’ long you wouldn’t believe—wanted you for so fuckin’ long.”

“More,” you whine, “p-please—give it to me, Kats.”

Oh. Oh, he likes the sound of that—there’s a deep, almost animalistic groan in the back of his throat that erupts before he goes impossibly faster, bullying his cock into your walls and slamming into that soft, sensitive spot he did so easily with his fingers, too. Something in his brain is almost rewired, you think, when he hears the nickname fall from your lips. 

Something that makes him bury his face into your neck and nip and bite at the skin hungrily. 

“Say that again,” he demands. “Say it.”

“Kats,” you sob, “mmhh—s’good, baby. Feels so good.”

“Yeah? Bet no one’s ever fucked you like this, huh? Like you mean something?”

“No,” you shake your head, “no one.”

“Only me, huh?”

“Only you,” you whimper, nodding along as your hips roll as much as they can into his own, trying to match his movements so he can press even deeper into you. 

Katsuki does fuck you like you mean something. No one’s ever really done that. You’ve always had sex just for the sake of sex. It’s never been anything more outside of that—sure, you’ve had your eye on a guy, or two that you wished maybe would look at you as something more than a good fuck. But they don’t make a lasting impression to keep you wanting more. Keep you craving more. Keep you hoping that maybe, just maybe, there could be more. 

Somehow, Katsuki makes that possible. He grabs your hips softly, rubs his thumb back and forth like he’s worshipping the skin when he angles you down on his cock for deeper access to your cunt. He kisses your jaw and cheeks with soft, wet pecks instead of just shoving his tongue down your throat. He bites his lips and looks at you with soft, dazed eyes and not the usual dark, lust-filled ones you’re used to. 

You never really minded being used. Never minded being more than an easy fuck if it meant you could get something out of it, too. But he makes you feel wanted—and you like being wanted. You like being something worth coming and staying for. 

“Fuck, m’close, sweetheart,” he rasps, sweat collecting on his forehead as his pace gets sloppier. The thick head of his cock slams roughly against your walls, and a thumb finds your clit to bring you closer to your peak with harsh circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You can feel it—can feel the slow build of pressure in your belly, that familiarly delicious ache between your thighs as the friction of his cock sliding in and out of your pussy accumulates in every nerve. You’re close too, and Katsuki can tell—it’s so fucking easy for him to read your body. Like he was made to understand it. 

“Close too, huh?” he pants, “you almost there?”

“Yes,” you wail, “yes—fuck, yes! Wanna cum.”

“Then do it,” he hums, “cum with me, baby.”

He rolls his hips into you once—then twice, and you feel it snap. That coil in your belly that was tight and waiting to burst. It makes your mind go blank and your lips part, and a cry of his name rings in your own ears loudly. You can feel the way you contract around him, spasming and squeezing and pulling him in as your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave.

It makes his cock twitch before he tenses and stills—his own orgasm hits him just as hard. Hot, white ropes of his release fill you up, the messy, sloppy pace of his thrusts fucking his load into you as he works you both through your highs.

It’s good—not just because it’s pleasurable, but because you feel important. You feel like only you could give him this, and only you could be the one he wants it from. He leans down and kisses you, slow and messy, drinking in your moans as he pours his own into your mouth. He says your name so pretty when he’s like this—so breathless and soft, you feel like your ears are ringing just listening to the sound of him. 

“You’re so good, baby,” he mumbles, “so good for me.”

“K-kats,” you whimper—it’s all you can even say. 

“I know,” he moans, “I know, sweetheart.”

And then it’s over. You finish, and so does he, and then it’s just the two of you tangled like that while you both pant and catch your breath. Sweaty skin on sweaty skin, lingering touch on lingering touch. Your fingers weave through his blonde locks, tracing along his scalp and fiddling with the small baby hairs at the nape of his neck. His fingers are wrapped around your hips, digging softly into the plush skin and making home in the warmth of it. 

“People want you, dumbass,” he mutters, leaning and kissing your cheek. “You’re just an idiot who doesn’t know how to look.”

“Be in my line of sight next time, and maybe I will,” you mumble. 

He laughs as he slumps down next to you, pulling your body into his as he wraps you up with his body and the sheets on your bed—it’s the softest sound you’ve ever heard from him, and fuck, do you want to hear it more. 

You wonder, as sleep creeps up on you, if this will all be an odd, weird, crazy dream when you wake up.

—

When you wake up, it is not an odd, weird, crazy dream.

Well, it’s definitely odd and weird and crazy. But it’s not a dream, that’s for sure. A sleeping, clearly bare Katsuki is in your bed, right beside you, and you’re in his arms. He’s holding you close and tight, and there would be no chance of escape if you wanted to leave his embrace (which you don’t really think that you do).

One minute turns into two. Two turns into three. And eventually, after a few agonizing minutes of trying to slowly inch away just enough to get a closer look at his sleeping face, Katsuki says without opening his eyes, “Quit squirming.”

You still. And then, you huff, squirming around just to annoy him. 

“Oi!” he glares, opening two sharp, yet sleep-hazed red eyes. “I just said stop.”

“Well, I don’t answer to you,” you scowl. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since you decided to stare at me like a creep.”

“I was not staring,” you say, giving him a scandalized look.

He only grins, giving you a sly look as he yawns and mumbles, “Yeah. Whatever you say, dumbass.” Then he pulls you closer, bringing your cheek to lie on his chest while his chin props itself over the crown of your head. “You okay? From last night, I mean?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “M’fine.”

“Not hurt? Wasn’t too rough?”

“Nope,” you answer easily. 

You realize this position might have less to do with the fact that he wants to hold you rather sweetly, and more to do with the fact that he might not really want you to look at his face when he asks his next question. 

“You uh…you regret it? Or some shit?”

You pause, taking in the odd, rare moment of…vulnerability in his voice. Like he’s scared to hear your answer but needs to know desperately. You find yourself answering rather honestly when you say, “No. I don’t. Last night was really nice—I liked it.”

“Yeah?” he breathes.

“Yeah,” you mumble. 

“Great. Go out with me, then.”

You do a double-take as you pull away and look at him in equal parts disbelief and equal parts irritation. He has the nerve to look rather expectant. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?” he huffs. “Go out with me—exactly what I said.”

“You can’t just throw that out there randomly!”

“Randomly?” It’s his turn to be shocked and irritated. “The fuck do you mean? I was balls deep in you last night, and this is random?”

“Yeah b-but…” You sputter, smacking his chest. “First of all, don't say it like that! And second, I had no idea until last night that you even thought I was attractive, let alone likable. Now you want to date me out of the blue?”

“I don’t ask shit for no reason out of the blue,” he grumbles, “of course I think you’re attractive and likable if I’m asking you out. You think I’d waste my time with just anyone?”

“Usually,” you give him a flat look, “when you ask someone out, some sort of confession comes first. You know? Like, hey—I think you’re pretty cool. Or you’re really beautiful. Or even, hey, I think we get along nicely, don’t you? Do you wanna go out sometime?”

Katsuki closes his eyes and sighs exasperatedly. “Hey, loser,” he smiles tightly. It’s rather petty, honestly. “I think you’re cool and beautiful—thought it since we were fuckin’ brats in school. We get along nicely for the most part, too, when you’re not a pain in the ass. Let’s go out.” 

“That was a demand, not a question.”

“You are so fuckin’ difficult for no reason,” he groans, digging the palm of his hand into his eyes tiredly. “Holy fuck—you’d say no, or somethin’? That why you need it to be a question?”

“Well, no, I wouldn’t…but it’s the principle of things—”

“Fuck your principles,” he mutters, pulling you close and planting his lips onto yours. You melt rather instantly, kissing him right back without hesitation. He grins against your mouth and pulls away, leaving you breathless. “The only damn principle you need to know is that you and I are good for each other. And that means we should go out.”

Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life—it’s this invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable thing. You think it’s a good thing that you are, because it leads you straight to Bakugou Katsuki. 

—

One new message from: ♡ PLUS ULTRA GIRLIES ♡

Mina: sooo can we talk about last night? SOMEONE was def giving us the cold shoulder

Toru: ^^

Kyoka: ^^

Momo: Come on, guys. I’m certain there’s a reasonable explanation. We should be ready to listen whenever she’s ready

Ochaco: absolutely! 

Tsu: but we do want to hear the reason asap

Mina: yeah it better be good bc that was just mean

Toru: ^^

Kyoka: ^^

You: i promise i’ll tell u everything soon ok? but guys. You: holy fuck. guys… You: i slept with bakugou last night

Mina: WHAT?

Toru: WHAT?

Tsu: WHAT?

Kyoka: WHAT?

Momo: WHAT?

Ochako: WHAT?

Mina: I KNEW HE HAD THE HOTS FOR YOU I KNEW IT Mina: THIS NEEDS TO BE A GROUP CALL RIGHT NOW

You: I CAN’T TALK RIGHT NOW HE’S LITERALLY IN FRONT OF ME MAKING BREAKFAST IN MY KITCHEN

Ochako: aw wait that is sooo sweet of him. he’s a great cook too

Toru: proof or it didn’t happen :P 

You: [ one attachment ]

Kyoka: HOLY SHIT THAT’S DEFINITELY HIS BACK

Momo: Well…As long as you’re happy!

Mina: LMAOOOOO STOP YAOMOMO

Ochaco: bakugou can be nice when he wants to be!! don’t be so hard on him

Tsu: when has he ever wanted to though…?

Toru: never lol let’s be real

You: he has a soft side OKAY? ochako is right u guys are being way too hard on him

Mina: oh god it begins

Toru: she’s already making excuses for him

Kyoka: the sex was that good huh??

Momo: Make sure you pee so you don’t get a uti ok?

He finds your attention strange because he knows he doesn’t deserve it. His high school crown is gone, his hair is less perfect, and his most exciting evening plans usually involve re-shelving returns.

Yet, there you are. A constant. When he mutters about his stupid car making a weird noise, you nod along with grave concern and help him look up possible problems when you go to the public library. When he complains that Robin used the last of the good popcorn, you look genuinely outraged on his behalf.

You have this way of tilting your head just so when he talks, your entire being focused on him, as if the rest of the world has politely blurred into the background. It's unnerving.

It's also kind of nice.

It happens on a Thursday. Steve's had a horrible day. His head is pounding, his car is making a new, expensive-sounding whine, and a customer just yelled at him for five minutes because Risky Business was checked out. He’s a tightly coiled spring of pure, undiluted annoyance.

And then you appear. A burst of sunshine in the stale video store air. You’re holding a small, slightly lopsided cookie on a napkin, your face lit with a hopeful, proud smile.

“Hi! I baked,” you announce, presenting it to him like a sacred offering. “Chocolate chip. I know you said your grandma's were the best, but I tried the recipe you mentioned and I added extra chips, just like you like.”

You’re beaming, so pleased with yourself for remembering this tiny detail about him. You wait, your eyes wide and sparkling, for his approval.

Steve looks from your hopeful face to the cookie. The smell of sugar and chocolate, usually comforting, feels cloying. Your cheerful voice scrapes against the raw edges of his mood.

The spring inside him snaps.

“Christ, can you just… not for five minutes?” The words come out flat and cold, sharper than he intends.

Your smile wavers. “What?”

“The hovering. The… the constant attention.” He gestures vaguely, his jaw tight. “It’s suffocating. Do you ever just… exist without making it about trying to get me to notice you?”

Your face crumbles in less than a second. The light in your eyes dims so completely it’s like someone flipped a switch. Steve's mean, but he's never this mean. Not on purpose, not with an intent to hurt, but this hurts.

You look down at the cookie in your hand as if you’ve just realised you’re holding something disgusting. Your lower lip gives a tiny, traitorous tremble before you bite down on it hard, trying to steady yourself.

You don’t say a word. You just set the cookie down on the counter, turn on your heel, and walk out.

The silence you leave behind is deafening. Steve stands there, staring at the stupid, lopsided cookie. The angry heat in his veins instantly cools, replaced by a cold, sinking dread that pools in his stomach.

What has he done?

"Steve."

He turns. Robin is standing there, her face pale. She looks dangerously close to tears, staring at the space where you just were, then back at him, her expression one of utter disbelief.

“How could you?” she whispers, her voice trembling with a hurt that isn’t even hers. “How could you say that to her?”

He opens his mouth, but no defence comes.

“She’s just trying,” Robin continues, her voice gaining strength, thick with emotion. “She tries so hard, all the time, just to be near you. She thinks you hung the damn moon, and you just…”

Her voice switches to an angry tone. “Do you have any idea how rare that is? For someone to look at you like that? After everything? To see all the crap and the baggage and the scars and still think you’re worth a lopsided cookie?”

Steve feels like he’s been hollowed out.

“She’s the kindest person who walks in here,” Robin says, her voice breaking. “And you made her feel like a pest. You broke her heart, dingus. And for what? Because you had a bad day?”

She turns and walks back into the storeroom, leaving him alone with the cookie and the echoing, agonising truth of her words.

You don't show up at all on Friday. Robin only speaks to him when absolutely necessary, and every clipped word feels like a shard of glass.

Every time the bell jingles, Steve’s head snaps up, a pathetic, hopeful lurch in his chest that’s immediately crushed when it’s not you. He straightens the same row of horror movies six times.

By Saturday, he’s a walking bruise. He doesn’t sleep. He can’t eat. He’s been hollowed out and filled with a churning, toxic mixture of guilt and terror. He drives past your street three times but can’t make the turn. What if you look at him with that shattered expression again? He doesn’t think he could survive it.

Sunday is worse. The silence in his own house is maddening. He tries to watch TV, but he just sees your face—the way it fell. He hears Robin’s voice: You broke her heart.

He has to fix it. He has to try. Even if you slam the door in his face, he has to see you.

Monday afternoon, after a horrible shift, he drives to your apartment. His hands are sweating on the wheel. He knocks. Once, twice. No answer. Just a faint, muffled sound from inside that twists his gut.

He knows where your spare key is. You’d told him, months ago, laughing as you taped it under the ugly ceramic frog pot by your door. “In case I ever lock myself out!” you’d said. He’d rolled his eyes then. “That's the worst possible hiding spot, sweetheart. If I was a thief, I'd look there first.”

His fingers are clumsy as he feels under the cold ceramic. The key is there. Using it feels like a violation, but the silence from inside your apartment is worse. He unlocks the door and pushes it open slowly.

“Hey…? It’s me,” Steve calls, his voice strained.

The living room is dim, blinds drawn. And there you are. Not on the sofa. On the cold hardwood floor in front of it, curled into the smallest possible ball. Your arms are wrapped tight around your knees, your face completely hidden in your knees.

The sight knocks the air from his lungs.

“Oh, angel,” he breathes, the endearment a pained exhale he didn’t know he had in him.

He closes the door and crosses the room in three long strides. He doesn’t hesitate. He bends, slides one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, and scoops you up from the floor. You’re so light, so boneless with misery, you don’t even startle. You just let out a small, broken whimper against his neck.

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Can’t have you on the floor, sweetheart. It's so cold.”

He sits on the sofa and settles you on the cushions between his legs, your back to his chest, so you’re fully surrounded, cradled in the space he makes for you. One hand splays over your heart, feeling its frantic, sad rhythm. The other cradles your head, his fingers sinking into your hair.

You finally break. A raw, ragged sob tears from your throat, and then another. You twist in his hold just enough to press your face into the collar of his shirt, your tears soaking the cotton instantly.

“That’s it,” Steve whispers, his lips pressed to your temple. “Let it out. I’m here. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby. God, I hate that I said that crap to you.” His own eyes burn, but he keeps his voice steady to calm you as best he can. “I didn’t mean it. Not a single word. You’re my favourite thing in the whole world.”

His hand moves from your chest to find yours, lacing your icy fingers with his and bringing your joined hands up to rest under his chin. “I love you,” he says quietly, the first ever time. “I’m in love with you. And I was so scared of it I tried to ruin it.”

You tremble against him, your sobs slowly softening into hitching breaths. You turn your head just enough to look up at him, your eyes swimming with a heartbreak he put there. He hates himself for it. “You looked at me like I was nothing,” you whisper, the words scraped raw.

“You are everything,” he corrects, his voice thick with tears. “And I was too stupid to know what to do with it. Forgive me. Please. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

You stare at him, searching for the lie, finding only a desperate, open honesty you’ve never seen before. You blink up at him, eyes clearing of their sadness.

"You... you love me?" you whisper, your voice small and hoarse from crying, but laced with a wonder that makes his heart clench.

Steve lets out a watery, relieved breath that's almost a laugh. He nods, his nose brushing against yours. "Yeah. So much it makes me stupid. Obviously."

A shaky, almost incredulous little giggle escapes you, followed by a sniffle. "You are stupid," you agree, but the words are soft, devoid of any real bite. They're just a fact.

"You bake me cookies and look up car manuals for me," he points out, his thumb stroking your cheek. "So what does that make you?"

"Also stupid," you mumble, but you're nuzzling into his touch now, a movement that sends pure warmth through him.

"The perfect amount of stupid," he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. It's chaste, gentle, a promise. "My kind of stupid."

You're quiet for a moment, your fingers tightening around his where they're still laced together. You're studying him, the last of the walls around your heart crumbling under the weight of his sincerity. "You're really not just saying it because I'm sad?"

Steve's chest aches. "Partly, but not in the way you think," he murmurs quietly. "Not 'cos I feel sorry for you." He shifts you slightly so he can see your face. "I'm saying it 'cos seeing you this sad... because of me... it's like looking at the sun going out."

He takes a deep breath. "The truth is I'm an asshole. An asshole who's in love with you. But I'm gonna try to be less of an asshole, if you'll let me."

You're quiet for a long moment, just looking at him. Then, you lean forward, resting your forehead against his. "You're not an asshole. You're just... you. And I really love you."

The words, so softly spoken, land in the centre of his chest and explode into a supernova of pure joy. He closes his eyes, letting the feeling wash over him, before pulling you tighter against him, burying his face in your hair.

"Say it again," he murmurs, the words muffled.

"I love you, Steve."

He kisses your hair. "Again."

A real, genuine laugh bubbles out of you, light and clear. It's the best sound he's ever heard. "I love you, you big, mean, stupid jerk."

"That's more like it," he laughs into your hair, tucking you closer against his front.

The next day, Tuesday, around the usual time, the bell over the Family Video door gives a single, timid ting.

Steve’s head snaps up. His heart, which has been a heavy, anxious weight in his chest all morning, gives a hopeful, painful thud.

You’re standing just inside the door, frozen. You’re clutching a small, brown paper bag to your chest. Your eyes, while clear of the devastation from yesterday, are wide and watchful. You don’t smile, not yet. Even after yesterday, you're still wary. He doesn't blame you.

Steve sets down the pen he’s been fidgeting with and slowly rounds the counter. He stops a few feet away from you, his hands in his pockets.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he murmurs softly. Barely any gruffness, there, only soft care.

You swallow, your grip tightening on the bag. “Hi, Steve.”

“You brought me something?” he asks, his voice a low, coaxing hum. He nods toward the bag, a gentle prompt.

“Cookies,” you say. “I… I wanted to try again. Properly.” You take a small, hesitant step forward and hold it out. “If you want.”

Steve’s heart swells. God, you're the bravest person he knows. He closes the distance between you, hands coming up to cover yours where they hold the bag.

“Look at me, angel,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper meant just for you.

You lift your gaze, and he holds it, letting you see every ounce of the remorse and adoration in his own. He sees the flicker of fear in yours, the memory of his cold voice. It guts him.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his thumbs stroking gentle circles on your skin. “C’mere.”

He opens his arms.

You hesitate for just a heartbeat, your eyes searching his. He doesn’t move, just waits, his expression open and patient.

Then you step into him, and he folds you into his chest with a sigh of pure relief. His arms wrap around you, one hand splayed wide on your back, the other cradling the back of your head, holding you close. He feels you take a deep, shuddering breath, your body slowly relaxing against his.

He presses a lingering kiss to your temple. “I’m not gonna yell again. I’m not gonna be mean. Okay? My voice is never gonna sound like that when I’m talking to you. That guy’s gone.”

You nod against his chest, your arms tightening around his waist. “Promise?” you whisper.

“I swear on everything,” he vows. Steve pulls back just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing your cheeks. “You’re safe with me. Always. You could set the whole damn store on fire and I’d just be worried you got ash in your hair. You’re it for me. Got that?"

A smile tugs at your lips. "Got it."

He smiles back, his own eyes stinging. “Good.” He leans in and presses a soft, chaste kiss to your lips. “Now, what do you say we actually eat one of these cookies together?"

You let out a wet laugh. "Okay."

He keeps one arm around your shoulders as he leads you behind the counter, pulling out the stool he keeps there just for you. He opens the bag, pulls out two slightly-less-lopsided cookies, and hands you one. He takes a bite of his own, watching you the whole time.

“Mmm,” he hums, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Perfect. Just like you.”

You blush, ducking your head, but you’re smiling as you take a bite of your own cookie.

The back room door bangs open, to Robin standing there, arms crossed, taking in the scene. Steve leaning against the counter, his body angled towards you, a soft, dopey smile on his face as he watches you eat. You perched on the stool, swinging your feet a little, looking up at him with stars in your eyes.

She lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “Unbelievable.”

You jump a little, your eyes going wide like a deer in headlights. Steve just shoots Robin a look that’s half-warning, half-plea.

Robin ignores him and stalks over, plucking the remaining cookie from the bag. She points it at you. “So. This is it? He says ‘I love you’ once, and you just... fold? No further questions? No demands for a written apology? No ceremonial burning of his hairspray? I could've helped you with that, you know.”

You shrink a little on the stool, clutching your half-eaten cookie to your chest. Your eyes dart from Robin’s stern face to Steve’s fondly exasperated one. “He… he meant it,” you say, your voice small but terribly earnest. "He said he was sorry. And that I was his favourite thing in the world."

Robin stares at you. She looks at your utterly sincere, smitten expression. She looks at Steve, who is gazing down at you with a look of such raw, besotted tenderness it’s almost embarrassing to witness.

She shakes her head. "You're hopeless, babe. Adorable, but the biggest pushover in Indiana." She takes a big bite of the cookie. Chews. Her eyes widen slightly. "Holy shit."

You blink. "What?"

Robin points the remaining half of the cookie at Steve. “You are a lucky fuck, you know that?"

Steve grins knowingly. "How so?"

“How so?” Robin repeats, her voice full of theatrical disbelief. “Let me count the ways. One: she bakes.” She takes another bite, speaking around it. “And well, might I add. The chocolate is still melty. The edges are crisp. The centre is chewy without being raw."

"Two: she looks at you like you invented the concept of joy. Even after you were a monumental dingus. The freaking loyalty, oh my God." She pops the final piece of the cookie into her mouth. "And three: you do not deserve her. And yet, here she is."

Steve's grin hasn't faded as he turns his attention from Robin's impassioned rant to you. Your face is burning with flustered embarrassment.

He leans down to turn you on the stool so you’re facing him, your knees bumping his legs. “She’s right,” he murmurs. “I am a lucky fuck. The luckiest. And I definitely do not deserve you. But I'm gonna try to."

“You don’t have to try that hard,” you whisper.

“Yes, he does,” Robin interjects, leaning on the counter. “The minimum effort is daily compliments, foot rubs on request, and never using the word ‘suffocating’ for the rest of his life.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s still looking at you, a lovestruck smile on his face. He leans down to give you a kiss. It’s slow. Sweet. A gentle press of his lips to yours that feels like a promise sealed. When he pulls back, just an inch, he’s smiling, his nose brushing against yours.

“Alright, that’s my cue! I’m clocking out early before I develop diabetes from second-hand sweetness,” Robin announces, grabbing her bag and scattering off, the bell jingling after her.

The store is suddenly, wonderfully quiet. It’s just the two of you, surrounded by shelves of movies and the late afternoon sun streaming through the window.

Steve doesn’t move away. He stays right there, looking down at you, his features soft with adoration.

“Hi,” he says, his voice a low, warm rumble, as if he’s greeting you for the first time all over again.

“Hi,” you whisper back, feeling a fresh, giddy shyness bubble up.

One of his hands comes up, his fingers gently brushing a stray crumb from the corner of your mouth. His touch lingers, his thumb smoothing over your bottom lip. “You’ve got a little…” he murmurs, his eyes fixed on your mouth.

“Oh,” you breathe, your lips tingling under his thumb.

Instead of pulling away, he leans in and kisses you again. This one is even softer than the last, just a tender press of his lips, over and over, as if he’s savouring the taste of chocolate and you and love. When he finally leans back, his eyes are dark with a soft, dazed kind of wonder.

“So sweet,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You duck your head, but he catches your chin with a gentle finger, tilting it back up.

“Hey,” he coaxes. “None of that. Look at me.” You do. His smile is unbearably fond. “There you are. My gorgeous girl.”

The praise, so sincerely given, makes you squirm with happy embarrassment. “Steve,” you whine softly, a feeble protest under his attention.

He chuckles. “What? It’s true.” His hands slide from your face down to your waist, his grip firm and sure. “You’re sitting here, at my work, swinging your feet and blushing ‘cos I called you gorgeous. It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

You bite your lip to stop the ridiculous, happy smile that wants to take over your whole face. It doesn’t work. You’re beaming at him, and he looks like you’ve just given him the sun.

Steve's heart feels too big for his chest. “God, you’re pretty,” he breathes, the words falling out, reverent and awestruck. “The most stunning, beautiful girl in the whole damn world.”

You’re melting, a puddle of adoration in his hands. “You’re so… much,” you manage to whisper.

He grins, that lopsided, heart-stopping grin. “Only for you, sweetheart.” He kisses the tip of your nose, which makes you scrunch it up, and him smile. “Only ever for you.”

So, Steve Harrington is mean.

Well, not mean, exactly. He’s just… Steve. Which is to say, his voice still carries a permanent layer of exasperation, but it’s reserved for idiot customers and broken VCRs. He still speaks in a shorthand of sighs and grumbles, but they’re directed at Dustin’s latest conspiracy theory and the never-ending mess in the break room.

He is, and always will be, a little bit of a grump. A lovable grump with a sharp tongue and a low tolerance for nonsense.

But not to you. Never to you.

To you, his voice is soft. His sighs are breaths of contentment against your hair. Now, you are, in his lexicon, “sweetheart,” “angel,” and most frequently, “baby”. He calls you “kid” only when he’s teasing, his eyes sparkling with affection. He still ruffles your hair, but now it’s a prelude to tucking you under his chin. He still flicks your forehead, but it’s feather-light, followed by a kiss to the same spot.

He finds your attention breathtaking. He knows he doesn’t deserve it, but he’s going to spend every day of his life trying to be a man who does. His high school crown is gone, his hair is less perfect, and his most exciting evening plans now and forever involve you.

You're terrible at hiding your adoration, shining from your eyes every time he walks into a room. He no longer finds it baffling. He finds it home.

And when he comes home after a long day, his shoulders tight with the weight of the world, and sees you curled on the sofa waiting for him... the grumpiness melts away. The sharp tongue gentles. The guard drops.

“Hey, baby,” he’ll murmur, as he sinks down beside you and pulls you into his lap.

“Hi, Steve,” you’ll whisper, nuzzling into his neck.

And he’ll sigh, soft and deep, and press a kiss to your hair. “Missed you,” he'll say.

Sometimes, the air in your house will smell like brown sugar and warm chocolate. He’ll pause in the doorway, smiling.

“You baked,” he’ll state, the words soft with awe.

You’ll nod from your spot on the couch, a little shy, always so pleased to have done something for him. “Extra chips,” you’ll say, just like that first time, but now your voice is sure, your smile confident in his love. “Just like you like.”

He’ll toe off his shoes and cross the room, not to the kitchen for a cookie, but to you. He’ll sink down and gather you close, burying his face in the curve of your shoulder.

“Perfect,” he’ll murmur against your skin, and he won’t be talking about the cookies.

Later, he’ll eat three in a row, making ridiculous, happy noises of appreciation, and you’ll laugh, tucked under his arm, your heart so full you think it might glow. He’ll kiss your temple, his lips dusted with sugar, and whisper, “I love you, sweetheart.”

There's no grand gesture. No dramatic, romantic declaration of love, but you wouldn't want one anyway. You just want him. Steve. Your Steve. Mean to the world, impossibly, beautifully soft with you.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA forgets entire conversations in the middle of his sentences when he catches a glimpse of you moving around in your seat in the front. his friends are nudging him, asking if he’s even listening, and he just grunts with those red eyes still locked on you.

“yeah, no. sounds good.”

“the fuck? i asked what we’re doing after class.”

“yeah, no. that’s fine.”

most of his mates give up at that point.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA finally sits next to you one day. shit, he doesn’t even really process walking down to the front row. one second he’s in the back, the next he’s plopping into the seat beside you like it’s nothing. obviously not thinking about it was the method, since overthinking only made him more nervous every other time he’d tried. you look up at him with a cute little confused expression, and he feels the rush of the blush hit him all at once, the fact that you’re right there, close enough to touch. he clears his throat and leans back trying to act like he’s totally normal about you.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA tries to make some easy small talk but immediately fumbles the bag. he taps his pen against the desk, glancing at your notes inquisitively.

“you always write this much? fuck.” he asks with a nervous laugh, like he’s not hanging on your answer.

you look at him a bit startled that not only was he still sitting there, but he was also talking to you. you nod, starting to explain the topic in that quiet voice of yours. he listens with open ears, your speech like gospel, the tone of your voice now engrained in his mind. he’s never been lucky enough to hear your voice before, but as of now it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever heard.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA tries to keep up the conversation, but now he has a million things to worry about. does he look okay? is there potentially something in his teeth? fuck, what did he have for breakfast? but most of all, he can’t stop gawking at you, you’re way prettier up close. he keeps clocking the way your eyes flutter down when he looks at you too long. you smile shyly when he thanks you for explaining something, and the way you had your notes set out really impressed him. everything about you felt all but too overwhelming, he wasn’t sure if he could keep this up any longer without throwing up from the nerves.

nevertheless, FRATBOY!SUKUNA tries with all he is to keep you on the hook. “you’re such a clever girl, you ever… study somewhere else? like, not here?” he asks awkwardly in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. you blink at him, then mention a café you like to visit on occasion. he jumps at the opportunity and nods too fast, “we could go, like, together. or whatever. maybe.” real smooth, ryomen.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA then asks for your number all nonchalant. he slides his phone across the desk toward you, trying to keep his face nice and neutral and not dusted with pink. “y’should put your number in,” he says with a smirk, masking the goofy smile he wants to let out. “so we can arrange n’ shit.” you hesitate for sec, then take it, typing your number in with a small pull to your lips. he watches your fingers, not even pretending to look away. when you hand it back, he feels very weirdly proud, like he just won the golden lotto.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA walks into the frat that night with a fat grin on his dumb face. he kicks the door open loudly, calling out to everyone, “oi, guess who got her number.” the boys present in the house erupt with sarcastic cheers and praise, and gojo stalks up to him and pats him on the back.

“m’ gonna be honest i didn’t think your dumb, loser, good for nothing ass would ever-”

“shut the fuck up.”

FRATBOY!SUKUNA, after all the commotion of the evening settles, is back in his room alone. to be honest, he’s kinda stressing over whether to send you a message or not. i mean, he really, really wants to, but what if you think he’s a loser for texting you not even five hours after meeting?

he's sprawled back on his bed, phone in hand, your contact open on his screen. he’s been staring at it for a good five minutes and decides that he’s just gonna bite the bullet and stop being a pussy.

sukuna [9:42pm]: yo, its sukuna

sukuna [9:42pm]: from class today

you [9:43pm]: i know who you are 😭

sukuna [9:43pm]: okay damn

sukuna [9:43pm]: i'm glad you said yes to going out

you [9:44pm]: oh? i didn’t know it was like that

sukuna [9:44pm]: like what

you [9:45pm]: like a date..?

he pauses with his thumb hovering over the screen, staring at your message a second too long with an increasingly reddening face before typing again.

sukuna [9:46pm]: depends

sukuna [9:46pm]: you want it to be a date?

you [9:47pm]: mmm

you [9:47pm]: do you?

sukuna [9:48pm]: wouldn’t have asked if i didn’t

you [9:49pm]: i seee

you [9:49pm]: first date... kinda nervous...

sukuna [9:49pm]: oh wow, your first one? i'll make it good, promise.

there’s a small bit of time, then three dots that come and go about three times.

you [9:50pm]: why did you even ask me

you [9:50pm]: you’ve never talked to me before? 😭

sukuna [9:51pm]: been looking at you for a while icl

sukuna [9:51pm]: just never did anything about it till now

you [9:52pm]: oh i see

you [9:52pm]: why me?

sukuna [9:53pm]: don’t know

sukuna [9:53pm]: you’re quiet but not in a boring way

sukuna [9:53pm]: you actually know what you’re doing in class

sukuna [9:54pm]: kinda into that

you [9:54pm]: kinda?

sukuna [9:55pm]: mkay

sukuna [9:55pm]: very

you [9:55pm]: ahh

sukuna [9:56pm]: what

sukuna [9:56pm]: you asked

you [9:56pm]: i didn’t think you’d give me a legitimate answer

sukuna [9:57pm]: i don’t lie about that stuff

...

sukuna [9:58pm]: you got insta?

you [9:58pm]: mhmm

sukuna [9:59pm]: send it overr

you [9:59pm]: wow ure bossy

sukuna [10:00pm]: sorry sorry

sukuna [10:00pm]: please send me your instagram?

he doesn’t know it, but you too are smiling sweetly at the messages.

you [10:01pm]: okay okay it’s @/y/n

sukuna [10:01pm]: got it

a second later.

sukuna [10:01pm]: followed

you [10:02pm]: i see it

you [10:02pm]: don’t stalk too hard

sukuna [10:03pm]: no promises

you [10:03pm]: 💔💔

sukuna [10:04pm]: i’ll text you tomorrow, yeah?

sukuna [10:04pm]: we’ll figure out when to go

you [10:05pm]: okay :)

sukuna [10:05pm]: night sweetheart

you [10:05pm]: goodnight sukuna

FRATBOY!SUKUNA immediately stalks your instagram. his phone’s now mere inches from his face as he scrolls slowly. every single photo gets a long, long look. there’s ones of you in cafés, you with your friends, you smiling up at the camera like you don’t know how good you look. he zooms in on stupid details, your pretty little outfits, your coffee order in one pic, the way you pose so sweetly. god, why did you have to be cool and cute? the swag gap was getting bigger.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA can’t stop thinking about you in the lead up to your little date. he gets a haircut and tells his barber to make him look ‘sexy as fuck,’ makes sure to go to the gym the morning of your little date so he has a nice pump, and takes the time the night before to lay out a nicely curated fit. (he couldn’t let you fit mog him on the first date, but by the looks of your instagram, that seemed highly likely.)

“nanami! c'mere.” he yells down the hall an hour before what might have been the single most important outing of his life.

“what?”

“do i look good?”

nanami rolls his eyes and begins to leave, not in the mood for sukuna’s little ego boost shenanigans.

“wait! no, no. m’ serious. i’ve got a date with that girl i told you about.”

this piques the blonde’s interest, and he takes the time to actually look his friend up and down. he smiles at the air of nervousness he can sense and pats the tatted man on the shoulder.

“you look ‘sexy as fuck’, ryo.”

FRATBOY!SUKUNA 's at that cafe a full twenty minutes before you'd planned. first date nerves, or whatever. he’s picked a booth that's tucked away and ordered the coffee he’d remembered from your instagram to arrive at the table in time for when you were supposed to get there. and when you do get there, the man has to say a prayer and thank his lucky stars that he’d worked up the courage to ask you out, because holy shit, you looked perfect. (swag gap, definitely still there.)

after standing up far too abruptly, he apologises to the chair he’d almost toppled over then walks up to you, a bashful smile on his face.

“yo, you look real pretty.” he mentally slaps himself for how gojo that sounded, but it was the most prominent thought up in his head.

“oh... thank you.” you reply softly, toying with the fabric of your shirt and avoiding his eyes with a flush.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA thinks he might just implode with cuteness aggression. that easy tone from your texts was gone, left with your careful, slightly anxious voice. he was gonna change that.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA talks your ear off in an attempt to ease both yours and his nerves, but just ends up totally fumbling every single sentence.

“so... d’you go to the gym? i mean, not that you need to. i do. even went this morning to get a good pump for you, could ya tell?”

“oh, you like mitski? that’s cool, that’s cool. i like druski, they kinda sound the same.”

“your hair looks real nice, does mine? i got a haircut for this by the way, needa look good for you.”

FRATBOY!SUKUNA thinks he’s totally fucked this up by now. but when he’s done rambling and winces to look back at you to see how you’re taking his horribly embarrassing monologue, you’re staring up at him with a fond smile, and he softens up and relaxes.

“do i.. make you nervous, sukuna?” you tease.

that starts the ice breaker conversation that kicks off the next three hours of non. stop. talking.

you two discuss everything and anything there is to discuss, you take turns telling each other what your favourite such and suchs are, and most importantly, the awkwardness from before is nowhere to be seen, you were meshing well.

in the final moments of the stellar date he’s almost sure he dreamt up, FRATBOY!SUKUNA sits and stares at you for a second. you're all smiley from talking, looking down at your mug, swirling the liquid in your cup, and both you and the cozy cafe background look so pretty. so, he snaps a picture.

“ah! did you just-”

“sorry, sorry. you just looked really good.” he flips the phone to show you, and it might’ve been the nicest candid anyone’s ever taken of you. “i can delete it if you want, just thought it’d match the vibe you’ve got goin on on your instagr-”

“please send that to me.” you interrupt, staring in awe at the photo.

the man just smiles, loving the way you perk up. “i’ll do you one better.”

and just like that, that photo is sitting on his story, your handle tagged at the bottom with a white heart.

you felt like crying, he had to be really down bad to be posting you this early on, but you weren’t complaining.

that night, FRATBOY!SUKUNA's phone explodes with countless dm's asking him about the cute girl in his new story. friends, friends of friends, friends of friends of friends, old flings, recent flings, his mum, everyone. he ignores them, though, silencing his instagram notifications. he had better things to do, like text you.

sukuna [11:12pm]: that was the best date i’ve ever been on

you [11:13pm]: you’re so right actually

sukuna [11:13pm]: nh i’m so serious

sukuna [11:14pm]: like

sukuna [11:14pm]: i was lowkey stressing all day for that icl

sukuna [11:15pm]: but i had a really good time

sukuna [11:15pm]: so thanks for saying yes to coming

you [11:16pm]: that’s freaking cute omg 😭

you [11:16pm]: i also had a lot of funnnn!!

you [11:17pm]: i liked hearing you talk about your interests and such

you [11:17pm]: you’ve got a lot of unexpected interests, i love it 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

well i love you... too early? yeah, maybe.

sukuna [11:18pm]: unexpected is crazy

sukuna [11:18pm]: how fratty do u think i am

you [11:19pm]: nooo that's not it, shuddup

you [11:19pm]: it was really nice

sukuna [11:20pm]: well you’re nice

sukuna [11:20pm]: and you dress nice

sukuna [11:20pm]: actually

sukuna [11:21pm]: you dress really nice

sukuna [11:21pm]: i noticed that straight away

sukuna [11:21pm]: you’ve got like

sukuna [11:22pm]: a really cool thing going on im kinda jealous

sukuna [11:22pm]: don’t know how to explain it

sukuna [11:22pm]: but yeah

you [11:23pm]: oh my gosh thank you so much

you [11:23pm]: thank you thank you thank you

you [11:23pm]: i try so hard, its good to have a little recognition 💪

sukuna [11:24pm]: nah you don’t even try

sukuna [11:24pm]: that’s the annoying part istg

sukuna [11:24pm]: you just look like that

you [11:25pm]: oh my gosh

you [11:25pm]: stop i will cry

sukuna [11:25pm]: i’m being so serious

sukuna [11:26pm]: you gotta help me dress better or something

sukuna [11:26pm]: i can’t be showing up next to you looking stupid

you [11:27pm]: you don’t look stupid!

you [11:27pm]: your outfits are always nice ive thought that for ages, even before we talked

you [11:27pm]: you don’t need my help

sukuna [11:28pm]: i do actually

sukuna [11:28pm]: c'mon i’m asking nicely

you [11:29pm]: mm

you [11:29pm]: i mean

you [11:29pm]: i could help you

sukuna [11:30pm]: yeah?

you [11:30pm]: help you get undressed LOLLL

FRATBOY!SUKUNA's never felt his cock throb as hard as it just did. girls have sent him videos with sound and he's never popped a boner that quick. one, flirty message from you and boom, rock hard erection in the span of ten seconds. he has to take a breath, throw his phone away, and look up at his ceiling for a good five minutes to calm down.

sukuna [11:37pm]: lol you want me bad

you [11:38pm]: first time flirting... kinda nervous...

FRATBOY!SUKUNA comes to class, he completely ignores his friends and plops down next to you with your coffee in hand. his boys boo him later for it and call him a love-struck loser, but he just tells them to shut up, and doesn’t move back.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA starts bringing his school shit to class. notebooks, even pens that actually have ink in them. he leans over your notes more than his own, asking questions under his breath and nudging your arm when he misses something the prof says. you start expecting him now, shuffling your stuff to the side to make space before he even sits down.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA follows you to the library one afternoon when you mention you’re heading there to study. he just blurts, “i’ll come,” and boom, study partner. he hates the place, it’s far too quiet for him, but he sits across from you anyway with his long legs stretched out under the table, trying his best not to get bored. and to his surprise, he doesn’t. he watches you all pretty and focused, and it makes his heart thump with affection, that cute way you tap your pen when you’re thinking and how you push your hair back when it falls forward. he ends up actually doing some work. not great work, but still.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA starts making it a routine centered around you. go to class, then the library, then drive you home. every day. you mention that you could just take the bus once, but he cuts you off with a foul look. “don’t be stupid, i’ve got a whole ass car,” he says it flippantly and yet, he’s grabbing your bag for you, slinging it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. the drives get longer each time, and it’s not because of traffic, but because he takes the long way on purpose. he plays music he knows you like, the windows are cracked, and you end up talking about everything. he definitely doesn’t rush to drop you off, no. petrol was expensive, but you were worth every cent.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA’s smoking up on the porch with choso one night when he gets a ping from you and fumbles to answer it.

choso watches with a tired smile and chuckles, “grown ass man,” choso mutters, nudging him with his foot.

sukuna scoffs weakly. “shut up.”

“you’re so into her.”

“really?” sukuna rolls his eyes, dragging a hand down his face. “i am. like… a lot.” he sighs. “she’s not like anyone i’ve messed with before. i just... i adore that girl.”

choso hums in acknowledgment.

“i think she’s a real keeper,” sukuna adds. “it’s just... never had something like this before.”

“like... a girlfriend?”

“mhm.”

“the fuck?”

FRATBOY!SUKUNA rolls his eyes again and explains, “dunno, just never really felt a connection with anyone like that before. her, though? fuck me....” he blows smoke into the starry sky, thinking a little longer before adding, “scared i’m gonna fuck it up.”

choso takes a second before answering, calm as ever. “just don’t overthink it, yeah? be yourself, you’re already doing fine. treat her right, that’s all there is to it.”

sukuna lets that sit, nods slowly. “yeah.” he glances over, bumps his shoulder into him. “thanks.”

FRATBOY!SUKUNA takes that advice and runs with it. he starts asking you out more, not just study sessions, but actual plans. food after class, quick stops at random places he thinks you’d like, late night drives just because you both feel like talking together. he pays every time without making it a big deal, just taps his card and moves on. he remembers little things you mention and brings them up later, making your head dizzy with adoration.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA gets closer to asking you the big question every single time he drops you off. it sits right there on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down at the last second. not yet... he wants it to be just right. he wants you to look at him like you already do, just a little more.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA drives you home one afternoon after a particularly long sesh in the library. the sky’s turning shades of red and orange, that late golden kind of light. you slide into his car, smiling, and he just stares for a second before shaking himself out of the daze. “you hungry?” he asks, already starting up the engine.

“i meannnn,”

he smiles at your cheek and takes you to your favourite drive thru without needing any directions.

“you remember my favourite place?” you ask.

he shrugs. “yeah. you talk a lot.”

you talk a lot now, at least.

you laugh, and he thinks he’d come here single every day if it meant hearing that beautiful sound.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA doesn’t head straight to your place after, he drives up this hill just outside town and parks facing the blooming horizon. it’s pretty, you even comment that it’s pretty, but when you look to him to see if he’s agreed, he’s looking at you instead.

“hm, what’s up?” you query.

he exhales like he’s been holding it in all day, then he turns his whole body to you, one muscular arm resting on the wheel.

“i wanna be your boyfriend,” he says. there’s no joke or some inside gag you didn’t know about, no. he’s being one hundred percent honest and you can tell by the way he’s looking you dead set in the eye.

“genuinely. i want that. really fucking bad.”

although you’re terribly caught off guard, you still smile, looking up at the man who’s staring at you so utterly in love.

“yeah? well i’d really like that,” you reply.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA lets out a breath and a laugh of relief. his shoulders drop, the harsh tension easing up, and there’s this small, disbelieving smile pulling at his mouth.

by now you’re both just cheesing at one another, laughing in short bursts and looking away shyly. but when your eyes lock again, you can’t ignore the pull that drags you close.

closer, and closer, until your eyes are shut and his lips are pressing ever so gently to yours.

the sunsets in it's last phase, the red and pinks painting the car in a deep, warm ambiance. he pulls back, then cups your cheek softly.

“you’re my girlfriend now, yeah?”

“yes, ryo. m' all yours.”

“first girlfriend.. kinda nervous...”

“we hang out too much.” you giggle, and he kisses you again.

"that's a problem i always wanna have."

a/n: i missed writing this dumb stupid guy

“I’ve got nothing.” You placed your hands to the back of your head, slugging back at your desk chair with a groan. Even after hours of thinking about your next issue, nothing came to mind. Utahime leaned over, peeking at the blank screen, watching as the cursor blinked. “Oh sweetheart, you’ve got writer's block?” You nodded, poking your tongue against your cheek. 

“I just wish I could write about something other than how to properly wax your armpits, or how to lose weight in 5 days. There’s real world problems out there that I would love to bring awareness to.” 

“Yeah well, this is a chic magazine, not a political magazine. Once you have your career and you’re out of this hell hole, write all about what you want.” Utahime reasoned. She was right, this wasn’t a job, it’s just a club that writes for the school. 

“Where’s Miwa when you need her?” Your voice came out in a whine, slamming your fingers at your keyboard. Utahime glanced around the room, looking for the familiar blue hair. “She’s late. The meeting began over half an hour ago.” 

She sighed, stepping back when you pushed off your desk. “Look what came into my mail this morning.” You grumbled. Utahume’s ears perked up, reaching for the envelope. Inside were two tickets to the world cup. USA versus Paraguay, middle seats, perfect view. “Woah ho-ho, what are these?” 

“Remember that editor from the sports magazine I had a drink or two with last week? Guess he mistook my kindness for flirting or maybe he really appreciated me being the sweet girl I am.” 

“Must be nice.” 

You both turned to the voice behind you, making you and Utahime jump in fear. 

“Miwa! Jesus.” Your hand grabbed onto your chest, feeling your heartbeat accelerate. There were dark circles underneath her eyes and the ruined mascara evidence of tears. “What happened to you?” 

“What didn’t happen?” She sniffled, dragging his hand over her stuffy nose. “He dumped me. Oh my god, he dumped me.” 

“Get her a cigarette.” Utahime whispered. You hurriedly digged into your purse, taking out the box of cigs, handing them over to Miwa. “You guys didn’t make it past two weeks.” You hit Utahime’s stomach with your elbow, making her wince. 

“I know. And it was the best goddamn week and a half of my life.” 

“What even happened girl?” You opened up your arms to comfort her in a hug that she happily accepted. “I don’t really wanna talk about it.” 

You nodded, rubbing her back. 

Then, she broke down again. “He said I was ‘too much’ and I didn’t understand because I thought everything was going great! It was great and I blew it all up because I moved too quickly.” 

“What do you mean?” Utahime rested against the desk after trying her long hair into a ponytail in hopes of escaping the hot weather. “Don’t tell me you said ‘I love you’, that’s common sense.” She snickered. 

“Well..” 

“Miwa.” You and Utahime scolded. 

“The sex was really beautiful!” Miwa added, as if that made matters better. “And I cried and I said it, it just slipped out!” 

“That’s why he ended it?” 

“I think. Or maybe it was because of the amount of times I called him while he was “busy” or y’know, it’s probably because I’m fat.” 

“You’re not fat.” Your voices came out in unison once again. As you continued scolding Miwa for her poor choices in the ephemeral relationship, a lightbulb turned on inside Utahime's head. She clapped her hands in order to get your attention. “There it is. There’s your page.” 

“My page?” 

“Uh huh. Think about all those girls on this campus who are struggling just like Miwa. Ones that have problems hanging on to relationships. You can write about these classic mistakes most women do that drive men away.” 

You stood up straighter, all kinds of ideas popping into your head. “That’s not bad at all. I can ‘date’ a guy and see how long it takes until he snaps.” 

Your friend nodded, squealing. “Yes!” She clasped her hands with yours, jumping up and down. “It’ll be titled ‘How to lose a guy in 10 ways..” Utahime looked over to her fourth wall, moving her hand to the side to picture the title. 

Miwa blew her nose loudly, reminding you that she was still here. 

“How about ‘How to lose a guy in 10 days?’ That’s the total you guys were together right?” You cringed when Miwa threw her used tissue on your desk. “Yes, that’s right.” 

“Perfect. Now all that’s left is to find the guy.” 

The windows in the classroom were open, letting the slight breeze pass in. Outside, a whistle blew along with some yelling. “I can’t focus with all the chatter, what’s even going on?” You all made your way towards the window, peeking out. The soccer team was lined up, some doing reps while others stood by, discussing some very serious matter. 

“They’re getting ready for an upcoming game.” You leaned forward, hair blowing all over the place. The field was buzzing with energy, cleats full of the freshly cut grass. Miwa walked away, crying once again. “I saw him just now.” 

“Oh my god Miwa.” Utahime followed after her. 

You stayed put, skimming through the small crowd until someone stood out. His white hair almost blinded you from the sun’s reflection. The guy was tall and well built, you could tell even from a distance. “What about him?” 

“Who?” 

“Number 10.” 

Utahime immediately groaned. “Oh absolutely not. He’d drive you insane before you even got to try your little experiment first.” 

“Do you know him personally?” Your eyes never left him. 

“Satoru Gojo. Went to high school with him, worst guy ever. He never knows when to shut up.” You finally left the window, deep in thought. “Then I guess I’ll be the one to change him up.” 

⋆˚꩜｡

The team was still outside having practice games, taking turns shooting at the net. A boy with hair thrown up into a bun kicked harshly only to miss, earning a groan from others. “Yo man, it’s like you've got two left legs!” 

“I’ll shove them both up your ass if you don’t shut the fuck up.” 

Yikes. You lingered a moment before going over to the bleachers. There he was, standing with both hands on his hips, getting ready to catch the ball. 

“How do you plan on talking to him?” Miwa leaned over to whisper into your ear. You hushed her, about to scold her for her attempt at whispering when suddenly, the ball came flying directly at you, hitting you straight in the face. 

A sharp pain struck across your nose, making you bring your hands up to cover it. 

“Oh my god!” Miwa’s voice jumped an octave, grabbing your arm to gently tug it off your face. “Hold on, let me see!”

Another voice appeared, one that was breathless and panicked. “Shit, I’m so so sorry! Are you okay? I have a super bad aim today for some reason.” Your eyes widened when they met him, it was Satoru, looking down at you with a worried look on his face. 

He was even more oddly beautiful up close. 

“Uh.. it’s fine.” You managed out. 

“Are you sure? You don’t look fine.” He chuckled, wiping the small drop of blood that dripped out your nostril. “That’s gonna leave a bruise.” If it wasn’t for your article, you would've punched him repeatedly to break his nose. “I’m sorry again.. Uh I can go get you ice-”

“No, no it's fine, seriously.” 

Miwa gave you a look, one that was urging you to ask him for his number or anything. “You can make it up to me some other way..” Your words slipped out suddenly. Satoru’s brows lifted. “Yeah? What way are we talking here?” 

A grin was slowly morphing its way onto his face. 

“.. By taking me out.” 

“Out?”

“On a date.”

taglist -

@chosos-prettyprincess @clinically-confused @cursedkisss @ghostlady22 @yunaaaar @b-ql3r @gojoswaterbottle @chhwrts @elainananana123 @volleyballgirl2022 @nyanglock @clvskett @jjunieffer @iiwaizumiii @whimsypony @serratedmarionetteturtle @bloopsstuff @onlykuna @nerdjosslut @luvzbloomx @lisabelhyhn @stinkinstuffie @voidst4r @sanzusslvvt @socialawkwardbutterfly @matchaveins @imikkim @raineyr @daniela75201 @evrjni @d1himejoshi @sukunaslilsocks @brunettebombshell72    @djlmg @luvs-angel @iamarealmicrowave @yourmagnanimousholiness

Most of the time When he looks at me I change my mind And I don’t think he even cares a bit How much I have to give Just as long as I’m awake To love him every day [...] Of all the people in the world [He] says my name the best Most of the Time, Jackie Evans

From his seat on the couch, Jaeyun stares at the golden inflated balloons spelling out ‘Congratulations, Y/N!’ on the wall of your aunt’s living room. The more he stares, the more the capital letters seem to be mocking him. 

He allows himself one last moment of selfishness, during which he thinks the last thing he wants to do, today or ever, is to congratulate you on getting your one-way ticket out of this town. He downs his fruit punch and winces at the overly sweet, artificial taste, then marches towards the crowd around you, trying on different smiles that might seem convincing. None of them fit.

August is nearing its end already. Summer has always felt lazy, molasses-slow, pleasantly neverending to Jaeyun—this year, it blinked by him. He closed his eyes as the schoolbell rang for their last ever period; he opens them again and he is here. Wasn’t prom just yesterday? Graduation? Did he realize that the last bonfire party was just that, the last? 

Your birthday isn’t for another week, but you’re leaving tomorrow. Everyone huddles around you, eagerly awaiting your reaction as you open gifts. If it wasn’t for the presents and the chocolate fudge cake waiting in the fridge, this wouldn’t be a birthday party so much as a going-away party. The dreadful words on your wall make that clear: everyone here knows you’re much happier about leaving than about turning eighteen. You said so yourself a few days earlier, and Jaeyun tried his hardest not to burst into tears.

“I can celebrate my birthday every year. I’ll only get accepted into the program of my dreams once.” 

You were sitting, just the two of you, atop one of the hills that overlooked your town. Jaeyun knew that when you looked out, you already saw your past, while he could only see his whole life, past, present and future indistinguishable from each other, spreading out for miles and miles and miles. 

Up until a few months ago, when Jaeyun looked at you, he could only see his whole life. But ever since you received your acceptance letter, he hasn’t been so sure. He watched as you celebrated leaving him behind, stayed silent as you raved about your plans for the future. Plans he wasn’t a part of. These past months have been the only time seeing you smile made him sad.

He stays at the back of the small crowd, close enough to make out your presents as you unwrap them but not quite joining in. Hands in his back pockets, he wears his best neutral expression一if he can’t fake a smile, he can at least try and not look so depressed. As your friend, he owes you that much. He might hate every moment of this but he’d feel even worse, knowing he was raining on your parade.

You seem to like your gifts. After spending your teenage years together, your friends know what you like. Scented candles, cute notebooks that you’ll probably keep preciously rather than actually use, a personalized calendar for the upcoming school year with a different picture of you and your loved ones every month. Jaeyun shows up a few times in group pictures; it’s just the two of you in April, which is too far away for his liking. Far away enough for you to have forgotten all about him.

As you flip through the calendar, despite your friends’ protest for the pictures to be a surprise each month, it’s on April that you linger the most. There’s a small smile on your face, a sad smile. Your fingers play with the pendant on your necklace, Jaeyun’s gift that he gave you before everyone else even arrived. It was too intimate a gift for him to hand it to you in front of all your friends. He almost died of embarrassment when your eyebrows rose at the sight of the delicate, silver chain, of the letter ‘J’ hanging off it, and it was just the two of you; if anyone else had been in the room, his shyness would’ve gotten the best of him, and the jewelry box would’ve stayed safely tucked in his coat pocket.

You lift your gaze towards him. He didn’t even know you’d noticed him joining everyone, and yet your eyes found him immediately. He has no idea what on Earth is going through your head. Are you finally realizing that the days of seeing each other every single day are over? Are you finally figuring him out, how it isn’t only friendship that has kept him by your side all these years, but the feeling deep in his gut that he gets whenever he thinks of you?

Do you have that feeling, too?

Your eyes shine. For a second, Jaeyun thinks you might start to cry. Then someone, Miji or Yurim, who knows, says that she’s on the next page. Your gaze falls back to the calendar in your hands. Your fingers let go of your necklace, and you flip Jaeyun’s page.

.

.

A tight ball of dread has been sitting in your stomach ever since you got that letter in the mail. You’ve tried to rationalize it many ways: it feels weird to receive a wedding invitation, the first from someone out of your childhood group of friends. Even more so when that someone is the girl you called your best friend for all of your teenage years, but you aren’t sure you deserve that title anymore. Even more so when you’re 28 and couldn’t be further from drafting a wedding invitation yourself.

You know what it really is: it’s the address for the reception, the name of a place in which you haven’t set foot in years blinking innocently up at you. It’s the second piece of paper inside the envelope, a handwritten note asking you to come a few days earlier so that all of you “can gather just like the good old times.”

I’m getting married, Y/N. I’m turning into a proper adult. I just want one last time of feeling like a sixteen year old, and I can’t have that without you here. Say you’ll be there, pretty please? XX

You remember sighing after reading that note, your brain already coming up with excuses to justify your future absence, fully aware that you wouldn’t miss this wedding for the world. 

Damn Chaewon, you thought then, and still regularly think now. Damn her and her emotional manipulation, as you’ve decided to view it, forcing you to make that dreaded trip home—not that you really consider that place home anymore.

It was a wonder that you and Chaewon were such good friends back then, good enough to still keep in touch throughout your adult lives. Just like every baby in the family, she was born in the upstairs bedroom of their home, the mayor’s daughter, known and loved by everyone in town, and had always adored her small-town life. You showed up out of nowhere at age fourteen, initially making no effort to befriend anyone, annoyed by the whispers that followed you. You wanted to leave as soon as you arrived, and you eventually did; although along the way, Chaewon’s kind-heartedness melted even your ice walls, and you gradually opened the gates to let the other kids in.

For almost a decade, you’ve been working to close those gates again. You were almost there; they were barely agape, there was just that tiny thread that kept an infinitesimal part of you tethered to that place, and you were sure it was close to snapping. Chaewon and her damn wedding invitation pushed the gates back open, and it took you all your strength to not look back and walk through again.

You left something there, and you aren’t sure you’re ready to retrieve it. 

The ball of dread, as though tethered to a chain around your ankle, won’t stop following you. Up until now, you hadn’t noticed how much everything around you seemed to revolve around romance. The TV you watched. The content on your phone. Couples in the street. Even your work was full of it. You’re the editor for the Culture and Media segment of Limelight Monthly, the magazine you work at, not Relationships or even Lifestyle, and yet, in the weeks after receiving the invitation, it felt like all your staff could write about were the latest romance novels everyone raved about online, the best reality TV shows about exes getting back together or forever-singles searching for their first love, and which destinations were the most romantic for couples to travel to this summer. 

You do a good job hiding it at first. Although you’re not as focused as you usually are reading your staff’s articles to greenlight them for publication, two years of doing this job means no typos or clunky sentences pass you by. You make sure to greet everyone with your usual cheer, and you don’t miss any Thursday evening afterwork drinks, a tradition of your team’s. Most of the time, you’re able to relegate Chaewon’s wedding and everything it entails to the back of your mind, but it’ll come back up at random moments. You’ll be filling the kettle for tea in the communal kitchen when a certain face will fill the forefront of your thoughts; your heart will start beating uncontrollably, and before you know it, water will be overflowing from the kettle and onto your hands. You’ll stare at the awfully familiar name of a book character in one of your coworkers’ reviews and only snap out of it once someone’s called your name three times in a row, like being summoned out of a trance. 

These moments are few and far between, but they add up. When your coworkers ask you whether everything’s okay, at first, it’s lighthearted, like they’re just curious about what got you so lost in your thoughts. Slowly, eyebrows start to furrow, concern starts creeping in their eyes and voice. You’re one zone-out away from an intervention. A few days ago, you overheard Juhee and Haewon, your team’s two most recent recruits, whispering in the break room about their concern for your well-being: “I think she goes home and just, I don’t know, has takeaway and white wine in front of her TV.”

They’re wrong about the takeaway. You’re actually a pretty decent cook. The rest of their sentiment, however… Well.

It takes Minjeong, your favorite coworker-turned-friend, a couple of weeks before she decides to take matters into her own hands. One Tuesday after work, she waits for you outside the building’s main entrance, and as soon as you step outside, grabs your wrist and drags you to the subway station that’ll lead both of you to her apartment. “I’m making you chicken alfredo and you’re telling me what the hell is wrong with you,” she says before you can protest.

You wrench your wrist out of her grasp, shrug on the bag strap that had fallen off your shoulder with a discontented huff, and follow her anyway. “Fine, but I’m only coming for the chicken alfredo.”

“I’ll tie you down to the chair until you speak.”

“Kinky.”

She halts dead in her tracks in the middle of the busy street, ignoring the nasty stares from the other homebound office workers heading for the station. She turns to face you, wearing a severe expression. “I’ve known you for five years, and you’ve never cried in front of me. Not even when we watched Titanic.”

Nonplussed, you reply, “I already knew how it ended.”

“That’s not the point. It’s usually impossible to get a read on you, so when not one or two, but three people come up to me and ask whether you’re alright, that means something’s seriously wrong. I’d be a terrible friend if I didn’t try to find out what that was.”

You hesitate. You’re embarrassed that you’ve been so obvious, and that you’re even this upset in the first place. Who on Earth has such a hard time being happy about her childhood best friend’s upcoming wedding? Your first reaction should’ve been to call Chaewon and rave with her and ask for all the details. You should be sending her pictures of potential dresses and asking her which one fits her color palette the best. You shouldn’t be needing the aforementioned intervention.

It isn’t like you have to follow Minjeong and air your dirty laundry out to her. If it came to it, your couple inches over her might help you win a physical fight. But something about her sincere concern makes you fold—how long has it been since you let someone worry about you like this? Long enough that you forgot how nice it feels, apparently.

She must sense a shift in your demeanor, because she relaxes. “Let’s go,” she says, and this time, she doesn’t need to drag you with her.

From the moment you met Minjeong, you knew she came from money. It wasn’t that she flaunted it or appeared out-of-touch with reality; she just had a way of moving through the world with the air of confidence of someone who knew they belonged, who was used to getting what they wanted. It also helped that she often came to work with a new designer bag and always had flawless hair and nails.

It intimidated you at first, the way she seemed to have worked in this office her whole life, whereas it took you weeks before you stopped being so eager to please and be overly polite with everyone. But it quickly became clear that although you found her infinitely cool, she wasn’t cold. You didn’t work for the same segment, but you spent your lunch breaks together, getting scolded by your respective bosses more than once for coming back half-an-hour late; you would often be so busy talking, you wouldn’t keep track of the time.

But it wasn’t until you stepped inside her apartment for the first time that you realized just how wealthy she, or her family, was. She lived in one of the fanciest neighborhoods of town, in an apartment that you could hardly afford now as an editor, let alone when you were just starting out at the magazine—yet she’d been living there since graduating from university. It’s on the top floor of a brand new apartment complex and composed of three bedrooms and two bathrooms, a ridiculously large open plan kitchen and living room, and a balcony with possibly the best view over the city you’ve ever seen. Her furniture looked and felt expensive, and it made you dizzy trying to figure out how much the artwork that hung on her walls and decorated her shelves must’ve cost. To this day, you haven’t been brave enough to ask.

When you step inside her apartment today, she wastes no time before ordering you to sit at the kitchen island. You watch as she grabs a bottle of wine from the fridge, hesitates, then puts it back. Instead, she grabs a bottle of gin and an unopened one of tonic from a cupboard, two glasses and some ice from the freezer. You smile and sit silently as she expertly pours two drinks. “Here,” she says, sliding a glass towards yours. “I thought you might want something stronger.”

“Should I be worried you just have this on hand?” you tease.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s for emergencies like these, obviously.” You clink your glasses and take a wonderful sip. Then, she looks you straight in the eyes and says, “So, tell me what’s been on your mind.”

So you do.

You tell her about the wedding invitation and what it entails: travelling back to the town you used to live in, having to face everyone you left behind there. You keep things vague. You don’t name names, or dump your entire backstory on her; you simply tell her you didn’t have the best relationship with your aunt when you left, and phone calls between the two of you have been few and far between in the time you’ve moved away. And that this goes for a few other people from home, namely one other person.

Of course, this isn’t enough for Minjeong. She prods, and prods, and prods, until you finally give in. With a sigh and a heavy gulp of your wine, you ask, “Where do you even want me to start?”

She smiles. “From the beginning.”

You stare each other off for a few beats. Even as your instincts tell you to keep your mouth shut, a small voice at the back of your mind says, For once, why not?

“I don’t… talk about this,” you say, voice shaky.

Worry knots Minjeong’s eyebrows together. “Is it that bad?”

“It’s not that it’s bad,” you reply quickly to reassure her. “I just don’t like even thinking about it. So talking about it… Well, that forces me to think about it, doesn’t it?”

“Listen,” Minjeong says, walking over to your side of the island, resting her hand over yours. “If you really don’t want to talk about it, I won’t force you. But from what I can tell, it’d do you some good.” She takes a deep breath, then speaks all in one go. “Also I’m dying to know. I’m not supposed to tell you this but everyone at the office has a theory about where you come from because you never talk about it.”

When you gasp, she shakes her head and squeezes your hand. “I promise everything said here will stay here. I’d derive much more satisfaction from being the only one knowing about your past than blabbing about it to everyone anyway.”

For some reason, this works on you. Maybe Minjeong feels trustworthy enough. Or maybe you know she’s right, you know it’ll do you good to speak about it, to release some of the burden.

“Okay.”

You really do start from the beginning, and work your way up from there. Why you had to move to Gimcheon without your parents. Why it was difficult living with your aunt, and why you could hardly make friends at first. Why it was your sole goal in life to move back to Seoul at eighteen, and why with every passing year, the thought of leaving became harder and harder. Why you did it anyway. 

What it cost you.

It feels strange to speak so much at once, and about yourself. Minjeong is plating dinner as you’re wrapping your story up. She has so many questions, it takes you almost an hour to finish your food. But you find yourself readily answering every one of them; you’ve gone this far already, so you might as well give her the fullest picture you can.

Oddly enough, it’s perhaps her easiest question that has you hesitating the most. It’s the end of the night, and you’re surprised your eyes have stayed dry throughout it; but when she asks you this, your nose starts to prickle.

“What’s this guy’s name, anyway? We’ve talked so much about him, and you’ve only referred to him as your friend.”

You can’t help but smile even as the word tugs sharply on your heartstrings. 

“Jaeyun.”

.

.

As the date of the wedding approaches, the tight knot of nerves in your stomach grows bigger. The evening before your flight, it takes you hours to fall asleep, your packed suitcase next to your bed startling you every time you lay eyes on it. You sleep fitfully for three hours, then a never-ending loop of worst-case scenarios plays in your head as you go through the motions of getting yourself ready and to the airport. An older woman sits next to you on the plane; anxiety must be emanating from you like a bad odor for her to rest a kind hand on your shoulder and tell you that domestic flights like these are very safe, that she’s flown many times and that nothing bad’s ever happened. You don’t have it in you to tell her, a total albeit nice stranger, that it’s not the journey that’s worrying you so much, but the destination.

Stepping inside the airport at Daegu feels surreal. The few times you’ve traveled between Seoul and Gimcheon, you drove—but Chaewon forced you to fly down, saying you couldn’t just get in your car and leave if you suddenly felt like it. You didn’t tell her you could almost just as easily get a same-day flight, if it really came down to it.

You hope it won’t.

The airport is so relatively unbusy, so it doesn’t take you too long before you arrive at the parking lot, eyes searching for your aunt and her green little car that she’s always driven and that has somehow yet to break down. 

But it’s another familiar face that your eyes land on. 

The sight feels like a punch to the gut. For a few seconds, you swear you stop breathing, the sound of your heartbeat so loud in your ears that it cuts off all other noise around you, of planes taking off, people reuniting, car doors slamming shut.

You weren’t supposed to see him so soon. You were supposed to meet your aunt, go through a slightly awkward car ride, maybe have your first adult conversation with her now that you weren’t, or at least less of, an angsty teen. You were then supposed to get ready, both mentally and physically, for seeing all of your friends at once again, for seeing him. Who was standing in front of his car, staring at you with a small smile that kept breaking your heart over and over again, clearly here to pick you up.

He lets you stare back. Lets you stand there, mouth agape in shock, fingers wrapped so tight around the handle of your suitcase that your nails dig into the skin of your palm. You weren’t supposed to see him so soon. You didn’t get enough time to prepare, to adjust to being here, and now you’re standing there dumbly like you’ve just seen a ghost.

In a way, you have.

You regain part of your senses. When you try to say his name, your voice is hoarse, and it comes out as a whisper, barely audible even to you. So you clear your throat, try a second time.

“Jaeyun.”

The name feels clumsy on your tongue, like a foreign language you once knew but lost due to lack of practice. And yet, when he smiles and says your name back to you, it sounds so right, like no one else is as deserving of saying it as he is.

“Hi, Y/N.”

Your feet move of their own accord as they step towards him; he mirrors you, and in mere seconds you’re face-to-face with him, and when he reaches out you think he might hug you but all he does is take your suitcase from you and roll it to the trunk of his car. A sigh escapes your lips, but you’re unsure whether it's one of disappointment or of relief.

“There was an emergency at the hospital, so Auntie asked me to pick you up. I hope it’s okay with you,” he explains. You watch, transfixed, as he closes the trunk, then walks over to the passenger side, opening the door and motioning for you to go in.

You nod. “Yeah, it’s okay. Thank you.”

Instead of walking right away to his side of the car, he stays there, one hand on top of the door as you take a seat and fasten your seatbelt. “It’s no worries,” he says finally before gently shutting your door.

There are so many things to think about. Usually, you’d get hung up over the fact that even on the day of your coming back home for the first time in years, your aunt still prioritizes her job over you, or over the fact that Jaeyun still calls her Auntie, despite the resolve you’ve had since you were fourteen of calling her by her first name, and her first name only.

Now, as the boy — the man — beside you starts the car, hands steady compared to your trembling ones, a peaceful expression on his face, all you can think about is the improbability of it all, of being back here, of being next to Jaeyun of all people and not knowing what to say to him. If someone had told you ten years ago, that one day a reunion with Jaeyun would mean silence and cramp-inducing nerves, you would have either laughed them off, or been scared into never leaving at all. 

Your mind conjures an infinite list of conversation starters, but none of them seem good enough. They’re all too relaxed, too intense, too inappropriate for a situation like this. Like a fish out of water, you keep opening your mouth to say something, only to close it when you decide not to. 

Jaeyun being this quiet only makes things worse. If there’s one thing about him, it’s that he’s always talking like he can’t get the words out fast enough—but maybe it’s been too long for you to speak with any authority about what Sim Jaeyun is like. You know you’ve changed a lot in ten years—how can you expect him to be the same boy you left? You can’t even tell whether he’s just calmer now or if he’s decided to torture you by silence. 

As he keeps his eyes on the road ahead of him, you risk furtive glances, trying to assess how much about him might’ve changed. There’s still something of the boy who used to split clementines with you in the winter, who would whisper the answers to you when you got called on in class and blanked. He’s grown into his features, he’s learned how to style his hair, but his kind smile and eyes haven’t changed in the slightest. You still find yourself inexplicably drawn to everything about him, even the small cut on his jawline, probably from shaving—your fingers crave to feel it, this sign of a private life that you haven’t been privy to for years. That you haven’t been a part of.

Minutes pass by like eternity. He’s only pulling out of the parking lot and joining the freeway and you’re already wondering how you’ll survive the twenty-minute car ride to your aunt’s. Thankfully, Jaeyun eventually puts an end to your agony. 

“There’s so much I want to tell you that I don’t know where to start.” His voice is low, infused with a kind of timidity you’ve rarely heard from him. It seems to reflect your feelings exactly, and you’re so relieved you could cry. 

A small chuckle escapes your throat. “Me too,” you say, glancing at him briefly, avoiding his gaze by the fraction of a second. It’s hard enough being in an enclosed space with him; eye contact isn’t an option right now. Every time his eyes flick over to you, the side of your face heats up so much you think it might melt right off.

“How—how are you?” he asks.

You’re not sure whether he means right now, or in general—but you don’t really feel like examining your feelings about being back here more than you already have, and especially not in front of Jaeyun, so you go for the second meaning.

“Good,” you say. “Everything’s going well at work. And I’ve got a few really great friends. What about you?”

A few beats pass without his answer—in the corner of your eye, you see his head swivel back-and-forth between the road and your face. “What, that’s it?” he finally says with a small, disbelieving chuckle. “The last time I saw you was three years ago. Surely you have more to say than that.” He doesn’t sound angry, just genuinely eager to get more information out of you. But his words make you angry at yourself, because they remind you that it’s your fault you know so little about each other’s lives now. It’s not for his lack of trying, and you both know that—since you left ten years ago, his unwavering kindness and lack of resentment towards you has surprised you every time you’ve seen him again. 

“I don’t know, nothing’s really happened. I was promoted pretty recently—”

“Okay, that’s definitely not nothing. Congratulations, Y/N. You deserve it.”

They’re words you’ve heard a hundred times before, but coming from him, they sound so heartfelt, like he truly is proud and happy for you, that you can’t help but soften at them. Smiling, you say, “You’ve never seen me at work. Maybe I slack off all day and hand in everything late.”

“I’ve seen you in high school, and that’s enough to know you’d rather pull out your hair strand by strand than hand in anything a minute late.”

You laugh, and when he turns his head to look at you, this time, you mirror him. He can only keep his eyes off the road for so long, but a second is all you need. Your gazes meet, and he’s wearing one of your favorite smiles of his, the one that makes you feel like he’s really glad to see you again, and a weight is suddenly taken off your shoulders.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

Thankfully, the remainder of the car ride is much less awkward than its first few minutes.You find Jaeyun to be as talkative as ever, not shy in the slightest to tell you about everything going on in his life, from the arguments he gets into with his colleagues — which happen to mostly be members of his family — to the hikes he’s been going on more frequently now that he’s adopted a dog, a Border Collie he says you have to meet. 

Your nerves are appeased. The last time you saw Jaeyun three years ago, it was for his grandmother’s funeral. She was the main reason he’d stayed here—back in high school, he’d had vague plans of moving to Seoul after graduating from university in Daegu. But when she got sick, with his brother abroad and his parents working hard to afford the hospital bills, he decided there should be someone to keep her company and take care of her, and that someone would be him. You could count on one hand the number of times you’d been back, and when she passed was one of them. He tried to keep a brave front, smiling as he greeted and thanked everyone for coming, but you could see right through the facade, although it’d been a long time since you could call yourself a close friend of his.

You only stayed three days. The night before you went back to Seoul, you went over to his apartment to make him dinner. In front of you, he let it all out—he’d always cried easily, but never like this. You spent so much time comforting him and offering him your shoulder that in the end, you could only make him a bowl of pasta with tomato sauce that he barely ate half of. You knew only too well what sort of pain he was going through. While your brain has wiped most of your memories of the events soon following your parents’ deaths, you remember the hurt that lasted months, years, that still comes back now from time to time, when you least expect it. It was partly thanks to Jaeyun’s friendship that your grief was easier to overcome—as you got to know him and your new classmates, he took your mind off of things little by little, until one afternoon, you came home from school and realized you hadn’t felt suddenly sad or irrationally angry the entire day.

The moment you left him that night, his cheeks tear-stained and his eyebrows furrowed even in sleep, you made a promise to yourself that you’d be there for him at twenty-five as he was for you at fourteen, despite the distance that separated you. You texted him everyday, called three times in a row if he didn’t answer, made sure your mutual friends checked up on him often. 

But Jaeyun was, is strong and he had amazing people surrounding him, people he’s known his entire life and that have his back. He was back on his feet soon, sooner than you expected, for how close he was to his grandmother. Because of, or thanks to that, when you felt like he didn’t need you to look after him anymore, you only felt a little guilty for pulling away. More accurately, the guilt ate relentlessly at you, but you had excuses to make yourself feel better. His dad made all his favorite dishes. Jaemin took him out fishing. A neighbor of his had a dog who gave birth, and he adopted one of the pups. With or without you, he was going to be fine.

You didn’t mind looking after him. But as soon as you felt like you were relying on him, you panicked. And you were starting to look forward to your weekly calls far too much for your liking. So you reached out less often. It was a busy time at work — when wasn’t it, after all? — and you buried yourself in it so that when you told him you were too busy to call or to head back for the weekend, you weren’t lying.

Things went back to the way they were for the seven previous years. You were as relieved as you were heartbroken.

You look at him now, listening to his lively rants with a smile on your face, thinking how glad you are it all turned out okay. The sadness of being apart from him, the longing of missing him, you’d do it all again if it meant he’d be laughing like this in the end.

Parked in front of your aunt’s house, Jaeyun turns off the ignition and turns to you. “Do you want me to come in with you?” he asks.

How easily you fall back into your old ways. Twenty minutes with him and you feel like a teenager again, annoyed with him for being so nice, so unrelentingly nice, annoyed at your stupid heart for beating up a storm in your chest every time he so much as smiles at you. You want desperately to say yes. To have someone to lean on as you walk into the house that contains so many bad memories—fights with your aunt followed by silence, the feeling of loneliness that pervaded your teenage years and that you haven’t quite managed to shake off. It’d be so nice to have Jaeyun there with you—and judging from the concern on his face, he seems to know how you feel.

But you can’t let him, because you can’t let yourself need him. Not again. Not when you already know how it ends.

You smile and shake your head, ignoring the disappointment that flashes across his features. “It’s okay. I don’t wanna take up more of your time.” He looks like he’s going to say something, so you quickly add, already opening the passenger door, “I’ll see you later for the reunion, yeah? Thank you for the ride, Yun.”

With a sigh, he lets go of whatever it was he wanted to say. “Of course. Anytime.”

He gets out of the car even though you tell him not to, and helps you with your suitcase, which really isn’t that heavy. You can tell that your declining his offer has dampened his enthusiasm somewhat, and yet, he waits until you’re at the front door, one hand on the handle, the other waving him goodbye, to drive away. As though he wanted to keep an eye on you for as long as he could—and so do you. You watch his car get smaller until it disappears around a corner. Then, inhaling and exhaling deeply, you turn the key you haven’t used in years inside the keyhole and push the door open.

The first thing you notice is the unchanging smell of the house. Like the cleaning product your aunt uses, and a slight stale odor of food, because she always forgets to crack open a window or turn on the oven fan when she cooks. Plus a scent specific to the house that reminds you of your aunt, of the clothes she wears, of the blanket she covers herself with while she watches reality TV after particularly long shifts.

Gently closing the door behind you, you stand in the entrance for a while, letting yourself take the time you need to get used to this place again. You’re glad your aunt isn’t home to usher you in and pretend she’s happier to see you than she is, or that you didn’t let Jaeyun accompany you. You don’t want anyone, least of all him, to witness you looking around the house like it’s the first time you step foot in it.

Everything is the same as ever. Same furniture, same photos in the frames, same wallpaper, which make the few novelties even more striking. A plant in the corner of the living room, a new, more modern kettle in the kitchen. The black-and-white, low quality scan of your first ever article printed in Limelight is still displayed on the fridge, held up by the Brisbane magnet seventeen-year-old Jaeyun gifted you after he came back from visiting his family there. 

You make your way upstairs slowly, holding onto the wooden rail for support, more emotional than physical. Your bedroom is a time capsule of your time in Gimcheon, with the same plain purple bedsheets your aunt bought before you arrived, the same posters of the boybands fifteen-year-old you obsessed over on your walls, the same fantasy series you used to devour during summer break on your shelves. You can’t help but crack a smile at the sight of it all. In all the times you’ve come back to this house, you’ve never had it in you to change anything about this room. You want to keep it preciously, as if changing anything about it would change the memories associated with it, both good and bad.

Losing both of your parents at once had made you anything but an insouciant teenager. You were overly serious and reserved, grief forcing you to grow up far before any kid should have to. And yet, standing in this room, you remember the fleeting moments during which your biggest worries were a pimple on your chin or a test in a subject you didn’t like. 

For all your grievances against your aunt, you would’ve turned into a much different person if she hadn’t taken you in back then. Your dad’s family lived in another country, and you knew from conversations with your aunt that she and your mother didn’t have the best relationship with their parents. Their brother had three kids of his own, whereas your aunt had none; it only made sense for her to welcome you into her house. When you were mad at her, you told yourself it was only her moral and legal obligation to take care of you as your closest relative, but when you were feeling more generous — which, for fifteen-year-old you, could be rare — you realized that having a comfortable room to yourself and cupboards always stocked with your favorite snacks was something to be grateful for. 

And there were the friends you made here, whose pictures fill five entire photo albums. They made everything more tolerable, and even fun, when you allowed it to be. Of course, you would have never told them that, back then—you liked your cold exterior and the way they saw right through it. 

Setting down your suitcase by your bed, you decide to go through the photo albums you assiduously filled back in high school instead of putting your things away. It’s a better way to settle in and get yourself ready—your nerves dissipate as you flip the pages, bright pictures blink up at you, of your friends at each others’ houses, at the park on weekends, at the corner store after school. You’re not in many of the pictures, usually hidden behind the camera, exaggeratedly frowning when Jaeyun managed to pry it from your hands and forced you in the frame.

He never heeded your protests when he wanted to swap places so you could be in the pictures you so often took. You remember the puppy eyes he’d make at you, which had no business being so effective, and the way he’d rest his larger hands on yours on the camera. Too unaccustomed to the feeling of your heartbeat speeding up, you would quickly hand it over to him then, turning away from him so he wouldn’t see the obvious effect his touch had on you. It didn’t help that he’d always show you the photo afterwards, pointing at you on the small screen, grinning as he said, “See? You look pretty,” even though fear of being unphotogenic wasn’t the reason you didn’t like your picture to be taken.

Soon, your anxiety at seeing your friends and ex-classmates, after so long of making yourself unavailable to them, is almost entirely gone, replaced by excitement. There remains a pang of shame, especially at the thought of seeing Chaewon. How long had it been since you’d called her when you received that wedding invitation? Like Jaeyun, you know she won’t even be really mad, and that makes it worse—she might make a light-hearted quip about it, but it’s as though they’re scared that lecturing you about being MIA might only push you away further.

You tell yourself there’s nothing to be scared about. The people you’ll see tonight are but older versions of the people smiling at the camera, at you, in your photo albums. 

You flip to a picture of you and Jaeyun taken without your knowledge, by Yunjin, if you remember correctly. Both of you sport wide smiles, the neon lights of the arcade game you were playing reflecting on your faces. It was his phone’s home screen for ages.

You’re so immersed in this trip down memory lane that you lose track of time—when the front door opens and your aunt calls out your name, two hours have passed already. Pushing your awkwardness to the side, you let her hug you and repeat her words back to her when she tells you she missed you. You did miss her, but you only realize it once the familiar scent of her hair. She’s a creature of habit—she still uses the shampoo she used when you first moved here at fourteen. 

She was only twenty-six back then, younger than you are now. You don’t know if you could deal with a temperamental, grieving teenager while you’d just lost your sister yourself. 

“How was the trip down? I’m sorry I couldn’t come and get you at the airport. I sent Jake instead, I figured you wouldn’t mind if it was him,” she rattles, already filling the kettle for tea. This is so like her, saying a million things at once, always busying herself with something. You know that in an hour, when you leave for Chaewon’s house, she’ll settle herself on the couch and won’t leave it for the remainder of the evening, drained from her shift at the hospital. 

“It was fine, I didn’t have any problems with my flight,” you reply, taking the knife from her hands and taking over the apple-cutting. “There was an emergency at work?”

She sighs. “Yeah, you know how we’re so understaffed in the summer. Some teenagers were messing around in a house under construction, and fell through a floor that wasn’t done. No big injuries, but they needed an extra person to deal with parents and paperwork. At least I got to see these little shits get the talking-to of their life,” she says, making you laugh. She reaches for something in the cupboard, pulls out a packet of your favorite chocolate-flavored snacks from back then. “I got you these, if you want.”

“Wow, I haven’t eaten these in ages,” you say, chuckling at the familiar cartoon turtle on the bag.

“Do you not like them anymore?”

“No, no, I do,” you say quickly to make your aunt’s worried expression go away. “I just can’t eat a bag in one sitting like I used to anymore, and they go stale too soon.”

She chuckles. “That’s being an adult for you. I got a stomachache from a can of Coke the other day. Just one.”

You have time to spare before you need to start getting ready for Chaewon’s, so you sit at the dinner table together and catch up. The conversation floats somewhat on the surface of things, more about what you’ve been doing than how you’ve been doing. You’re overly polite, keeping a distance for her sake more than your own, unsure how happy she really is to have you here—and you have the feeling she thinks the same of you. The memory of your last fight hangs heavy in the air between you two, unspoken but tangible.

It’s been easier talking to her since you moved away than it ever was when you lived here. You guess distance really does make the heart grow fonder, more willing to forgive and make amends—that, and growing up. Even after your fight, which you quickly understood had only happened because you let your emotions get the best of you after seeing Jaeyun in such a dishevelled state from losing his grandmother, you can have a normal conversation like this. It’s a far cry from the silence that could stretch on for days when you were in high school.

Like with most dreaded things, you belatedly realize how much time you wasted stressing out about coming home, when there was nothing to worry about. Your mind had made up all sorts of scenarios, like your aunt would start yelling at you the moment you came through the door, rehashing your argument, or would barely give you the time of day during your entire stay. It’s as though you forgot she was always the one who knocked on your door with a slice of takeaway pizza or a piece of buttered toast when you were being moody and wouldn’t come down to eat. Who took you out for ice cream when she felt bad for being so caught up in work you’d hardly seen her all week. Who recorded your Saturday evening dramas on the TV while you were over at a friend’s house.

You’ve still got some talking to do, but it might not be as hard as you thought it would.

Fresh out of the shower, you’re changing into a nicer outfit and putting on light makeup when a text from Jaeyun lights up your phone. He’s asking if you want a ride from him, which you decline—your aunt’s house is out of his way and it’s only a ten-minute bike ride for you, which you find yourself quite excited to go on, for purely nostalgic reasons.

Ok :) I’ll see you later, he texts back, and your stomach twists with both apprehension and giddiness. Having him there will make things so much easier, and yet the thought of spending prolonged time in his vicinity makes you unreasonably nervous.

It’s just Jaeyun, you tell yourself, the guy who drooled on his textbook when he fell asleep in class. Who never got mad unless, in true soccer player fashion, felt another player had committed an unforgivable offense against him. Who insisted on watching horror movies then spent them with his face behind his hands.

You catch yourself smiling in the mirror and shake your head.

It really does feel like you’ve been transported back to ten years ago as you wish your aunt a good evening and hop onto your bike, still in its same spot, resting against the side of the house, then ride down the streets you’ll always know by heart. Gimcheon is at its prettiest during this time of year, the trees plump, their leaves dark green, the flowers bright. The summer evening breeze is warm on your skin, and the sun, low in the sky, casts a beautiful golden light on everything around you.

It’s not long before you reach Chaewon’s house—it’s still amazing to you how you can stand in front of it and say, yes, my friend owns this house. It actually belongs to her—and her fiancé, Jaemin, of course. You don’t know of a single person your age in Seoul who owns their apartment, except for Minjeong, but she’s just exceptionally well-off. It’s a nice, traditional house, with a wooden porch around the front where you know Chaewon, a Korean Nara Smith if you’ve ever met one, will make gochujang and soy sauce from scratch once she’s less busy with work and wedding preparations. 

The gate is ajar, so you slide it further and let yourself in, calling out your friend’s name tentatively. Immediately you hear footsteps from inside the house, Chaewon squealing your name before she comes barrelling through the door and running towards you. She practically flings herself at you, and you stumble back a few steps as you catch her, laughing at her enthusiasm.

“Ugh, I’m so happy you’re finally here!” she exclaims, squashing the side of her face onto yours.

“I’m happy to be here, too,” you reply, chuckling. “Thank you for the heartfelt welcome.”

Hands on your shoulders, she leans back, assesses you head-to-toe. You follow her gaze, wondering if the mid-thigh sundress you chose was a good decision. Is it too much cleavage? At your all-female workplace, there is no such thing as too much cleavage. “You look good.”

“Okay, no need to sound so surprised.”

“I’m not!” she says, laughing. “Okay, a little bit, I’m sorry. I thought you’d look all dishevelled like those busy city girls in the movies. Running around, getting coffee, whatever it is city people do. That’s what you look like when you FaceTime me after work.”

You sigh. “That’s great to hear, Chae, thanks.”

“No, don’t take it the wrong way, it’s hot! But it’s nice to see you like this, with your hair down instead of your buns so tight they snatch your eyebrows.”

You frown. “I like my tight buns.”

“So do I,” she says, tapping your butt with a cheeky smile. Before you can protest, she takes your hand and leads you into the house. “Come on, we’ve made some changes inside, let me show you.”

“Am I the first person here?” you ask. The house is empty save for you and her, and probably Jaemin, somewhere.

She smiles at you mischievously. “Of course. We’re going to catch up first. And who the hell starts a party at 6 p.m. anyway?”

Chaewon’s presence is everywhere around her house, from the white gauze curtains that flutter in the wind to the trinkets that line the shelves of a cupboard passed down onto her from her grandparents. There are new pieces of furniture here and there, and a nice patterned rug in the living room, but the biggest change has been done to the kitchen. It’s been fully renovated to be more modern since you were last here, and it’s fully functional now, with everything she needs to make her homemade bread and her thousand side dishes that accompany every one of her meals. It’s a good thing Jaemin’s a nice person—you staunchly believe that not many people are deserving of the kind of care Chaewon is able to provide. You remember making that very clear when you came to visit for the holidays, and got a little too drunk with Chaewon for New Year’s Eve—you can’t recall exactly what you said to him, but he could hardly look you in the eye for the remainder of your stay, so it must’ve left an impression.

There’s barely an inch of free space on the counter, and the fridge isn’t faring much better. All sorts of salads and dips, meat and vegetable skewers, marinating chicken thighs, and of course, cupcakes. Tons of cupcakes. She doesn’t let you linger—Jaemin walks into the kitchen, and you’ve barely hugged him hello and exchanged niceties with him that she’s already dragging you someplace else, telling rather than asking her fiancé to finish getting the food ready.

She sits you down on a chair outside then heads back in, telling you she’ll be right back. It gives you some time to admire her backyard, the way it’s all been set up for tonight, cute cushions on the patio sofas, fairy lights strung in the trees, ribbons on the fence around her vegetable patch. Even back in high school, she grew green onions and avocados on the window sill of her parents’ kitchen. You’re excessively moved knowing that she has a whole garden to tend to now. It’s so easy to picture her, wearing a sunhat as she waters and adds soil to her plants. 

When she comes back out, it’s with two glasses of suspiciously pink liquid in her hands. She sees your weary expression and says, “Don’t worry, you can barely taste the alcohol in it.”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” you reply, but take a sip anyway. God knows you’re going to need some liquid courage to face tonight. It’s overly sweet, tasting mostly of strawberry syrup, and almost not at all of the vodka and prosecco Chaewon says she put in. Fine with you.

She launches straight away into her usual interrogation. It’s less daunting, because you can expect it—every reunion with Chaewon means she’s going to have a thousand questions for you if you don’t turn the subject around on her at some point. She wants to know all of the office gossip as though she has personal stakes in who your coworkers are dating and what the workplace dynamics are like. She asks about your daily life, your friends, whether you’re seeing anyone.

“I’d have told you if I had a boyfriend, Chae,” you say.

She shrugs, a little sheepish. “I don’t know. There’s lots of things you don’t tell me about, you know…”

There it is, the sharp pang of guilt in your stomach. The summer breeze suddenly feels cold on your bare skin, the stillness of the countryside oppressive. Up until now, it felt like barely a few weeks had passed since you’d last seen Chaewon, but reality catches up to you now, with its distance and silences, the ones you imposed between the two of you. “I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

“No, I’m not mad!” she exclaims, panicked. “I’m just saying, I don’t know so much about your life anymore, so this could be something I don’t know about either… I’m making this worse, aren’t I?” she asks when she sees the pained look on your face.

You shake your head. “You’re right, though. I know I should call more often, I just…”

“Want to put this all behind you, I get it. You always talked about wanting to go back to Seoul in high school, so I’m happy you’re able to thrive there now,” she says, although there’s an edge to her voice that you know means she’s more hurt than she wants to let on.

“But it isn’t fair to you.”

She shrugs again. When she looks at you, there’s a small smile on her face that looks a little too forced. For as long as you’ve known her, Chaewon has been wholly averse to conflict—this is probably the hardest she’ll scold you for being so absent. But because it’s from her, it’s an effective reminder to be a better friend.

You can’t help but put everything and everyone here in the same corner of your mind. You thought that to move on from one person, you’d need to move on from everyone, even Chaewon. You can only hope it’s not too late to start realizing how much of a fool you’ve been.

“Look, I didn’t get you all the way here to talk about this. I just wanna know how you’ve been.”

“I’ve been good, Chae, really. And now it’s your turn to present your life to me in excruciating detail.”

She chuckles and says, “Fine, but we’ll need a refill for this.”

“What? Has it been bad?” 

In the doorway, she turns around to look at you. “Oh, not for me. My life’s been so awesome that you’ll need to drink your jealousy away, babe.”

And indeed, when she comes back and tells all about her life recently with a dreamy look in her eyes, it isn’t that you’re jealous per se, but that you realize this is the life a lot of people wish for—married with a nice house before thirty, and children soon, if you know her at all. And you agree these things sound nice, but they’re not what you want for yourself right now. Sure, there have been hurdles: her parents-in-law are pretty conservative, but Jaemin always stands up for her, and her job as an elementary school teacher can be very tiring, but, she says, “having someone like him to come home to makes everything so much easier.” She’s always had a sentimental streak to her, but this close to the wedding, you can tell her love for Jaemin has never been so strong. You’re reassured to see it doesn’t stop her from ordering him around as usual, or scolding him when he puts the chocolate sprinkles on top of the blue frosted cupcakes even though she told him at least a million times that the star-shaped sprinkles went on those. 

“But the star-shaped ones taste like nothing, honey,” he says. You shake your head even if he can’t see you. Chaewon gasps like he just told her to go fuck herself—and in her eyes, it’s probably as though he has.

As much as she hates arguments, this is something she’d lay her life down for. She heads into the kitchen to give him a piece of her mind, leaving you to reflect over her words. It makes everything so much easier. You do wonder what that must feel like, to have someone to come home to after a long day instead of a silent glass of wine. At least the wine can’t judge you.

The two glasses of Chaewon’s pink mixture must really be getting to your head, because when she sits back down next to you, face flushed from a heated conversation about sprinkles, you find yourself telling her what’s on your mind. “I’ve almost had that a couple times, you know. Someone to come home to,” you say, feeling her gaze on the side of your face as you keep yours on the garden in front of you. “I did tell you about some of the guys I dated.”

“Yeah, and you always seemed super unfazed about the break-ups.”

“I was. I always expected it to end one day or another, so I wasn’t so surprised when that day came.” Her hand on your forearm is warm, anchoring, silently telling you that it’s okay to go on. “It’s not that I don’t want that life. But whenever they started talking about meeting their parents, or moving in together, let alone get married… It just freaked me out. The idea of someone being so close to me, eventually knowing so much about me. How—” You interrupt yourself, taken aback by the tears you feel pooling in your eyes. You turn to look at Chaewon, and something in her expression, in the familiarity of her features, makes you take a deep breath and keep talking. This is Chaewon. She won’t make fun of you for crying. “How do you do it, Chae? How do you trust someone to still love you when they know about all the worst sides of you?”

“Oh, honey,” she whispers, standing up to wrap her arms around you. A few silent tears stream down your cheeks, hopefully not staining her dress, as you hug her back tightly. “What about me? Minji, Yunjin? What about Jaeyun?”

Her voice seems to soften on his name, or maybe it’s your heart that softens upon hearing it. A part of you thinks he may be at fault for your unsatisfactory love life—knowing he’s out there makes it harder to fall for someone else. But that’s something you couldn’t admit to Chaewon—you can barely admit it to yourself as it is.

“I’m sorry,” you say, sniffling against her shoulder. “I shouldn’t be doing this today, of all days.”

She shushes you. “No, no, it’s okay. I’m glad you’re letting it out. Listen.” She crouches in front of you, brushes away strands of your hair that got stuck in your wet eyelashes. “There’s nothing monstrous about you that would drive anyone away. You’re more cautious than most of us when it comes to relationships, and that’s okay. It just means that when you finally do give your heart to someone, they’ll be all the more deserving of it. And I promise you that someone is out there.” She smiles, adding, “Maybe closer than you think.”

“What—what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on,” she says with a laugh, unfolding from her crouch and holding her hand out to you. “Your makeup’s all messed up. I’ll help you fix it before everyone else gets here.”

In her upstairs bathroom, she pushes off all the clothes laying haphazardly on an armchair and instructs you to sit there. With four cocktails between the two of you, everything becomes funny—you’re both laughing so hard at the shape of her mascara tube that it takes her five minutes to properly apply the makeup to your lashes. She keeps scolding you for scrunching your eyes in laughter and stopping her from doing her job, as if she’s not the one who can’t see through the tears in her eyes. “Now my mascara’s running!” she complains when she sees her reflection in the mirror.

Like little girls playing around with their mother’s beauty products, she applies eyeshadows of all colors on your lids, tries out a different lipstick on each half of your lips to see which one fits you best. You look ridiculous, but you’d probably let her keep going for hours if it wasn’t for the sudden ring of the doorbell. You both freeze mid-laughing fit as if the whole point of this evening wasn’t for people to come over, the blush brush in Chaewon’s hand floating inches from your cheek.

“Who is it?” you whisper, unable to tell who it is from the voices mixing with Jaemin’s downstairs.

“Sounds like Jeno and his new girlfriend,” she whispers back. “You haven’t met her. She’s way too cool for him.”

“As are all of Jeno’s girlfriends.”

Chaewon nods. Before she can say anything else, Jaemin’s voice rings out in the house, calling out for her. “Be down in a minute!” she shouts back, then turns to you. Her energy seems to have shifted from when you were laughing around together when she says, “Let’s get this off you. I made you look a little crazy.”

As she douses a cotton pad with makeup remover, you ask her quietly, “Are you okay?”

With the cotton over your eyes, you can’t see her expression, but you’ve known her long enough to picture it. The tight lips, the slightly furrowed eyebrows. “I’m okay, just a little nervous,” she says. “It’s been a while since we’ve had this many people over at once.”

Your surprise only lasts a second—although Chaewon had appeared nothing but excited every time you talked about this weekend, you remember how she’d grow anxious in the last moments before any party she threw. You take the cotton pad from her hands, holding onto her wrist as you look earnestly into her eyes. “It’s going to be an amazing evening, Chae. You’re the best hostess in this town. The food looks great, as it always does, and everyone’s going to be ecstatic to see each other again. And to congratulate you! You’re getting married in two days!”

A small smile was forming on her lips as you spoke, but it’s the mention of her wedding that really seems to do the trick. “I am,” she says quietly, smiling down at her feet like a giddy schoolgirl. 

“And your fiancé’s waiting downstairs for you. Along with Jeno and his cool girlfriend.”

She sighs deeply. “You’re right. I’ve been busy all day getting everything ready, and now that there’s nothing left to do, I’m panicking.”

“There’s no reason to,” you tell her, squeezing her wrist warmly. “Go. I’ll take care of my makeup.”

With a quick hug, Chaewon thanks you and heads downstairs. In the mirror, it really does look like a small child had far too much fun on your face. Wiping it all off with her cleansing oil and digging through her pouch for liner and a lip tint, you remember all the evenings spent at your aunt’s house, her combing through your closet before a party because your aunt let you buy little tops that her parents would have a seizure seeing her wear. For once, the roles are reversed. 

Calming her down has had the same effect on your nerves, although the heavy doses of vodka and prosecco in the cocktails might’ve helped. Your heart is only slightly beating faster than usual as the doorbell rings again, the voices of more people filling Chaewon’s and Jaemin’s living room. For some reason, you’re worried that coming downstairs as they’re all greeting each other will be more awkward than meeting them out in the backyard, so you wait until it sounds like they’ve left the room. But your plan isn’t so successful—you’re halfway down the stairs when the door opens again, the person entering seemingly familiar enough to this house to come in without announcing their presence. Your body registers the sight of him first, heart dropping to your stomach, electricity reaching all the way to your fingertips before his name has even made its way to your brain.

“Jaeyun,” you breathe out, the wind knocked out of you as though you didn’t see him mere hours ago and as though you were unaware of his being here tonight. What is wrong with you? Are you sure Chaewon didn’t lace your drinks with something else?

His smile has the power to reassure you and double your nerves all at once. He waits for you, watching as you make your way down the remaining stairs. “Long time no see,” he says when you reach him, an infuriatingly charming grin on his lips. You can’t bite back the one growing on your own. “I hope you didn’t miss me too much.”

“It was a struggle, but I made it through.”

He chuckles, and a few seconds pass in which you don’t quite look at each other; you’re about to offer to join the others in the yard, but he speaks first. “You look beautiful.” Three simple words, but coming from Jaeyun, and spoken with that low, intimate tone, they pack a punch.

You hope you don’t look too obviously flustered as you gaze down at yourself, picking up the hem of your dress and rubbing the fabric between your fingers self-consciously. “Thanks, Yun,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. You give yourself a few seconds to assess him, and the conclusion you come to doesn’t help your state—you’ve seen him wear white button-ups dozens of times before, at school events and fancy gatherings, but you swear his arms didn’t always fill out the sleeves so perfectly, straining ever so slightly against the fabric. And sure, not having it buttoned to the top is fine, but are three undone buttons really necessary? You stop yourself from making a comment about cleavage and return his compliment instead. Then, with a frown, you tell him the others are already outside and turn on your heels.

Behind you, you hear a chuckle, then the sound of his footsteps following you. You thought it’d be nice to have Jaeyun around, a familiar and reassuring presence to look for if you ever felt awkward or out-of-place tonight, but it turns out it might be more distressing than anything.

Outside, all the newcomers, save for Jeno’s girlfriend, greet you with wide, surprised smiles, like they can’t believe you actually made it all the way here. Most of your old classmates have stayed in the area—one has gone abroad, a few have moved to Daegu, the closest big city, but for the most part, they either still live here or in nearby, somewhat larger towns with more job opportunities. That’s why they’ve remained such a tight-knit circle, why everyone knows everyone’s business, and why you were much more nervous than anyone should be at the idea of going to their high school reunion. Your distance is all the more obvious by their lack thereof. 

No one is showing you open hostility like in the worst-case scenarios you’d dreamed up, so you must be doing a good job at smiling and catching up with them and being normal with your hands, although you gladly accept the champagne glass Jaeyun hands you, thankful for something to keep them busy. And you find that it’s nice to be here. It’s nice to know Yurim and Jimin are as inseparable as ever and are planning to do the whole baby-at-the-same-time thing (once they manage to both find a boyfriend). It’s nice to see Jeno start to look less like a nerd over time, but that he hasn’t lost his ability to bag the most beautiful women you’ve ever met, like Giselle, who he very proudly introduces you to, and who is indeed way cooler than him. She volunteers at the animal shelter in her free time and DJs for huge techno clubs in the city on the weekend, so to be fair, she’s cooler than most people.

As more people start trickling in, instead of retreating into yourself, you relax. The weather is perfect, the sun making its slow, lazy descent into the night, a warm summer breeze coming through; people are happy to be here, to see each other, to see you; when Chaewon isn’t frantically running around, making sure that everyone is doing okay and that there are enough mini-fours to go around, she actually looks like she’s enjoying herself.

And there’s Jaeyun. It’s not that you mean to notice him, but your gaze keeps drifting to him of its own volition. He moves through the crowd with ease, clearly surrounded by people he’s comfortable with, always being pulled into conversations or making small talk with everyone he bumps into. His eyes seem to find yours often, and every time, he smiles at you like he knows something you don’t. Instead of quickly turning away like he used to as a teenager, unashamed at getting caught, his eyes linger on your face before slowly returning to whoever’s talking to him.

There’s a really annoying moment when he’s standing by the barbecue, keeping Jaemin company while he grills sausages and skewers, holding a bottle of beer in one hand, talking and laughing seemingly without a care in the world, as though he doesn’t know, or care, how infuriatingly hot he is. Hair pushed back from his forehead, a slight blush on his cheeks from the heat of the grill, that stupid third button still popped open. He looks like he was taken straight from the front cover of a men’s magazine, and it shouldn’t be this attractive, but it is, and there’s nothing you can do about it but down the rest of your champagne glass.

Something’s different about him. Despite having seen him over the years, all this time, whenever you’ve thought of Jaeyun, the person who came to mind was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. A little shy, especially around girls, but with a smile that could charm a rock and that he hadn’t yet discovered the power of. The pant legs of his school uniform were a little too long because he was sure he’d have one last growth spurt in your final year of school after seeing Heeseung go through one. He never did, then couldn’t be bothered to exchange them or get them hemmed. They got soaking wet every time it rained. Of course some things have remained unchanged—he’s still as attentive as always, remembering small things about people, asking them about it, and listening with genuine interest when they answer. He doesn’t try to make things about him, and he doesn’t get annoyed when they ramble on for minutes on end without ever returning a question. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what it is that feels so new about him, so unfamiliar in this exciting, intriguing way.

After observing him through careful, discreet glances (which he seems to notice half of), you come to the conclusion that it’s in the way he carries himself. He stands straighter, walks with more confidence, and has figured out what to do with his arms. He’s always been a human magnet: old ladies made conversation with him in grocery lines, strangers stopped him in the street for directions, he was elected class president every year without ever putting himself forward. You remember the pressure he used to feel because of it, like he couldn’t bear to let anyone down although he was sure it’d inevitably happen—but now, he seems completely at ease with all this attention on him. Not like he’s gloating, but like he’s in his element.

Eager to avoid his gaze and the dreadful feelings it causes in you, you move around the backyard as often as he does under the guise of catching up with as many as you can, always managing to be part of a different group than he is. And you drink. Everyone does, so you’re not embarrassing yourself on your own—it’s a known fact that Chaewon can and will feed an army, so her guests bring tons of alcohol to make up for all her efforts. Your glass never goes empty for long simply because no one lets it—you could refuse, but you don’t. 

You spend thirty minutes stuffing yourself with Chaewon’s cucumber salad and getting all the staff drama of your old school from Yunjin, who now works there as an English teacher. When she’s done telling you about the affair between the vice-principal and your Year 11 Geography teacher, she takes you aback by asking, “So, what’s up between you and Jaeyun?”

Back in high school, people often mistook you for a couple or joked around about you liking each other, so you do as you did then—you laugh it off, saying there’s nothing there. That doesn’t seem to satisfy Yunjin, however. She tilts her head at you, asking, “Are you sure? He seems so… attentive to you. Just now at the buffet he stopped you from getting the potato salad because there’s mustard in it. And in high school he was always running around doing things for you. All the girls were jealous of you.”

Your smile feels frozen, plastered on as you stare down at your plate. “That’s just Jaeyun. He’s nice to everyone, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Y/N,” a voice says, but it definitely does not belong to Yunjin. Not only does it come from behind you, it’s also much too deep to be hers. When you lift your head, she’s looking right over your shoulder, surprise written all over her features. You turn around to find Jaeyun standing there, handing you a hot dog. “Delivery,” he says, tone light, but his closed-off expression betrays him. You don’t know how much of your conversation he heard, but he must’ve not liked it. You’re not sure why—it’s not like you lied. Jaeyun is nice to everyone. 

You bite into the bread. It has all of your perfect toppings for a hot dog—ketchup, fried onions, shredded cheddar and jalapeños. When Yunjin leans towards you, a hand on your arm as she says, “I don’t think it doesn’t mean anything,” you wonder if she’s right.

A few drinks later, you’re stumbling inside the house, headed for the bathroom, when a hand wraps around your wrist. It belongs to none other than Jaeyun, whose expression is a mix of amusement and concern. Now that all the food’s come out, the kitchen is dark, bathing in the fairy lights’ glow from outside and from the few other lights in Chaewon and Jaemin’s garden. And it’s empty, save for the two of you. It’s only the copious amounts of alcohol running in your blood that makes you think how enticing he looks in this semi-darkness, or that makes you imagine the affection you think you see in his eyes.

Of course you’d spend all evening avoiding him only to find yourself face-to-face alone with him suddenly like this. You look down at his fingers on you, and he lets go.

“Here.” With his other hand, he offers you a glass of water.

“I’m good,” you say, trying to sound casual, but you don’t like the close attention he’s paying you. Or maybe you’re embarrassingly drunk and he’s sending you a message. In any case, it’s always been hard for you to accept Jaeyun’s small gestures—you always have to remind yourself he’s doing it out of the goodness of his heart and not because he especially cares about you. 

“Y/N.” The way he says your name makes lightning zip down your spine. His voice is stern, but there’s a certain warmth to it. Like you’re being unreasonable, but cutely so. 

You take the water from his hands and down it in one go. “Happy?”

“Very,” he says, a smirk on his lips that you frown at as he takes the cup back and places it in the sink. He rests his hands behind him on the counter, eyes searching your face, and you, for some reason, stand there and let him instead of going to the bathroom like you’d originally set out to do. Even as silence stretches out between you, your feet are frozen, and you’re finally courageous enough to meet his gaze without backing down. Even as his eyes scan your face, settling on your lips, and your heart threatens to give out. Even as he takes a step towards you and your chest starts visibly heaving up-and-down with every breath you take.

When he’s standing in front of you, he finally speaks, his voice unlike you’ve ever heard it before—low, vulnerable, and with a hint of ruggedness that makes your head spin. “Have you been avoiding me?”

“No—”

“Don’t lie to me, Y/N, please.” He sounds like he’s seconds away from pleading with you. He’s never been one to hide when he’s hurt, so you’ve heard him many times like this, but never when you were the cause of his upset. It was always because of a bad grade, a fight with his parents, a joke he took the wrong way. You wouldn’t know if you ever hurt him before, because he’s never come to you about it. It feels weird knowing you’re capable of such a thing.

“I’m n—Okay, yes, I’m avoiding you a little bit,” you say in a small voice. Whether it’s the look on Jaeyun’s face or the last cocktail you had, but you can’t bring yourself to pretend. 

But you belatedly realize that of course, answering this question will only bring about another, much harder to answer: “Why?”

So you make up another lie that’s about as believable as the first one. “I—I don’t know, Yunnie. I’m just trying to speak to as many people as I can.”

“But not me?”

Is he drunk? He always got whinier after drinking. That must be it. Although his voice isn’t whiny at all—he’s not complaining, he rather sounds like he has answers he wants from you and is set on getting them. But it’s the only explanation you can come up with.

You’re unable to keep his gaze anymore. Looking down at the floor, you say, “We spoke earlier. We’re speaking now.”

“Yeah, and I practically had to corner you for it.” The vulnerability has left his voice and he sounds… frustrated? 

He crosses his arms over his chest, and despite yourself, your eyes follow the movement. He’s rolled up his sleeves, letting out his forearms on full display for you. That’s an image you immediately need out of your head, so you make the mistake of looking up at his face again, only to be met with his jaw locked tight, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, and the intensity of his eyes staring right into yours.

He’s allowed to be mad, but does he have to look so good doing it?

As if he wasn’t close enough already, he takes another step towards you. It forces you to look up at him, and the sight of his face so near yours is devastating. You can already tell it’ll haunt you for nights to come.

“Do I make you nervous, Y/N? Is that why you don’t want to be around me?”

You inhale sharply, audibly, and the sound seems to amuse Jaeyun. The way he smirks down at you should be condescending, but he manages to make it impossibly attractive. Like he has you exactly where he wants you—which doesn’t make any sense. You don’t understand why he’s doing this, why it’d upset him that you’d rather talk to other people than to him, how he’s figured out the reason you’re avoiding him is the butterflies gnawing at your stomach every time your gazes intertwine. He’s never done any of this before.

“No,” you find yourself saying, but it’s an obvious lie to both of you. You’re breathless uttering that one word, fingers shaking from the tension in your body and Jaeyun’s proximity.

Then he sighs, and the Jaeyun you know is returned to you. A little tired by your antics, maybe, but more worried than anything. “I’ll take you home when you’re ready to go.”

“But—”

“No buts. Just come get me when you want to leave.” And with that, he turns and heads back outside, leaving you to wonder what that was all about as you wobble your way to the bathroom.

When you come back out, you make a point of sitting in the empty lawn chair next to Jaeyun and joining the conversation he’s in. He smiles at you and you glare at him, feeling like a scolded child.

Maybe alcohol makes you a little immature.

You’re having a grand old time listening to Jeno’s and Giselle’s travel stories, but as people slowly start making their way home, aware of the weekend full of festivities they’ve got ahead of them, dread sinks in. When the party’s over, you’ll be left alone with Jaeyun. Thankfully, there’s enough alcohol left to throw another party, and you serve yourself a couple of very generous cranberry-vodkas to prepare yourself for later. Maybe if you’re passed out in Jaeyun’s car you won’t have to talk to him.

When the garden’s really starting to empty out, you find a small moment during which Jaeyun is busy chatting with Jaemin and some other guys, and stealthily approach Chaewon to tell her you’ll be on your way now. 

“Aren’t you leaving with Jae—”

You interrupt her with a hand to her mouth. Even though he’s across the yard from you, you don’t want to risk it. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” you whisper, then tip-toe your way around the backyard to the front of the house, where your bike waits for you. Somewhere deep in the back of your head, part of you has remained sober enough to tell you how bad an idea it is to bike home after drinking so much. You wouldn’t run into many cars at this time of night, but it’ll be dark, and the ditches are deep here. 

But you couldn’t have predicted for your best friend to betray you. Just as you’re succeeding on your third try to swing your leg over your bike, you hear her voice, clear as day, shouting, “Jaeyun! Y/N’s leaving without you!”

You swear he teleports over to you. You freeze, hoping that moving as little as you can will turn you invisible.

It doesn’t work.

“What are you doing?” Jaeyun asks as he makes his way over to you. You’re relieved when he doesn’t sound annoyed, just concerned. He stands in front of you, two hands on your bike handle right next to yours. “I told you to come get me when you were ready. You can’t go home on your own like this.”

“Sure I can.” You try to hoist yourself up onto your seat, and immediately lose balance, stumbling to the side. Thankfully, Jaeyun’s hand finds your waist before you can fall—it steadies your body but not your heart. 

“Come on, Y/N. Let’s get you to bed.”

Does he hear himself? He’s just being a good friend, so why does he have to phrase things in such an intimate way, and make your heart go all pitter-patter like the sixteen-year-old you once were? Why does he have to speak to you in that low, affectionate tone of his, like you’re someone he can’t help but take care of? 

You take a deep breath, resigning yourself to your fate. “Okay.”

He helps you off of your bike and into his car. His hold on you is gentle but firm, and you try your very hardest not to think about whether this is how he would hold you in other situations. Before he can even turn on the ignition, you close your eyes and pretend to sleep. You hear him chuckle, then back out of Chaewon’s and Jaemin’s driveway. Once or twice, you hear him inhale as though he’s going to speak, but he seems to decide against it. A ten-minute bike ride makes for a very short car ride, and before you know it, he’s already pulling up in front of your aunt’s house. You keep your pretense up as he walks around the car and opens your door, and you’re sure you make a very convincing show of waking up and being sleepy.

As he takes your hand to help you out of the car, you ignore your instincts yelling at you to jump away from him. You tell yourself it’s only so you don't get caught in your lie that you let him slip an arm over his shoulders and guide you to your front door. It has nothing to do with the fact that your skin tingles everywhere it touches his, or that it feels terribly nice to be handled with so much care and patience. The front door is unlocked, and he holds you steady as you slip out of your shoes. Only when he closes the door behind you do you snap out of it.

“Thank you, Yun. I’ll be alright from here.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “I’m not sure you will. I don’t trust you not to trip up the stairs.”

You panic as he leads you further inside the house. “But—What if my aunt sees us?”

He stops in his tracks, then turns his head to look down at you with something you think is mischief in his eyes. “Why? What about it?”

“She might misunderstand!” you whisper-yell.

“What’s there to misunderstand, Y/N? I’ve taken you home drunk a dozen times before. Besides, I’m just Jaeyun, right? This doesn’t mean anything.” You’re left speechless. So he did hear you earlier, and although he kept his tone light-hearted, something makes you think he isn’t entirely unoffended. You stare at him, sure the guilt on your face is obvious. Eventually, he sighs, starts walking again. “I’m just teasing you.”

Despite yourself, you are glad he’s there to help you up to your bedroom—the stairs are remarkably wobbly tonight. Even though he tries to sit you down gently onto your bed, you let yourself flop on the mattress, already half-asleep the moment your back hits it. You’re uncharacteristically pliant as he guides you into a more comfortable position, lifting your head to rest on your pillows, pulling your duvet over you. You somehow feel more drunk now than you were leaving the party, as though Jaeyun’s touch and proximity are stronger than any alcohol. Maybe that’s why you suddenly find this situation hilarious. Your first chuckle makes Jaeyun’s hand freeze on your blanket; then, when giggles start pouring uncontrollably out of you, he asks you what’s so funny, and has to shush you, saying you’ll wake your aunt up. But you can tell he’s amused, and it only makes you laugh more. 

“Seriously, what’s gotten into you?” he asks, sitting next to you. For some reason, the dip of his weight on the mattress feels reassuring.

“This is just nice,” you mutter, eyes still closed. “It feels nice.”

He’s silent for a few seconds. “What is?” he whispers.

“This. You being here.”

He releases a shaky breath. “It could happen more often, if you let me. It could happen every night.”

You giggle, because you know he’s just joking around. But you let him, even if it hurts a little bit, and you play along. “Yeah, that’d be nice. I think I’d sleep a lot better.”

With a delicate finger, he brushes strands of hair away from your eyes. You hum, smiling contentedly at his touch. This is such a nice dream that you hope you won’t have to wake up too soon from. “I think I would, too,” he whispers, voice shaky like he isn’t at all happy like you are, which confuses you. “I don’t know what to do, Y/N. I want so badly to take care of you, but you won’t let me. I don’t know how else to show you how good I could be to you.”

“You’re taking care of me now.”

“Yeah, and you’re so drunk you probably won’t remember this tomorrow.”

He sniffles, and you suddenly get the sensation that this isn’t a dream at all. You keep your eyes closed anyway, frowning as you turn your head to the side, tears starting to form behind your eyelids.

“Be back in a minute,” he whispers.

You open your eyes to find him gone. You try to make sense of what just happened, but your thoughts are muddled and hazy, and more questions than answers appear. You don’t come to any satisfying conclusions, at least none that aren’t clearly fueled by your delusions concerning Jaeyun. 

When he comes back, he’s holding a tall glass of water. He seems briefly surprised to see you awake. He puts the glass gently down onto your bedside table, then kneels by your bed, grabbing your hand that you’d slipped above the comforter. He looks into your eyes with an intensity you’re unfamiliar with coming from him, and that makes your stomach twist. “Listen, Y/N. You’re only here for a few days, so I’ll be very clear about this. And if you’ve forgotten by tomorrow, I’ll make sure to remind you.” He pauses here, takes a deep breath. There’s a furrow in his eyebrows as he speaks. He looks desperate, but for what, you couldn’t tell. “I’m not letting you go this time. I feel like I keep losing you, over and over again, just when I think I finally have you. I’m not letting that happen again. I don’t want to be apart from you anymore.”

Your mind is reeling. You feel dizzy. You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. Jaeyun’s words are loud and nonsensical in your head. “Do you mean… as friends?” you ask, because the other option seems so impossible, even in your inebriated state, you can hardly seriously entertain it.

He sighs, and it sounds like disappointment. “If that’s what you want, then I’ll give up on trying to be more. But if it isn’t what you want, then no.”

Your eyes fly open. Does that mean…

“I’m in love with you, Y/N. I’ve always been, and I can’t take hiding it anymore. I’ll take rejection over another day of pretending all I want to be is your friend. I want to talk to you everyday. I want to see you more often. I can’t keep going like this, calling you once every few months and acting like I’m fine with it.”

You’re stunned into silence. Even your thoughts are frozen, your mind completely blank. How do you react to words you’ve wanted to hear your whole life, and have convinced yourself you never would, not in a million years?

“I—”

“You don’t have to say anything now,” he interrupts, and you’re relieved. “Whatever it is, I’d rather hear it when you’re sober. I’m sorry for springing this up on you, I just… I think I would’ve flaked out if I hadn’t done it right now.”

He gazes down at you with a fondness you’ve only seen in your dreams, and strokes your hair. “I’ll let you sleep now. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” you say, surprised you're able to speak. 

“Okay.”

He seems to hesitate for a second, but whatever it is, he decides against it. He gets up, and with one final glance back at you, closes your bedroom door gently. You listen for his footsteps down the stairs, the sound of the front door, and of his car driving away, and find yourself wishing he’d stayed, wishing for proof that you didn’t dream up everything he just said. 

.

.

I’m in love with you, Y/N.

You wake with a start. Jaeyun’s voice was so loud in your head, you thought he was standing right over you—but it’s only your imagination playing tricks on you, you realize with some disappointment. 

Some moments from last night are blurry or simply inexistent in your mind. Yurim sent selfies a bunch of you took to the group chat, of which you have no recollection being a part of. You have no idea how the marker doodles appeared on your arm, nor who is the artist behind them. But Jaeyun’s words you remember with dizzying, intimidating clarity, the words he spoke to you in the near-complete darkness of this room, and that you don’t think you could ever forget, no matter your state.

Part of you has always longed to hear those words, but another part has always dreaded they would be heard one day. You don’t know which part is stronger right now. Replaying his voice in your mind, your heart flutters at the same time as your stomach sinks. They’re words that have the power to change everything, that perhaps already have, and that’s what terrifies you.

It’s already ten in the morning. You wish you could stay here all day, safe under the covers, rehashing those words until they lose all meaning, but you know that’s impossible. Not only do you have a pounding headache and a mouth drier than the desert to tend to, more importantly, you have a responsibility to be there for Chaewon and the things she’s planned for today. So you force yourself out of bed and begrudgingly make your way downstairs. 

Your aunt has already left for work. Breakfast is ready on the dining table, along with a tall glass of water, ibuprofen, and a note that reads: I didn’t hear you come home last night, so I assume you had a good time. Take this and eat your weight in bread. There’s coffee left in the Keurig. Bless her. You know better than to eat too much, though—if there’s one thing Chaewon takes seriously, it’s brunch, so you know you’ll have plenty of food to cure your hangover in just a bit. 

As hard as you try to divert your thoughts towards anything else, it’s impossible not to think of what Jaeyun said last night. It’s all your mind circles back to, like a vulture that’s found its prey and won’t let go. Despite that, the shock has yet to wear off, and you stare into your cup of coffee, searching in vain for answers there.

It took you a while to fall for Jaeyun, then it took you even longer to admit those feelings to yourself. At fourteen years old, stepping foot in Gimcheon for the first time, you wanted nothing to do with the people here. Not with your aunt, not with your classmates. You wanted to wallow in your grief, for the bitterness of the injustice that’d taken your parents away from you to fully take over you. 

Jaeyun was one of the people who didn’t let that happen. Some of the kids in your class found you odd or standoffish, often whispering behind your back about your sudden arrival in town, but he and Chaewon never failed to try and talk to you despite your extremely low-effort replies, to invite you out for snacks or basketball after class, to send you the lessons you missed on days your body felt too heavy to get out of bed. 

Nothing in particular happened for you to suddenly change your mind about them. Maybe it was because you thought they’d stop pestering you if you just said yes, or because you sometimes felt the sharp loss of your friends in Seoul, whose calls you’d all ignored since moving. You surprised your new classmates as much as yourself when they asked you if you wanted to go eat tteokbokki with them, and you casually said, “Sure, why not,” as if your acceptance was a daily occurrence. 

The rest was history. Although it took some more time before you really opened up to them, they accepted you the way you were, sharp edges and all. With them, part of the person you were before could resurface, carefree, happy. You still went home to a mostly silent, grief-stricken relative, who was practically a stranger to you, but at least you could look forward to seeing your friends—and something as simple as that made life easier every day.

As soon as you thought they started to appear, you tried to squash your feelings for Jaeyun, to no avail. Just when you told yourself you could never be more than friends, he’d bring you strawberry milk from the convenience store he walks by on his way to school. After spending an evening making a list of all the reasons it’d be a bad idea for you to date (it’d be awkward with your friends, you and your sadness would be a burden to him, it was too scary to get close to someone when they could leave you at any time), you’d wake up the next morning with a text that said, Good morning!!!! Did you know that if the Sun stopped shining, it’d take 8.5 minutes for us to realize it??! 

But I know right away when you’re not shining

:)

Mom’s making your favorite shrimp jeon tonight so you HAVE to come over

And even your strongest will wasn’t enough against the force of his kindness. You were forced to submit to it, and to suffer for it for years to come—when other girls offered him chocolate on Valentine’s Day. When Bae Sumin asked him to the dance, and you had to ignore his concerned expression as he repeatedly asked you if it was really okay that he went, and all you could do was smile and convince him that it was. When you left for university and you had to stop yourself from asking why it seemed to be making him so sad, so uncharacteristically upset with you, almost like he wanted to punish you for leaving him. When every time you came back after that, it became harder and harder to say goodbye to him again.

You got mad at him sometimes. If something unexpected reminded you of your parents, like your mom’s favorite dish being served at the cafeteria, or someone using an expression your dad often said, you’d become irritable, and would be unable or unwilling to explain why. He was so patient with you then, even more attentive to your mood than usual, but the feeling of being treated kindly, like he needed to walk on eggshells around you, incomprehensibly made you even more abrasive. You’d blow up at him: I don’t need your help, I don’t need your pity, get off my back, what are you even being so nice for anyways?

And his reply would only drive you further insane: Because I care about you.

You’d always wish he’d say anything else, something less vague like Because it’s the right thing to do, or Because that’s who I am, or even Because you’re my friend, but no, he’d say, “Because I care about you,” and it was worse than anything he could ever say.

Because of course, friends care about each other. Of course they help each other out and do kind things for one another. But you so desperately wished Jaeyun could care for you in another way. And that was the problem: you couldn’t stop yourself reading into his actions, devoid of the meaning you wanted them to have.

And there was always that lingering thought: I’m leaving anyway. You were a city girl at heart. You missed the beauty stores that occupied five floors, the animal cafés you and your friends had spent way too much of your allowance at, the billboards of your favorite celebrities in the subway, the libraries with their wide range of manhwas for you to choose from. As much as you’d come to love your life in Gimcheon, you knew you couldn’t stay. You knew you couldn’t live on a nearby campus during the week and come back on the weekends like most of your friends would be doing. 

At eighteen years old, you wanted a clean break. You wanted to attend a prestigious university, to dress up for class, to have study dates at a cozy café, to go out to a club on the weekend and not worry about how you’d get home because the buses stopped running way before midnight. You’d daydream about the cool job you’d have, the cool clothes you’d wear, the cool people you’d meet. Then you’d go downstairs and see your aunt, and she’d ask if you were okay with frozen dumplings for a third night in a row. Or you’d arrive at school and see Chaewon and Yunjin shrieking over Got7’s new song. Or you’d get a text from Jaeyun, saying, Cats use physics to land on their feet. They’re not aware of it though. And suddenly, the idea of a clean break became much, much harder.

Once you left, your reasons for not confessing to Jaeyun didn’t change—if anything, they strengthened. Growing up didn’t make you any less scared of opening up to someone, of letting them see the vulnerable sides of you, and hoping they’d still love you. Even if you had a positive example in Chaewon and Jaeyun, you’d never experienced it with a romantic partner, and not only did your incessant but unconscious comparing of them to Jaeyun stop you from completely falling in love with the few boyfriends you’ve had over the years, your inability to fully bare yourself emotionally to them inevitably caught up to you. They’d point it out, trying to coax your story and emotions out of you with kind words, gentle touches—but you never wanted it enough to make the extra effort. They’d take your independence as a personal affront, like it was a fault on their part that you were allergic to relying on others. They’d get frustrated. Some of them would yell at you while you stared off into the distance, numb, wondering if you’d always be like this. They’d break up with you, and you’d move on like nothing happened.

The fear of loss still froze your heart into place. Even in the throes of puberty, your mother and father were your two favorite people on Earth. At thirteen, you thought they’d live forever. You were reasonable enough to know not everyone you loved would die—although the thought of going through that grief again did keep you up at night. A bad break-up was enough to terrify you. And what would you do when you finally handed your heart to someone, only for them to turn around and decide they don’t want it after all?

A handful of times, you tried to sit yourself down and imagine, as objectively as you could, what might happen if you confessed your feelings to Jaeyun. You tried, but you never could. It was too scary, with him. As your friend, he was the glue that held you together. If you took that one step closer, you’d be too far gone—and once that happened, who was to say, when it inevitably ended, if you’d ever be able to tape yourself back together.

You’ve had many self-indulgent thoughts over the years, many delusions you’ve had to compel yourself away from when he looked at you a little long, grew a little too quiet when you talked about another boy, came up with increasingly ridiculous excuses to walk you home even though it was out of his way. You’ve worked so hard to bury them deep, and here he comes, so late on a Thursday night that it became a Friday morning, telling you it was neither self-indulgence nor delusion. 

It’s too much to process with a hangover. 

Your shower doesn’t have the relaxing effect you hoped it would have on your nerves. Even when you turn the temperature as low as you can take it, your skin burns hot at the thought of seeing Jaeyun again, of him repeating himself in broad daylight. By the time you’ve dressed and gotten ready, your heart is still racing wild, and you’re no closer to figuring out what the correct attitude around him or right thing to say is.

You’re tying your shoelaces when the doorbell rings. Of course, it’s Jaeyun standing behind the door, asking you if you’re ready to go to Chaewon’s. 

You just gape at him. You’d prepared yourself mentally to see him a little later, with other people around—you hadn’t expected this and your brain simply malfunctions as a result.

He chuckles. “I wasn’t going to let you walk all the way there. You left your bike, remember?”

From his softened tone and the way he gulps as he awaits your answer, you can tell he’s not just asking whether you remember the drive home. He looks at you, a little expectant, a little scared, and his demeanor relaxes you. He’s not acting like nothing happened last night, and he doesn’t seem overly confident after—well, after confessing his love for you. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? No matter how hard a time you have believing it. It relaxes you because it feels like you’re not worrying alone about this shift in your friendship, about this rearranging of things and feelings. With just one look, he tells you he’s right there with you.

And that’s all you need.

“Right. Thanks, Yun.”

He stands there for a little, expression morphing into something giddier, more hopeful, and you wonder how long he’d stay there looking at you if you didn’t clear your throat and say, “Should we… go?”

“Yes! Yes, of course, let’s go,” he says, laughing awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head as he turns away and heads towards his car.

Surely, he can’t always have been this obvious. Surely, if he’s been in love with you for as long as he says he has, then he learned just as well as you did to school his feelings and make them as discreet as he could. Because if he was acting this way all along, all boyish grins and non-stop glances your way, then you would’ve had to be the densest person on Earth not to notice.

And it hurts your pride a little to think you might’ve actually been this dense.

After a minute on the road, he asks, “How are you feeling? Not too hungover?”

“A little. But I’ll feel a lot better after having some of Chae’s pancakes.”

“Yeah. And the pressed orange juice as well. With the—”

“—Oranges from her grandparents’ garden?” you say at the same time, and laugh.

“Yeah. It’s the best,” he says.

“What about you?” you ask. “You didn’t drink that much last night, right?”

“Yep. Just a beer at the start of the evening, and that’s it.” Then, he smiles, a little smug, and adds: “Why? Were you watching?”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest as though he was making a ridiculous assumption, when you very well knew you were constantly aware of his whereabouts last night. Of course you noticed him sipping on either water or Pepsi the entire evening. “I was not. But you were able to drive, so I assumed.”

“Right.” That smug smile of his is still fixed on his lips, so you know you sounded just as unconvincing as you felt. “Well, I was watching. And I can tell you you drank something like seven different sorts of alcohol last night.”

For your own sanity, you ignore the first part, and focus on the second. You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “That’s why my headache’s so bad.”

Jaeyun reacts immediately. His head turns back-and-forth between you and the road ahead as he says, “Is it? Did you drink enough water? There should be some painkillers in the glove compartment, if you—”

“It’s okay, Yun,” you interrupt, laughing softly. “I took some ibuprofen already. I’ll feel better after eating.”

He seems skeptical. “Okay. But let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

“I will.”

As you feel the tingle of incoming tears in your eyes, you turn your head away from him. Looking out the passenger window, you think how stark the difference is between being on the receiving end of Jaeyun’s attentiveness when you were just friends, and now that you know the way he really sees you. The crushing weight of your repressed emotions is, at last, gone, and you’re only left with a light-heartedness you haven’t felt in years.

Is there really a universe where every day is like this? It feels too good to be true. 

But when Jaeyun reaches out, the palm of his hand facing up as it floats above your thigh, his expression bashful, you think — you dare to hope — you might soon be living in that universe. You take his hand, and the rest of the car ride is silent, like this one simple touch is all the words you need.

You’re glad you remember what he told you last night. Hearing it again now, in broad daylight, with no alcohol in your system to be blamed for your reactions, would be too much to bear. The mere thought of it has your heart racing, more than it already is from the warmth of Jaeyun’s hand in yours. You look down at it, the way it sits so prettily in your lap, the way his fingers intertwine with yours like it’s what they were meant to do. You crave to touch his hand more, to turn it around and analyze the lines of his palm, to feel the ridges of his knuckles, the smoothness of his nails under your fingers, but you stop yourself. It’s an art piece in a museum that you content yourself with watching from afar, awed.

Too soon, you arrive at Chaewon’s house. The loss of Jaeyun’s touch is almost alarming—what if he changes his mind and this was the only time you’d get to do this?

But as though he can read your thoughts, he guides you with a hand to your lower back towards Chaewon’s and Jaemin’s front door—and he pauses before it, gazing down at you with a smile you want to interpret as reassuring. 

I’m not letting you go this time. I’m not letting that happen.

Maybe you’re overly self-conscious, but you swear a few of your old classmates exchange knowing looks when you and Jaeyun arrive together. Chaewon is the least discreet about it, stopping in her tracks when she sees the two of you, a steaming plate of pancakes in her hands, her smile wide as she gets Jaemin’s attention and nods her head in your direction. You want to escape to the kitchen under the pretense of offering your help, but Jaeyun is already pulling out a chair for you and taking a seat in the one next to it. 

Thankfully, almost everyone is in a state similar to yours, too hungover and tired to really pay either of you too much attention. Their minds are on the food in their plates and the coffee in their mugs—the atmosphere is relaxed, everyone making quiet conversation with their neighbors. With Chaewon on your right and Jaeyun on your left, you’re free to scarf down hash browns and scrambled eggs without having to entertain anyone. He seems to be pretty engrossed in his chat about soccer with Jeno, and yet, he knows every time you need something, standing up and reaching for the bacon or the orange juice before you’ve even said anything. He holds the plate while you serve yourself, then places it back to its original spot, shooting you a smile that never fails to make your stomach twist before returning his attention to Jeno.

Chaewon had kept this afternoon’s activities a secret, only telling you all to have your school uniform ready. Some came to brunch already wearing it, but you and a few other girls go up to Chaewon’s room to change. It feels like being back in a locker room again, a bit awkward, a bit fun, teasing Yunjin for her matching black lace set on this seemingly innocuous day, comparing the stretch marks you’ve obtained in the years since you last wore your uniforms.

It’s definitely odd, seeing yourself in the mirror in that familiar short-sleeved white shirt and knee-length marine skirt. Despite how badly you wanted to grow out of Gimcheon, some things have remained the same—that much, you’re forced to admit to yourself when you head back to the living room and see Jaeyun in his old school uniform, a blast from the past. He watches you come down the stairs with a smile, and you wonder if he’s thinking the same things you are—that you’ve never stopped feeling like a teenager around him, and that no matter where you were in life, seeing him was enough to make your dull heart race.

His uniform still fits him okay, although it’s impossible not to notice how his arms and thighs strain against the fabric now, sleeves not quite reaching his wrists. Try hard as you might, your eyes drift to the way his button-up clings to his chest, and it’s clear he isn’t oblivious to it. You swallow as you walk towards him, hands coming up to fix his tie like it’s second nature. “Seriously, Yun,” you mutter. “It was cute when you were seventeen, but at twenty-eight, really?”

He only smirks down at you, making you more flustered than you already were—and it doesn’t help when everyone in the room ooh’s at your gesture. You take a step back, but the damage has been done. It’s like you’re in high school again, rolling your eyes at your friends when they ask if you and Jaeyun are finally dating, pretending like the mere thought doesn’t have butterflies erupting in your stomach. 

“I remember how Y/N used to fix his tie in front of the school gates every morning,” Chaewon says loudly, and you glare at her. “She said she didn’t want him to get scolded by teachers.” Everyone erupts in a chorus of so cute and I can’t believe they’re still not together and I’m sure they used to have a crush on each other. She looks happy with herself, blissfully unaware of the chaos she’s created for you—it’s been hard enough acting normally around Jaeyun this morning, you don’t need the added spotlight.

He doesn’t seem to share that sentiment, though. When he speaks, his voice cuts through the chatter. “My dad taught me how to tie a tie before middle school. But I was running late once and she fixed it for me. I always messed it up on purpose after that.” He turns to you. Your jaw is slack, your heart a wild, frantic mess. “Guess that trick still works.”

This really is high school all over again. Your classmates act like they’ve witnessed the revelation of the century, cheering and clapping, the boys clasping Jaeyun’s shoulder like he just scored the winning goal. Chaewon squeals. Yunjin pretends to faint. You’re rooted to your spot, too bewildered to react.

“So you really did like her back then, didn’t you?” Jeno asks, and everyone stops talking, awaiting Jaeyun’s answer with what seems like bated breath—you included, as though he didn’t tell you all about it last night.

He shrugs, but his grin, sheepish and bright at once, says it all. “I’ll let you guys come to your own conclusions.” When he turns to look at you, despite the fact that you want to strangle him for putting you on the spot like this, you can’t deny that his confession is a little bit — just a little bit — adorable. You think of fifteen-year-old Jaeyun looking at himself in the mirror, proud of himself for putting on his tie wrong, and you can’t help but smile. Of course, this only makes your friends crazier, but Jaeyun, as if he’s suddenly decided this was enough attention, says, “Is everyone ready? Let’s head out now.”

Chaewon instructs you all to meet in your high school parking lot. On the drive over, Jaeyun apologizes, asking if what he did was too much.

“It’s okay,” you tell him. “Even if I was a little embarrassed.”

“I wasn’t planning on doing anything like it, but seeing you in your uniform brought back memories, I guess,” he says, bashful. “I did say I would remind you of what I told you last night, didn’t I?”

You shrug, smile down at your hands. “You did. But it’s not like I’d forgotten.”

He doesn’t answer right away—but then, he suddenly looks over at you, and says, “You’re really pretty.”

Your stomach flips. You look down at yourself to avoid his gaze as heat creeps up your face. “What are you saying…” you mutter.

“I never told you properly when we were in high school. So I’m telling you now. I always thought you were the prettiest, Y/N.”

You fight it hard, but you can’t bite back your smile. All you can do is hide your grin behind your fist, resting your elbow on the sill of the open window as you turn away from him. For only a brief second, as if spurred on by the confidence his compliment gave you, you change your mind—you turn to him and abruptly say, “And I always thought you were the most handsome.” Then you whip back to the window and grin at the trees lining the road. But you feel his eyes on you, and when you look back at him, he’s staring at you, mouth agape. “Yun! Look at the road!” you chide, laughing.

“Sorry, sorry!” he exclaims, taking his eyes off you. “But—You—Seriously?”

You can’t believe it, how incredulous he sounds, how he seems as surprised as you felt last night. As you still feel now. “Of course,” you say quietly, feeling shy again. 

He’s quiet for a few seconds. Then, “Seriously?!” he repeats, louder, almost yelling.

“Relax,” you say, laughing at his enthusiasm. “It’s not like I was the only one. Half the girls in our class had a crush on you.”

“Did they?” he asks, a shit-eating grin on his lips. You roll your eyes.

“You only received love letters, like, once a month.”

“But never from the person I wanted to receive one from.”

You hold his gaze for a second. Then another, and another—but you can’t handle more than that. The way he looks at you, you feel too seen. Like he can read your every thought, like he can see your heart beating through your chest, your breath making its shaky way up your throat. It makes you too vulnerable, makes your desire to soak in his affection, to let him keep talking to you like this, too strong. It’s a feeling too unfamiliar for you to accept yet.

You return to your spot, turned away from him, elbow on the windowsill. “Whatever,” you mumble.

But it seems like you admitting to having found him handsome when you were teenagers is all the confirmation he needs. Throughout the rest of the afternoon, he sticks close to your side. Since school is out for the summer, Chaewon asked Yunjin to convince her higher-ups to let your group have a ten-year high school reunion there. They agreed and got one of the janitors to act as your supervisor, as if you would damage or steal school property. In any case, he follows you around quietly while you and your classmates roam the old, familiar walls, reminiscing about all the stupid things you did, the gossip that felt like the most important thing in your lives at the time, the teachers you hated, the upperclassmen you crushed on. Mostly, you take loads and loads of pictures, reenacting memories, huddling together in front of the classroom door of your final year. Jaeyun always finds himself right behind you in the group pictures, his taller frame so close to yours you can feel his warmth.

He rests his hand on your shoulder for one of the photos, and your brain short-circuits at a touch that you wouldn’t have thought about twice as a teenager. Sure, back then, Jaeyun’s touch made you feel giddy, but it was also the most natural thing in the world. Linking arms on the way home from school. Your head on his shoulder during a long bus ride. His fingers in your hair when you let him play around with it. He always said it was practice for his future daughter: “I want her to have the prettiest hairstyles in all of her school,” he’d say, as if she was already here. And you’d think to yourself, He’ll make such a great dad. And although he was someone you could tell anything to, for reasons you didn’t like to think too much about at that time, this was something you kept to yourself. Now, you can hardly breathe from a hand on your shoulder. But now, you can also finally admit to yourself why that is.

And with every passing moment, every smile shared, every delicate touch of his hand to your arm, of your fingers brushing against each other, you think that maybe, just maybe, you might finally be able to admit to him why that is.

A while later, when everyone parts ways, heading home to get a few hours of rest before the big day tomorrow, Jaeyun asks you if you can hang back for a bit. He’s so cute about it, so much like a schoolboy asking his crush out, that you can’t turn him down despite the sleep you desperately need.

The soccer field by your school is surprisingly unoccupied—even at this time of year, when the school hallways are empty, there are usually teenagers playing here. You yourself used to spend entire afternoons here, chatting with Chaewon while the boys played soccer under the blazing sun. You remember pretending you weren’t engrossed in the sweat beading on Jake’s forehead or the way his cheeks turned crimson with the effort, and cheering for him whenever he scored a goal and turned towards you, yelling out “Did you see that?!” with that puppyish grin on his lips.

You remember the nights you spent here as well, the last summer before you left, when you and your friends wanted to drink without the adults seeing. You’d lay side-by-side, looking up at the stars as you shared your dreams and fears for the future. If Jaeyun’s hand brushed against yours, you’d wait a few seconds, then move your hand to rest on your chest instead. You always wondered if he noticed it, the small touch, its removal. You know your hand burned with both. 

He leads you to the soccer field now, his hand warm and gentle in yours, like he’s scared holding on too tight will scare you off. He’s silent for a while, quietly bringing you down with him until you’re laying on the grass together—this time, you keep his hand preciously in yours, even as your palms turn clammy, even as the memories of being here like this flood in.

The summer breeze has nearly lulled you to sleep when he speaks, his voice soft, careful not to startle you. “I hated the last day of school.”

You turn your head to look at him, but he keeps his eyes trained on the blue sky above. “Of course you did. You were such a nerd, you would’ve stayed in school forever if you could’ve.”

He smiles, but he shakes his head. “No, that’s not it.” His tone is calm, full of significance, which you feel even more when he rests his steady gaze on yours. “It meant time was running out. It meant I’d spent five years liking you and still hadn’t had the balls to tell you.”

You gulp. You’re suddenly not in the mood to tease him at all. “Oh,” is all you can manage to say.

He laughs—clearly, seeing you flustered is amusing to him. “Yeah.” He props himself up on his elbow, gazing down at you in a way that sends your heart into a frenzy. “I got a little carried away last night,” he starts. “When Chaewon told me about her plans to dress in our school clothes and come here — yes, she told me before everyone else, don’t look at me like that — I’d planned to tell you today, I had a whole thing written out, but last night, you… I don’t know, you were drunk so maybe I shouldn’t have put so much weight to your words, but it sounded like you might like me back? And I couldn’t stop myself. I had to tell you immediately. And today… I’m not mistaken, right? You do like me?”

Tears prickle at your eyes. To think that this has been on his mind for so long, that you’re the reason behind the worried look on his face, that he’s the one asking for your confirmation—you can hardly make sense of it all. If only you’d looked closer, if you’d been less scared, you might’ve been wearing this exact same outfit, laying in this exact same place, ten years earlier. This isn’t to say that you aren’t scared anymore—you’re terrified out of your wits. But looking into Jaeyun’s face, you don’t need to search very long to find reassurance.

“I do, Yun. I really, really do.”

He only stares back at you for a few beats, as if waiting for you to change your mind, to tell him you’re joking. When you don’t, his mouth breaks into a wide, radiant smile, and he lets himself fall on his back, hands coming up to hide his face. 

Suddenly, you realize how real this is. How genuine Jaeyun is. It isn’t a cruel prank he’s decided to play on you, but the truth of what he feels for you. For what must be the first time since last night, you let yourself react the way any sane person would upon finding out the person they’ve loved for years loves them back: you’re happy. Unbelievably, indescribably happy. And it’s terrifying when you know this happiness might be ripped from your hands at any moment—but you’ll worry about that later. Right now, all you see is the man laying next to you, his smile full of light, his sweet, glimmering eyes. A small tear escapes your eye at the same time as a chuckle leaves your throat.

He returns to his previous position, grinning down at you while he rests his upper body on his elbow. “Okay, this is totally cool. I’m not freaking out at all,” he says, making you laugh. His smile widens. He picks a daisy from the ground, reaches for your hand. Tying the stem around your ring finger, he says, “I wanted to tell you this today, in our school uniforms, as a way to get justice for my teenager self. I know it’s silly, but I feel like I’m only able to do this because he liked you so much.” 

But it isn’t silly at all. It’s the nicest, most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you.

He takes a deep breath, looks up from where your hand rests in his, to your eyes. “I love you, Y/N. I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you. And I can’t explain to you how happy I am that I still have a chance after all this time.”

It’s not a singular tear rolling down your face anymore, it’s the whole waterworks threatening to explode the longer Jaeyun looks at you with those eyes, so tender and full of affection. You roll onto your side, resting your forehead against his shoulder so he can’t see your face—it’s enough that he can hear your sniffling, that he can feel your shoulders shake against him, especially as he wraps an arm around your waist to bring you closer. Your feelings overwhelm you—you want to cry, to laugh, to hold him as tight as you can, to run away and stop him from witnessing how vulnerable he makes you. With his free hand, he pets your hair, saying he hopes these are happy tears.

“They’re very, very happy tears,” you reply between sobs. You probably sound ridiculous, but Jaeyun doesn’t seem to mind, holding you through it all.

“Good,” he whispers.

It’s a shame that it took you this long to realize you forgot something you shouldn’t ever have—that people are the most important. Not relying on the ones you love doesn’t make you strong, it makes you a fool. 

Jaeyun’s presence is reassuring, familiar, and you picture a life in which you lean on his shoulder and cry when you need to. In which you hold him tight and share every moment with him, not just the happy ones. It sounds so much better than what you’ve been doing for the past ten years. He smiles at you, and you’re flooded with the relief and gratitude that this is the life he wants, too.

For a while, he just holds you, the sun shining down on your bodies. This is what you were so fearful of—Jaeyun’s familiar scent enveloping you, his hand rubbing reassuring circles against your back, his hair soft in your hands. Eventually, he says, voice just loud enough for you to hear, “Later, will you talk to me? Will you tell me why you drifted from me?” 

There’s no anger in his tone, no admonition. Guilt still pangs in your stomach, but that’s only because you know how badly he deserves an explanation, and because you’re amazed that even now, he’s so patient and understanding with you. “I will,” you reply.

You don’t know how long you stay there, laughing at Jaeyun’s anecdotes of all the ways he tried to show you he liked you. All the times he ran home in the rain because you didn’t bring an umbrella, all the fish cakes he sacrificed because they were your favorite part of tteokbokki, all the pocket money he spent on your favorite snacks. 

“I thought about you so often once you left,” he says. “I worried so much. If you were eating well, if you were making new friends at university. Then if your job was treating you well. I wanted to call you all the time, but I didn’t want to annoy you. I thought you were moving on, and that maybe I should too. But I never was able to.”

You’re a little bashful as you tell him that you never did, either. “I compared all the guys I dated to you. And they were never as nice, as thoughtful, as—”

“As handsome, as smart, as amazing as me, I get it, don’t worry,” he teases, and you swat his shoulder lightly. 

“Obviously, but you don’t need to be so smug about it.”

“If you’re going to tell me none of your little boyfriends measured up to me, of course I’m going to be smug about it, are you kidding me? This is the best news I’ve received in my life.”

You only realize how long you’ve been lying there when your phone dings with a text from your aunt, asking whether you’ll be home for dinner. It’s almost seven p.m. already—the two of you spent three hours, just talking and laughing. He pouts a little when you tell him you should head home, but he obliges anyway.

When he drops you off at your aunt’s house, he comes out of the car with you and hugs you tightly before you head inside. “Thank you for this afternoon. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” he says, lips moving against your hair.

You nod and, with a quick peck to his cheek, you bolt for your front door before he can react and try to do something crazy, like properly kiss you.

“Wait, before you go,” he says as you grab the door handle. Turning around to look at him, breath catches, thinking he’s going to tell you something important, yet another thing that will change your life—“Can you tell me about those lame dudes you dated again?”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “Goodbye, Jaeyun.”

“You love me!”

You smile at him, wide and unabashed. 

Because you do love him. You really, really do.

.

.

You plop yourself on the couch next to your aunt, the latest Drag Race season playing on the TV. She hands you the bag of caramel popcorn and you grab a handful. 

“I heard a car,” she says. “Did Jaeyun drop you off? Is that why you’re smiling so much?”

You only now notice the ache in your cheeks. “I’m not smiling that much,” you say, forcing your features into humorlessness, but the corners of your lips keep rising of their own volition.

“You’re smiling a lot. More than you already usually do with him,” she says, giving you a knowing look.

You gape at her. “Don’t tell me you knew too?”

“Knew what? That you and Jaeyun have liked each other since you were teenagers? I might’ve had an inkling, yeah.”

Her grin is wicked as you bury your face in your hands, groaning. “So it really was everyone but him and me.”

“I think you knew,” she says, her tone gentle. “But you didn’t want to admit it to yourself. Especially in the last few months before you left, you’d always get a look about your face when I mentioned him. You never wanted to say you were sad to be leaving, but it was clear you were, if only because of him.”

You frown. “I was sad to leave you, too. And Chaewon, and Yunjin. And Mrs. Kim, because I knew I wouldn’t find better tteokbokki anywhere else.”

She shrugs. “Sure. But you were sad to leave Jaeyun in particular.”

You fidget with your hands, letting her words sink in. “And I have to leave him again in two days,” you whisper.

She wraps an arm around your shoulder, squeezes it slightly. “But it’ll be different this time around, right?”

DIfferent. You’ll call. You’ll make plans for him to come. You’ll let him into your life, into your heart. You’ll let him break down your walls, brick by brick.

“Yeah. It will,” you say quietly, willing your worries to dissipate.

You meet her gaze, and she smiles. Jaeyun is only one of the many people you’ve kept at bay for too long now.

“Come on,” she says, getting up from the couch. “I’m making meatball pasta, your favorite.”

“It’s your favorite.”

It was one of the few meals she made on rotation whenever she had time to cook—it is your favorite, only because eating it meant you were spending the evening together. You cut vegetables while she seasons the meat, telling each other about your day. Maybe it’s because you’re in such a wonderful mood from your afternoon with Jaeyun, but the atmosphere between the two of you feels particularly light-hearted today, which is why you’re so surprised when she suddenly tells you you should talk about “what happened last time.” Your stomach clenches, but you nod—you knew it was going to happen sooner or later, so you might as well get over it quickly, and she seems to be of the same opinion.

“I know we’re both bad at this, so I’ll keep it short,” she starts, keeping her eyes on the preparation. You really are cut from the same cloth—you continue chopping carrots, glad to have something to do with your hands. “I’m sorry about those things I said. It was an emotional time for both of us, what with Jaeyun’s grandmother and all, but I shouldn’t have let my emotions get the best of me. It’s my fault we never talked about your parents. About your mom. I know you would’ve liked to, but I never could. And you do remind me of her. Gosh, you look so much like her at your age. But you can’t do anything about that, and what I said about looking at you and seeing her, that wasn’t fair. It sounded like I blamed you, which is the last thing I wanted to do.

“She always took care of me, because she was older than me by so many years, you know. She called herself my second mom. And all of a sudden, it felt like I had to take care of her. It’s ironic, since my literal job is to take care of people, but I didn’t know how to, with you.”

“I didn’t make it easy. I barely talked to you,” you say quietly. It’s true that you can’t expect the same maturity from a teenager and a young adult, but thinking back on it, you can’t help but think you could’ve been softer on your aunt. More understanding. You wanted her to replace your parents while resenting her for it. You made no effort at communication yet pushed her away every time she made an attempt to talk to you.

“You were so young, and dealing with all that loss. I should’ve tried harder, but you seemed so independent, spending all that time with your friends, making yourself dinner when I wasn’t home. It felt like you didn’t need me, and I have to admit, I was relieved. I was hanging on by a thread. I didn’t know how I could take care of a whole other human being.”

Your breathing is shallow. You spent so many years struggling, each of you in your little corner, at arm’s length from each other but too scared to reach out a hand.

“It felt like you didn’t want me around,” you whisper, head hanging low. 

“Oh, honey.” She drops her spoon and in a second has you wrapped in her arms, the tightest hug she’s ever given you, tighter than when you first arrived at her house, tighter than when you first left. “I’m so, so sorry. I was so glad to have you here. Sure, it was a reminder that I’d lost my sister, but you were a reason to keep going. I had to go to work so you could eat. I had to stay healthy enough to work. You were the only person on this planet that needed me. I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job of it, and that I didn’t show you how much I needed you. How much I love you. But I promise that I never, ever wished you weren’t with me.”

It’s impossible to keep the tears at bay at this point. Tears start pouring down your face, and at the sight, her own tears quickly follow suit—you sob in each other's arms, apologizing over and over again, and by the time you’re done, the meatballs are overcooked and yet the best you’ve ever had.

Between Jaeyun this afternoon, and your aunt this evening, today has been a whirlwind of emotions—with Chaewon’s wedding tomorrow, you’ll probably be drained on your flight back to the city. You have half a mind to take Monday off, just so you can rest from your holiday. 

For now, you’ll rest from today. You’re exhausted, but it takes a while for sleep to claim you—your mind is reeling, replaying Jaeyun’s words, the unspoken promises they contain. Your heart is still swelling with hope when you finally fall asleep.

.

.

It takes a few seconds for yesterday’s events to come back to you after you wake up. It feels like reliving them all over again—Jaeyun’s face next to yours on the soccer field, his hand in yours on the drive home, the conversation with your aunt that feels like one of many steps towards the right direction. And to think you dreaded this weekend for months before coming here.

When Jaeyun pulls up in front of your aunt’s house, she’s quicker than either of you, opening the door before he’s even reached it and inviting him in for coffee. You make a quick mental note of his outfit, a matching dark green suit and vest with a white button-up that fit him a little too well, the veins that run along his forearms down to his hands prominent and a debilitating sight if you’ve ever seen one. Out of concern for your well-being you put that image immediately out of your head—you really don’t need to know how attractive Jaeyun’s hands are.

While you’re trying to gather yourself, with a wide smile, your aunt stares at him sipping his drink, eyes darting around the room awkwardly. He’s always been a little nervous around her, which confused you back then, but endears you now—before every party he picked you up for, he’d be overly polite, assuring her he’d get you home early and safe, standing with his back straight in your hallway as he waited for you like someone trying to impress their girlfriend’s father. She’d wave him off, telling you you could come home shit-faced at three a.m. as long as you were with “this guy.”

It’s so obvious that she’s over-the-moon about him being her nephew-in-law. When he clears his throat, saying, “I’ll take good care of Y/N, I hope you can trust me,” like this is the seventies and he needs to ask her for your hand, she laughs in his face.

“Oh, I’m not worried about you. It’s her I’m worried about.”

“Auntie?”

She ignores you, slides her elbows on the table towards Jaeyun in a conspiratorial manner. “Listen. She can be very grumpy in the morning—”

“Auntie?!”

“And she overthinks everything, even if she’ll never let you know about it. She gets all these crazy ideas about people in her head, so just make sure to talk to her a lot so you know what’s going on up there. Even if you have to force her.”

You’re glaring at her by the time she’s done, but Jaeyun’s delighted. “Thank you for the advice. I’ll make sure to remember it.”

“Good. Now, off you two go. I’ll meet you tonight for the party,” she says with one last wink at you, unfazed by your I-will-murder-you expression as she gets up to put the empty mugs in the sink.

In the car, Jaeyun breaks the silence first. “So, grumpy in the morning, huh?”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, bringing a hand to your temple like your head aches. “I liked it better when you were terrified of her.”

Jaeyun laughs, reaching for your hand and resting it on your lap. “It’s okay. I’ll cheer you up every morning like my life depends on it.” You purse your lips to stop them from curving into a smile. It doesn’t work. “Plus, I can’t imagine you’d be grumpy waking up to this,” he says, pointing to his face.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t be so sure of yourself,” you say as though you don’t agree with him—seeing him first thing in the morning would surely do wonders for your mood, not just when you wake up, but for the entire day.

You know he’s only teasing you, but you have an unexpected problem to deal with now: thoughts of waking up to Sim Jaeyun, thoughts of being in a bed with Sim Jaeyun, thoughts of what usually happens when two people who love each other share a bed. You gulp. When you look over at him, there’s only a serene smile on his lips. One day in, and you’re already getting carried away. He’s probably not even thinking about such things, and you feel guilty about the dull ache in your stomach created by the pictures that your brain is conjuring.

When you arrive at the town hall, you’re greeted by your old friends, standing on the steps in their best clothes. The weather is perfect, the sun shining down warmly but a small breeze stops you from sweating your clothes off. Chaewon and Jaemin decided against staying cooped up in a small room before the ceremony—they thought it’d be much nicer to be there to greet their guests, and that getting to be around each other would prevent any last-minute nerves.

A little before eleven, Chaewon’s sister and Jaemin’s siblings, as the bridesmaids and groomsmen, start ushering everyone in. Once you’re seated inside and waiting for the ceremony to start, Jaeyun leans down towards you, and, quietly enough so only you hear him, whispers, “Should we hijack their wedding? They haven’t been waiting as long as I have.”

You gasp at his words, lightly swatting his chest while he only grins at you, clearly satisfied with your reaction.

“I’m just kidding,” he says. “This isn’t how I’m planning on proposing.”

“Planning on—Sim Jaeyun, be serious for a second.”

“What?” he asks, feigning an innocent tone even as mischief stays written on his features. “I’m very serious about propo—”

Who knows how his sentence ends, because his words are muffled by the hand you put over his mouth.

The ceremony is beautiful, presided over by Chaewon’s dad, who says that in all his years as mayor of Gimcheon, there isn’t a marriage he’s been happier to officiate than today’s. As Chaewon recites her vows, all you can see is your best friend at fifteen, crying because her favorite idol was embroiled in a dating scandal; at seventeen, making vision boards out of her mom’s old wedding magazines; at twenty-two, giggling on the phone because, “Did you know Na Jaemin has had a serious glow-up since high school?”

At twenty-five, telling you she hopes you’ll find the person who makes you as happy as Jaemin makes her. 

Jaeyun’s hand stays in yours the entire time. You feel him glancing over you a few times, but you’re too scared that if you meet his eyes, you’ll break down crying, and you’ve done enough of that to last you a few weeks.

There are many pictures to be taken outside of the town hall, plus the bouquet toss — when Giselle catches it, Jeno’s face turns crimson — so it’s a while before you can all start heading to the cottage that Chaewon’s and Jaemin’s family have rented out for the occasion, for extended family and friends who couldn’t be lodged at someone’s house to stay in. For lunch, the caterer has prepared a large cold buffet with everything from thin slices of meat to charcuterie boards and three types of potato salad.

It’s a really idyllic place they’ve chosen, especially in the middle of July—the flowers are in full bloom, climbing cream and pink roses spilling over metal trellises, the scent of lavender bushes wafting delicately through the air. Chairs and tables covered in white drapes are neatly set around the garden and huge ribbons made of alabaster-colored gaze decorate a large oak tree. 

You know from a phone call with Chaewon that as hands-on as she was with the wedding preparations, there was one thing that hadn’t been up to her to organize—the afternoon activity, between lunch with family and close friends and dinner with a larger number of guests. Jaemin’s sisters had told her they’d take care of it. “But they’re the kind of people who give people missions to do at parties,” she complained. “I once had to win at rock-paper-scissors with three total strangers.”

“But no one’s forcing you to participate,” you said.

“It was a question of pride,” she replied, firm. “I had to make a good impression.”

You can see the relief flood over Chaewon’s features when they announce that they’ve planned a scavenger hunt for this afternoon, and that those who don’t wish to partake can hang back and have a rest. The groups are assigned randomly, so you’re separated from Jaeyun, but your teammates are friendly—Jaemin’s great-aunt and Chaewon seven-year-old little cousin make for a surprisingly comedic duo, and you and Giselle, who you can confirm once and for all is much cooler than her boyfriend Jeno, spend the whole time cracking up at their antics.

Jaemin’s sisters have created a list of clues to guide you to different places around the venue, where you need to complete little tasks—each team starts out with a different clue, and is guided around by the new clues they find at each spot. In the guest book by the entrance, you each describe a memory you share with the bride or groom; by the lily pond, the four of you take a polaroid picture as a keepsake for the newlyweds; behind the bar, there’s a corkboard on which you can tack heart-shaped pieces of paper and write down your predictions for their marriage. You write down that they’ll have 3 under 3, and Chaewon’s cousin writes that they’ll get to drink milkshakes for breakfast—when you ask him what that’s about, he says that his mom said only adults are allowed milkshakes for breakfast, “and adults are usually married, so maybe that’s what they’ll do.”

You arrive in fifth place, so you only win a piece of candy each—but when you find Jaeyun again, he tells you gloatingly that he’ll share his third-place box of chocolates with you. Slowly after that, more guests start arriving, including your aunt. The main room opens up, and you see just how much effort Chaewon has put into all of this—it’s straight from her Pinterest board, with white roses in the center of every table, tulle curtains draped over the windows, and fairy lights adorning the walls. Candied almonds in small white bags, with a tag that reads C+J, rest on every plate as gifts for the guests. The cottage was the perfect choice for the reception, with its wooden panels that contrast against the cream-colored decorations. They’ve hired Beomgyu, an old high school friend of yours, as their DJ, and for now, as he’s setting up his station, a relaxed R&B playlist drifts quietly through the speakers.

You’re seated between Yunjin and Jaeyun. You mingle at first, champagne glass in hand as you catch up with Chaewon’s mom, at whose house you spent so many of your teenage hours. She has stars in her eyes, telling you how happy she is for your daughter, and when she asks whether there’s a lucky man in your life, you can’t help but glance at Jaeyun, who’s talking with Mrs. Lee, one of his old elementary school teachers, Chaewon’s colleague now. She follows your gaze and exclaims in delight. “Chaewon always said you two would end up together! Well, better late than never,” she says with a wink. Someone calls her name then, and you’re left to process her words.

Considering Yunjin and your aunt had you figured it out, it isn’t so surprising that Chaewon would’ve long been aware of your and Jaeyun’s feelings for each other—what’s taking you aback is the fact she never said anything. She teased you just as much as your classmates did, and she did ask you a couple of times if you really didn’t feel anything for him (which you always adamantly declined, and you understand now that that must’ve only made her only more suspicious of you), but she never pushed any further. Her words from a few days earlier suddenly come back to you—”I promise you someone is out there. Maybe closer than you think.”

You make a mental note to find a minute alone with her tonight, and congratulate her for being much smarter and perceptive than you ever were.

The appetizers start rolling out—Jaeyun is still so engrossed in his conversation with Mrs. Lee that you go ahead and make him a plate with a little bit of everything. When you hand it to him, he looks at you like you’ve just handed him a million bucks. After you go back to your seat, you often feel him or Mrs. Lee glancing your way, and you have an inkling of what they might be talking about.

Before the main course, the parents give their speeches together—Jaemin’s share embarrassing anecdotes of their son and thank Chaewon for taking him off their hands; Chaewon’s mom is so emotional throughout her speech that her husband has to take over her parts. 

The atmosphere at your table during dinner is great, and it’s very entertaining to see the champagne start to get to everyone’s heads—you’ve only had a couple glasses, and Jaeyun is driving later, so you’re both sober watching your friends exaggerate everything they say and laugh over nothing much. When you’re done eating, his hand often finds yours underneath the table, and it never fails to make your insides feel pleasantly warm. 

After dinner, the music suddenly shuts off for a few seconds, before Can’t Help Falling In Love by Elvis Presley, the song for Chaewon’s parents’ first dance at their own wedding, which she wanted to turn into a tradition. Everyone watches the couple gently swaying around the dance floor. They look at each other as though they are the only people in this entire room; on this entire planet. After a minute, other couples start joining them; when Jaeyun stands up and offers you his hand, you don’t even hesitate for a second.

You feel a little shy, standing before him and looking into his eyes, so you rest your head on his chest instead, letting him hold you close to him and guide you around the dance floor, one arm around your waist, holding your hand in his free one.

“Thank you for waiting for me,” you say, lifting your face a little so he can hear you.

He bends down towards you, his lips grazing your forehead as he speaks. “Thank you, too, angel.” The nickname is unexpected, and makes your heart skip a beat. When he presses his lips to the top of your head, you think that if this wasn’t your best friend’s wedding, you might be debating the ethics of leaving before dessert’s been served. “I promise I’ll make you happy,” he whispers.

“You already are.” You wish you could live in the way he gazes down at you, eyes warm and full of adoration. “You make me feel like a teenager. Like I’m still the sixteen-year-old who got giddy at the thought of seeing you at school every morning.”

“Is that right?” he asks, smile turning a little smug. You like nervous, bashful Jaeyun better—this Jaeyun, the intensity of his gaze as it trails down your face until it reaches your lips, the feeling of his thumb roving across your waist, makes you want to curl up and hide your face in the crook of his neck. He makes your knees weak and your breath shaky.

You stop yourself from looking away, eyes set on his as you nod your head.

“That’s funny, because I’m very aware that we’re not teenagers anymore,” he says.

You don’t ask what he means by that, and he doesn’t offer an explanation, so you’re left to ponder his words on your own—although the tone with which he spoke, teasing and enticing, can’t leave you with much room for interpretation.

But just as your eyes drift down to his lips, and you swear he leans a fraction of the way in, the song is over. You step back from him a second after every couple has separated, turning towards the newlyweds and clapping for them. 

It’s back to 2010s pop after that, and he doesn’t let you go back to your seat—the rest of your friends quickly join you anyway, and even you can’t say no to jumping around and screaming the lyrics when it’s Lady Gaga and Black Eyed Peas playing. Jaeyun makes you spin around, his hands firm on your hips during more sensual songs, his worst (or best, if you ask him) moves on display whenever a song calls for it, and you can’t stop laughing. 

You need a large drink of water eventually, and take the opportunity to look for Chaewon. You find her at the dessert buffet, stacking mini brownies on her plate. She looks startled when you call her name. “These aren’t all for me,” she says quickly.

“I’m not judging,” you say, smiling.

“Okay, good, ‘cause they’re definitely all for me. I barely ate all night ‘cause I was so nervous and I’m famished now.”

You laugh and get a plate, filling it with more food for her before leading her to your presently unoccupied table. “Thank you,” she says with an exaggerated sigh as she plops down on Yunjin’s chair. “I love my family, but they’ve been taking up all of my attention. I just wanna come dance with you guys.”

“We’ll join them in a bit. Can I just tell you something first?”

She tilts her head at you, her smile like she already knows what you’re about to say. “Of course. And,” she says, taking your hands in hers, “I’ve got something to ask you, too. But you go first.”

You surprise yourself with how easily the words come to you—no hesitation over how to phrase it, no nervousness. They feel so natural, rolling off your tongue. “Me and Jaeyun are together.”

She squeals, immediately throwing her arms around you. “I knew it! Finally! It took you guys so long, I was so close to intervening and playing Cupid myself. Oh, Y/N!” she exclaims, bringing you into another hug, not letting you place a word. “Love is in the air. You know, I think knowing Jae and I were getting married might’ve been the trigger for Jaeyun. When he told me he wanted to confess to you over this weekend, I was ecstatic. You can basically thank me for having a boyfriend.”

You laugh. “Thank you, Chaewon. You’ve known all along, haven’t you?” 

She nods proudly. “It was always so obvious. Jaeyun told me a few months after high school ended, but you—” She points an accusing finger at you. “You never did! But you tried too hard to pretend like you were indifferent when I mentioned him on the phone.”

You look down at the floor, feeling a little guilty, a little shy. “I could barely admit it to myself, let alone to anyone else. And I was so, so scared, Chae. Even now…” You look longingly over at the dance floor, where Jaeyun is clearly having the time of his life, throwing his limbs around with Heeseung and Jeno—when he meets your eyes, he waves happily, then returns to what seems to be an attempt at the robot. You sigh. “It’s not like I change my ways overnight, can I? Being so far from him, I don’t know…”

“Don’t think about that right now,” Chaewon says, commanding your attention back to her. “Just enjoy it. It’s what both of you deserve. When you run into a problem, you’ll figure it out together. He’s waited this long, I promise you it’s not a little distance that’ll drive him away now.”

You nod. “Okay. You’re right.”

“Of course I am. Now, I have some news to share too. And it’s our secret, okay?”

Excited, you shift forward on your chair, inching closer to her. “Okay.”

She gazes downward with a smile, lets go of one of your hands to rest on her stomach. Your mouth falls open, and when she looks back up at you, her eyes shiny, you immediately feel yours start to burn. “If you say yes, Y/N, you’ll be a godmother soon.”

“Oh my God, Chae,” you whisper, tears already pooling in your eyes.

She giggles. “Jaeyun’s already agreed to be the godfather, so it only makes more sense now, doesn’t it? And yes, before you ask, I’m absolutely using my unborn child as emotional blackmail to get you to call and visit more often. And I’ll be coming to see you in the city and make you take me around cute baby shops and buy me all the food I want.

“Oh my God, Chae. You’re having a whole baby,” you whisper, incredulous. Your heads lean in towards each other, almost bumping as you laugh.

“I know, right? We wanted to wait until our honeymoon was over to start trying, but… Well, I’ll spare you the details, but we’ve never gone at it so much since getting engaged—”

“Alright.”

“So, what do you say?” she asks, a hopeful expression on her face.

You squeeze her hands. “How could I say anything but yes? Of course I’ll be your kid’s godmother. I’m so honored that you’re asking me, when I haven’t been an ideal friend.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t. We understand you, Y/N, more than I think you give us credit for. And I trust you to make up for it now, okay?”

You nod, tears freely streaming down your cheeks now. “I will. I absolutely will. I love you so much, Chae. I’m so happy for you.”

Her laugh is the prettiest sound to your ears. “I love you too, Y/N.”

She leans back, takes a deep breath as she wipes her tears. “Is my makeup okay?” When you nod, she gets up and says, “Okay. To the dance floor!”

Now that they’ve gone through every step and are reassured that their wedding couldn’t have gone more smoothly, Jaemin and Chaewon let it all out on the dance floor. What starts out as a pretty big crowd, a large portion of the guests up and dancing, fizzles out as the hour grows late. The more elderly relatives have long retired, and it isn’t long before the older adults leave, too, finding their children asleep on random chairs and dragging them out of the venue. Soon, the population on the dance floor is more or less constituted of your high school friends and Chaewon’s and Jaemin’s cousins of your age. When Beomgyu starts to play slower songs around the three a.m. mark, you can’t believe it’s this late already. You were having so much fun you had no idea so much time had passed.

The catering crew has cleared the tables and packed away all their silver- and dinnerware, and your friends, in their drunken state, offer to wipe the floors and take the decorations down, but Chaewon and Jaemin shoo them off, assuring them that they’ll be taking care of it with their families in the morning.

You have to admit, now that the energy’s gone down, you start to feel yourself ready for bed, your feet aching from overuse, even though you took your high heels off hours ago to dance with more ease. It doesn’t help that Jaeyun stays right behind you as everyone starts heading off, his hand low and casual on your hip as you wave them all goodbye and promise to stay in touch. He only hangs back when you have to say goodbye to Chaewon—your flight is around noon tomorrow, so you won’t have time to see her again.

Hugging her tight, you tell her again how beautiful she looked tonight and how happy you are for her. You wish her and Jaemin a happy honeymoon, and she winks back, telling you to have fun, too. “But safe fun!” she yells as you and Jaeyun start making your way to his car. “I love you but you’re not stealing my baby’s spotlight!”

Jaeyun is still laughing as he gets in the driver’s seat, while you’re flooded with embarrassment. “So she told you, then?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“We’re gonna be godparents,” he says, grinning. “Some might say we’re moving a little fast, but I think it’s right.”

You’re smiling impossibly wide. “You’re stupid.”

“And you’re pretty,” he replies, brushing his knuckle along your jaw. It’s an innocent touch, but just like that, the dull ache in your stomach reappears—maybe it’s his proximity all night, all tension and no release, or the fact that it’s the two of you in pure darkness on this late night road, or Chaewon’s comment ringing in your head, but you suddenly find yourself craving for a lot more than an innocent touch. As though he can read your mind, Jaeyun clears his throat. “Do you, um, do you want to go back to mine?” he asks, eyes going back-and-forth between you and the road as though not wanting to miss your reaction.

“Yeah,” you whisper. The air conditioning is on full blast, yet your skin is on fire. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Okay.”

You’re silent for the rest of the car ride, mind racing with possibility. Jaeyun’s hand trembles ever so slightly in yours, like he can barely restrain himself, and you agree that the twenty minutes to his apartment are the longest you’ve ever had to endure. You play with his fingers, hoping the gesture will be calming to both of you, but the feeling of his skin against yours only makes your heart race faster.

His apartment is on the first floor of a small building in the center of Gimcheon. He leads you up the stairs, fingers intertwined with yours, only letting go to open his door. “Layla will be excited to meet you,” he says as he turns the key—indeed, you’re greeted warmly by the cream-colored Border Collie. She seems much happier to meet someone new than to see her boring old owner, who notices this with a frown, huffing something about “betrayal” and “your own kids…” as Layla licks your hands and presents her belly for pets.

“I should probably walk her quickly, she hasn’t been out since this morning,” Jaeyun says, an endeared smile on his face as he watches the two of you get acquainted.

“Should I come with?”

Crouching beside you, he shakes his head. “I know you’re tired, angel. I’ll just be ten minutes, you can wash up in the meantime.”

You follow him into the bathroom, where he hands you a towel and tells you to help yourself to anything you need. “Wait here a minute,” he says, then disappears into his bedroom, coming back with clean clothes for you to wear. He’s sheepish as he rests them on the sink counter, a small smile playing on his lips. “Here. They might be a bit big, but more comfortable than your dress.”

“Thanks, Yun.”

“No worries.” He hesitates for a second, then presses a quick kiss to your temple. “I’ll be quick.”

Even after he leaves, the smile on your lips is wide and unwavering, your heartbeat fast, your fingers twitchy and impatient. You find lotion to wipe your makeup off with, and have far too much fun analyzing all of his shower products as the hot water runs over your body. You can hardly keep your giddiness in check at the thought of washing yourself with Jaeyun’s soap, drying yourself with his towel, then wearing his clothes and finding yourself enveloped with the delicate floral scent of his laundry detergent. He gave you a navy t-shirt with the logo of his family’s business on the front and a pair of basketball shorts that reach your knees, and that you have to tie very tightly at your hips so it stays up. You can’t help but admire yourself in the mirror, for some reason feeling more like a girlfriend than ever before in your life.

When you hear the front door open, you come out to meet him in his living room. As Layla trots over to her bed, he stops for a second when he sees you, mouth slightly agape as his eyes rake your body. You feel shy under his gaze, but surprise yourself by also revelling in the attention, in the way his desire is so evident in his gaze, in the smirk that grows on his lips as he crosses the distance to you.

“Nice walk?” you ask.

“Yeah. You look good,” he says, hands finding your hips, shameless in the way he looks down at you now.

In the shower, you were so preoccupied with simply being here that you didn’t spare a thought for what would happen next—now, under the intensity of Jaeyun’s gaze and the effect of his proximity, you feel unprepared, completely at a loss for what to do with yourself.

It’s lucky for you that Jaeyun, on the other hand, seems to know exactly what he wants to do with you.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, voice low and gravelly unlike you’ve ever heard it before, and it sends shivers down your spines. You don’t trust your voice to work properly, so you nod your assent instead.

Seconds pass like eternity between his question and the moment his lips actually touch your lips. One of his hands leaves your hips to find your chin instead, raising it a little with his thumb so your face is perfectly angled towards his. His touch is gentle, more of a request than a demand, and you crave to melt into it, to let him lead you wherever he wants you.

His lips meet yours, delicate and cautious, like he doesn’t want to scare you off. They move languidly against each other, giving you the time you need to adapt to this without being overwhelmed. You raise your arms and wrap them around his neck while his hand sneaks its way to your lower back, pushing you gently closer towards him, your chest now flush to his. Fire courses through your veins as his tongue meets yours, deepening the kiss and making your thoughts hazy, incoherent, unimportant.

You never dreamed it would be this easy. One kiss, and it’s like a faucet’s opened up inside you, all the desire and want and longing that you’ve kept trapped inside pouring out of you boundlessly. You wouldn’t know how to control it if you had to—and thankfully, Jaeyun doesn’t seem to want you to. He meets you right where you are, holding onto you just as tightly as you are onto him, moaning shamelessly when your fingers tug sharply at his hair, his head thrown back as you pepper his throat with wet, messy kisses. 

His mouth doesn’t leave yours as he walks you to his bedroom. Only when he sits down on his bed do you get a glimpse of his expression—the lust-blown pupils, the reddened cheeks, the lips plump and shiny with saliva. His hands are practically on your ass as he brings you down towards him, helping you into a straddling position on his lap. He presses kisses to your cheek, your jawline, then, resting his forehead against yours, asks with a throaty voice, “You’re okay with this?”

You smile, wrap your arms tighter around his neck. “I’m definitely okay with this.”

“Good,” he replies, then wastes no time pressing his lips back to yours.

Years of repressed feelings come out in this kiss—that much is clear in its desperation, in the way you both grab onto whatever parts of the other you can reach, like you want to tether yourselves to each other. When you break apart for air, Jaeyun whispers in your ear how long he’s wanted to do this, lips brushing against your skin as he speaks, making you shake lightly in his hold. The longer you kiss, the weaker the resistance in your thighs grows, and you soon find yourself sitting right on his lap, his bulge hard and demanding attention beneath you. His grip on your hips tightens, but it’s the only sign he gives you of being affected—only when you roll your hips experimentally against his does he let out a loud moan right into your mouth, which you take as a green light to keep going. 

You push him down onto the mattress, practically laying on top of him as you grind yourself against him, a small whimper leaving your throat every time his erection rubs perfectly against your clit through your shared layers of clothing. He’s still wearing his wedding outfit, and when his hands leave your body to unbutton his shirt, you waste no time in helping him, untucking his shirt from his trousers, unbuckling his belt. He chuckles at your eagerness, but you can’t bring yourself to feel even a little embarrassed—you don’t think you’ve ever desired anything this badly, and it’s messing with your head. Jaeyun looks at you like he could eat you right up, so you decide there’s no use in hiding your appetite from him.

His hands slip underneath your t-shirt, and your skin blazes with the heat of his touch. They trail up your sides, nails briefly grazing your waist and back before they find your breasts. He gently rubs one of your nipples between his fingers, and Jaeyun curses when you release a moan in the crook of his neck, pressing your crotch against his with more urgency than before. “Does that feel good, baby?” he asks, voice breathy as you squirm under his touch.

“Yes, Yun.”

He hums in satisfaction, one hand on your ass to guide your movements against him, the other alternating between your breasts to pay them equal attention, lips never relenting in their quest to leave no inch of your neck unkissed. 

It’s too much and too little at once. A familiar coil tightens in your stomach, and you can’t believe you’re already this close to coming undone from this—every man you’ve slept with before has had to put in a lot more work to get you even near the edge. But with Jaeyun, all it takes is a few minutes of heavy petting and his voice in your ears, telling you how well you’re doing for him, how pretty you look using him to get yourself off.

“That’s it, baby,” he coos as your moans get louder, your movements more erratic. “I’ve got you. Let it go for me.” It’s all you need for your orgasm to wash over you and leave you a trembling mess in his arms, his hold around your waist tight as he kisses your temple and shushes you gently. 

When you’ve calmed down somewhat, he helps you onto your back, shifting so that your head rests on his pillows. Now that you’ve regained your senses, the reality of what you’ve done, what you’re doing hits you. Resting on his elbow, Jaeyun gazes down at you fondly, and although you would’ve reveled in it mere moments ago, the intensity of his attention now only brings heat to your face. You can’t quite meet his eyes, a small, bashful smile playing on your lips as you play with the lapels of shirt collar. He must sense this shift in your demeanor, and asks, “Do you wanna keep going?”

Lust pangs low in your stomach. You force yourself to look into his eyes, giving him an almost imperceptible nod. His desire is so obvious on him, and truth be told, you hadn’t even thought you might stop here when he still needs taking care of. The smile on his lips grows, but when you reach out to touch his erection, he tilts his head, grabbing your wrist and laying it back down next to your body. “I didn’t say I was done with you, baby,” he purrs, leaning down to kiss your neck, one hand slipping under your t-shirt again. 

“But—”

“I’ve waited so long, angel. Dreamed about having you like this so many times. So be patient and give me this much, hm?”

You release a shaky breath. How can you say no when he makes it sound like letting him make you feel good is doing him a favor, and not you? “Okay.”

“Thank you, angel. Help me with this?” he asks gently, lifting his t-shirt you’re wearing over your head. You’d feel shy at lying half-naked underneath him if it wasn’t for the way he admired you, like an art lover in front of their favorite painting. “So fucking perfect,” he mutters, leaving a trail of kisses down your throat until he reaches your breasts. “Can’t believe you’ve been keeping this from me all this time.”

“I’m sorry, Yun.” You’re already squirming at this touch, body screaming for more than the feather-like kisses he presses to your skin.

“No, no, baby. Don’t apologize. I’d do it all over again, knowing I’d get to see you like this in the end. So perfect,” he repeats, and before you can reply, he wraps his lips around your nipple, tongue darting out to lick at the sensitive bud. Your back arches off his bed, but with a firm hand to your stomach, he stops you from writhing away from his touch. 

He seems to be content with doing this for minutes on end, lips alternating between your nipples, fingers tending to the neglected one, teeth sometimes gently nibbling at your skin, leaving behind small marks on the sides of your breasts. “There, now you can’t forget me,” he says with a self-satisfied smirk when he leans back to admire his work.

“As if I could,” you whisper back, hands finding purchase in his hair as you bring him back towards you and kiss him.

But soon enough, another part of your body starts burning from lack of attention, but even as you buck your hips towards him to signal what you need, he doesn’t notice—or doesn’t care. “Yun…” you eventually whine, hoping he’ll understand what it is you want from this one word.

“What’s wrong, baby? You need something?” he asks, faking an innocent tone.

So he does know—he just doesn’t want to give it to you so easily. It’s too bad for you that you’re famously bad at asking for what you need.

You opt instead for grabbing his hand and leading it down to your core—surely, that’s enough of a message. He cups you over your shorts, and your thighs clasp around his wrist, instinctively attempting to create more friction. His hand slips below your waistband, and he groans, forehead falling against your shoulder, when he finds your lack of underwear there. He has direct access to your folds, and he wastes no time sliding two of his fingers there, humming in appreciation. “So wet,” he mumbles, seemingly more to himself than to you. 

“Please, Yun,” you plead, voice almost a wince—and it is in a way painful, having him so close to where you need.

“I’m here, angel. I’ll give you what you want.” And indeed, the next second, the pads of his fingers are on your clit, rubbing torturously slow circles onto it. On the pillow, your head falls to the side in your search for more proximity with him—you feel his laboured breathing against your face, and you shift your body closer to him, worming one of your legs between his. As though this is getting to his head as much as yours, he’s silent for a while, his fingers gathering speed on your clit, occasionally sliding down your folds and inside of you. They go so much deeper than yours can, brushing against that spot that has your nails digging into his skin. But as he brings you closer and closer to the edge, you find yourself not wanting to fall right away, at least not like this.

“Yun…” you breathe out, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. He stops immediately, raising his head to look at you with unnecessary concern, making your heart soften for him.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No, no, I just…”

You squirm uncomfortably beneath him, and his expression shifts—damn him for understanding so quickly what you’re too shy to say. “You just…” he trails, smug. Resuming his kisses along your throat, he says, “Tell me, baby.”

“You know,” you huff. He laughs against your skin, and even in your annoyance, the melodic sound makes your heart skip a beat.

“Hm, but I’d rather you tell me.”

You hesitate for a few seconds. Your hand finds his bulge again, and this time, he doesn’t stop you. You know he wants this as badly as you do, but if telling him is what he needs, then you’ll have to comply. “I need—I want—I want to come on your dick, Jaeyun, please,” you say, forcing out the words as quickly as you can, face burning in embarrassment.

He freezes. You hear his breathing get louder, more rugged, and it’s a few seconds before he raises himself onto his elbows, fingers at your waistband, dragging your shorts down. The smugness has all but left his features, leaving behind something like sternness—furrowed eyebrows, dark eyes, tight jaw. As he lifts over his head the white sleeveless tee he was wearing beneath his button-up, your hands make clumsy work of his trousers, pulling them down his thighs along with his underwear. His cock springs free, tip an angry-looking red, already leaking precum, and you wonder at the self-restraint he must’ve been exercising this entire time—it’s clearly stronger than yours. 

You wrap a hand around the base, transfixed by the sight, and he groans. You pump him a few times, reveling in the small moans that leave his mouth, muffled in the crook of your neck, and in the way his fingers dig into the skin of your hips. He doesn’t let it go on for very long, soon leaning away from you and towards his bedside table. “Let me get a condom, baby,” he says, voice shaky. 

“I’m on the pill. You don’t need to wear one.” His head snaps back towards you, eyes wide like a kid on Christmas day.

“Are you sure?” he asks, but he’s already coming back towards you, elbows on each side of your face, peppering the side of your face with kisses.

You wrap your hand around his dick again, letting his tip graze your clit before lining it with your entrance. “Yeah, I am.”

He releases a shaky breath, finding your hand and intertwining his fingers with yours before he finally pushes inside of you, slowly filling you up until he bottoms out. Slick from your previous orgasm and relaxed from his fingers, you accommodate him easily, only needing a few seconds before you’re already bucking up your hips against him, asking for more. For once, Jaeyun doesn’t tease you—he obliges instantly, pushing into you with slow, precise thrusts that have the coil tightening again in your stomach with embarrassing quickness. It doesn’t help that Jaeyun groans right into your ear, whispering curses, muttering about how good you feel around him, “Like you were made for me, baby.”

His free hand slides beneath your thigh and lifts it up to rest it against his hip—this new angle allows him to go deeper, to hit that sensitive spot with every one of his thrusts. As his movements gather speed, you feel yourself inching closer and closer to your orgasm, and when it finally hits, your nails dig into the skin of his bicep, you throw your head back, and you let the pleasure wash over you, your brain going haywire, a loud moan escaping your mouth.

Jaeyun takes the opportunity to latch his lips to your throat, biting and sucking at the skin there, surely leaving yet another mark for you to find in the morning. You’re holding onto him like you might float away if you don’t, thighs shaking as overstimulation starts to set in—and yet, when he asks with a low, gruff voice whether you can handle some more, you find yourself nodding vigorously, ready to take whatever he gives you.

“That’s my girl.”

He slips out of you and you whine at the loss. But he quickly fills you up again, first turning you onto your side as he spoons you from behind, lifting your thigh to grant him better access and pushing into you again with no hesitation. In this position, he’s able to snake an arm around you and play with your clit, making you throw your head back against his shoulder. His pace is gentle at first, as are the kisses he presses to the side of your neck and to your shoulder as he lets you adjust to this new, deeper angle. But it doesn’t take long for his rhythm to quicken as he seems to be nearing release himself—his thrusts get sloppier, harsher, the sounds he makes more desperate.

You didn’t think it’d be possible, but between his fingers on your clit, his dick deep inside you, and his filthy words in your ears, a chasm opens within you once more and you find yourself barrelling towards it at alarming speed. With a few final hard thrusts and the feeling of Jaeyun’s release filling you to the brim, you come undone for the third time tonight, your throat tight and scratchy from moaning so much.

Jaeyun stills inside of you. Without sliding out, he wraps an arm around your middle and brings you closer to him, his hold tight and reassuring. His chest is flush against your back and you feel it rise and fall with each of his breaths; your breathing slowly evens out, eventually matching the rhythm of his. With his fingertips, he draws unintelligible patterns across the skin of your stomach and waist. Tiredness makes your limbs heavy like they could sink right into his mattress. You must be mere seconds away from sleep when you feel him slip out of you. You roll onto your back as he grabs a tissue from his bedside table, cleaning you up gently as he presses a kiss to your temple. “How do you feel?” he asks. “Do you need anything? Some water? A shower?”

You rest an arm around his waist and wiggle closer to him. “Just you,” you say.

“I can give you that. Easy,” he says, the smile audible in his voice.

.

.

You wake up a few times during the night, unaccustomed to sharing a bed with someone else—and not just anyone at that, but Jaeyun, whose warm body you find yourself shifting closer to whenever you regain half-consciousness and realize you’re not in his arms anymore. He barely rouses as you nuzzle your face in his neck, an arm coming up to circle your waist to accommodate your body against his. You wish nothing more than to stay like this forever, but unfortunately, your faithful alarm clock rings at nine a.m. and as you reach for your phone to turn it off, Jaeyun’s loose hold on you tightens.

“Don’t go yet,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your hair, and his gravelly morning voice sends a shiver right down your spine.

You smile. “I’m not. I can stay ten minutes longer.”

He whines, pulls you in closer to him. Goosebumps appear where his fingers slightly dig into your skin. “That’s not long enough…”

“I can’t miss my flight, Yun.”

“Sure you can,” he says casually, and as he starts to press kisses to your neck, you almost think he might be right. “You can catch a later one. You can go home next week.”

You hum, lifting your head to grant him better access to your throat, shivering when his teeth graze your sensitive skin. “My boss might have something to say about that.”

Rolling you onto your back, he drops his forehead on your shoulder with a dramatic sigh. “Ten minutes, you said?” he asks, with a roll of his hips so small it could be seen as accidental. But with the way his erection presses into you, thick and firm, you have an inkling it was anything but.

“Fifteen if you drive fast,” you say, already starting to get out-of-breath.

“That’s plenty.”

Neither of you bothered to put on clothes again last night, so he easily slides two fingers between your folds, gathering your slick and trailing them upwards until they reach your clit. He seems satisfied with the wetness he finds there, quickly shifting to fill you up with his dick rather than his fingers. And indeed, fifteen minutes are plenty—in the time it takes for your alarm to ring again, he’s made you come twice, his thrusts deep and precise as though he has a knowledge of your body that dates back years and not a mere day. He releases inside of you with a groan.

It does suck, having to leave so quickly. You wish you could lay in bed with him for hours, take a shower so long it has negative environmental impacts, and have a late, hearty breakfast with him. Unfortunately, you have to speed through everything—you need to be at the airport at eleven at the latest, and having not foreseen you wouldn’t be spending the night at your aunt, you didn’t finish packing before the wedding. He seems to be as aware of this as you are, and although he keeps a smile on his lips at all times, you can see your sadness reflected in his eyes at the thought of having to say goodbye, so soon after finally opening up to each other.

But in a way, you find goodbye easier this time around. As you hug your aunt and thank her for letting you stay — at which she scoffs, saying this will always be as much your house as it is hers — you’re armed with the knowledge that you’re on good terms now, and that you’re not going back to another three years of near radio silence. It’s not an empty promise that you make her when you tell her you’ll be in touch.

You’ve never seen Jaeyun as talkative as on the drive to the airport. He blabbers away, filling every second of silence like his life depends on it—you don’t help him, quiet as can be out of fear of breaking into sobs in the middle of any given sentence. You remind yourself that this goodbye is only temporary, that you’ll soon make plans for him to visit, but still, your eyes burn at the thought of going home to an empty apartment and falling asleep in a half-empty bed tonight. He must sense this because he eventually tells you, voice soft and vulnerable, “Don’t cry, baby.”

You purse your lips to stop them from trembling, turning away from him so he can’t see your frown. “I feel like I already miss you,” you say, so low you wonder if he can even hear you.

“I’ll come see you soon. And I’ll text and call you so often every day that you won’t have time to miss me,” he replies, but you can hear it in his tone that he doesn’t quite believe what he’s saying, only trying to reassure you, and himself, maybe.

“That’s impossible,” you mutter. You’re both silent for the rest of the drive, but his hand in yours is warm, and it does more to comfort you than any words could. 

He parks at the airport drop-off area and gets your suitcase out of the trunk for you. He wanted to park where he could leave his car longer, and go into the airport with you, but you convinced him that the quicker your goodbye, the better off you’d be. You have the sinking feeling you might burst into tears at any moment, and you don’t want his last image of you for the foreseeable future to be one with tears streaming down your cheeks, don’t want him to needlessly worry or drive off with a weight on his heart.

He holds you in his arms, hands rubbing reassuring circles on your back. “I’ll come up as soon as I can, okay?” he says. “In less than a month, I promise. Any longer and I might explode.”

You laugh. “I don’t want you to explode.”

“No, that’d be pretty unfortunate.”

With one final kiss to the pretty lips that you’ll be longing for until you see Jaeyun again, you grab the handle of your suitcase and walk towards the entrance of the departures area. “Text me when you land, yeah?” he asks.

You nod. “I will.” You just stand there looking at him for a while—you’re a bit too sad to appreciate the fact that this is your first openly emotional, tearful goodbye, but part of you basks in knowing the separation isn’t hard for you only. “I love you, Yun.”

He smiles, a beautiful mix of sorrow and happiness that you want to commit to memory. “I love you more, angel.”

Every time you turn around, he’s still there leaning against his car, possibly overstaying his time at the drop-off, until you’ve walked too far into the airport and can’t see him anymore.

.

.

It’s already dark outside when a text from Minjeong lights up Jaeyun’s phone. Just dropped her off, it says. I tried to stop her from drinking so much, but she said she was going through Jaeyun withdrawals, whatever that means. Anyways she’s wasted good luck lol

He shakes his head. He’d be annoyed if he wasn’t so excited to see you—he’d told Minjeong to keep you outside for a bit longer after work, not get you drunk. But before he has time to text her back, his phone starts ringing in his hand. Smiling, he picks up, your voice immediately filling his ear.

“Jaeyun,” you whine, extending the second vowel for too many seconds—Minjeong wasn’t just throwing words around when she said you were wasted. You must be in the elevator by now. He has half a mind to come and get you, just in case you’re stumbling around and pressing the wrong floor numbers, but if Minjeong dropped you off at your building and not your apartment, then you must have some awareness left.

He hopes. There’s something important he wants to talk to you about, and he’d rather you were sober for it.

“Hi, baby,” he says.

This is apparently the worst thing he could possibly say, sensing as you make a noise halfway between a grunt and a whine. “Don’t call me baby when I already miss you this much. We’ve talked about this!”

You definitely haven’t. “I’m very sorry,” he says, exaggerating his serious tone, but you don’t catch his sarcasm.

“Yes, you should be.” The telltale beep of your code being pressed into the keypad breaks the silence of your apartment, and Jaeyun’s heart races with excitement. “I’m coming home now, Minjeong took me to this—”

Your next words get caught in your throat the moment you step inside your apartment and see him, a few meters away from you in your kitchen. You stay frozen in place, phone still to your ear as he crosses the distance between you, smiling so hard his cheeks ache.

“Welcome home, angel.”

He’s glad to see you aren’t in too much of a wretched state. Even in your wide-gazed surprise, your eyes are a bit clouded over from the alcohol, and you aren’t standing quite straight on your feet, but the way Minjeong texted him, he half-expected to find you with vomit on the front of your shirt. He steadies you with a hand to your waist, grabs your wrist gently to bring your arm down now that he’s hung up—and right in front of you.

“You’re real?” you ask, and when he nods, as though that was all the confirmation you needed, you throw your arms around his neck. “My Yunie,” you exclaim, voice muffled against his sweatshirt, and he has to bite back his laughter. Even a year and a half into your relationship, that’s a new one. You still get flustered when a pet name escapes your lips instead of his name. Maybe he should let you get drunk more often.

You suddenly lean back, cupping his face between your palms, eyes slightly narrowed as they drift over every inch of his face, like you’re trying to see whether anything’s changed. He lets you, a small, endeared smile on his lips, glad for the opportunity to admire you in return.

You press your lips to his, a little more forcefully than you usually would, then rest your head against his chest once more. “What are you doing here?” you ask. “Did you know I was missing you extra lately?”

“Of course I did. I always know what you’re thinking.”

“Okay. What am I thinking right now?”

He hums, pretends to think for a little. “That you love me and are so happy to see me!”

You gasp. “Yes! You’re so smart,” you exclaim, hugging him even tighter. 

Eventually, he manages to get you out of your coat and shoes, and leads you to the kitchen, where your counter is covered in flour and uncooked, homemade dumplings. He only needs to make a few more until he can start frying them. The rice is already cooked, and a miso and vegetable stew simmers on your stove. You make yourself useful by circling your arms around Jaeyun’s waist, your head resting on his shoulders as you watch him fold dough around a beef galbi filling, your favorite. 

“Do you wanna go wash up before we eat?” he asks softly, afraid that in your sensitive state, you might take his words the wrong way. But to his surprise, you oblige without a word, giving his cheek a kiss before heading to your bedroom.

When you haven’t come back ten minutes later, he goes to check on you, and finds you laying on top of your sheets, feet not even on your mattress but still on your floor like you fell back sitting and just stayed there. You’ve managed to remove your makeup and let down your hair, but you apparently ran out of energy before you could change out of your work clothes. Drool pools at the corner of your open lips. 

Jaeyun’s heart aches with happiness. Every time he looks at you, even like this — especially like this — all he can think is how badly he wants to spend the rest of his life with you. And with every passing day that you stay with him, that you tell him good morning and good night and I love you, he thinks he might have a shot at it.

He sighs, but there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing than slipping your trousers and blouse off of your frame and finding a large t-shirt for you to sleep in, then guiding your body underneath your sheets. You wake up once, giggle at yourself, and immediately fall back asleep.

A while later, after he’s cleaned up the kitchen, had a little bit of dinner — on his own, which he knows you’ll feel awful about tomorrow — and washed up for bed, he gently closes the door of the bedroom behind him, where you’re still in deep sleep.

So he’ll have to wait until the morning to share his news. It’s alright—he has the whole weekend to tell you he’s found the perfect house, not too far from Gimcheon or from Daegu, where your boss has already said you could be transferred. He visited it last week, and in every room, he could picture your future together so perfectly. The kitchen in which he’ll make you a late breakfast on lazy Sunday mornings, the room with a beautiful view over a garden that you could turn into an office for your work-from-home days, the bedroom that he could all too well imagine a crib in. Layla could run around in the garden. You could visit your family and friends whenever you wanted. You could be in Seoul in less than two hours with the train if you ever missed it.

You’ve been talking about moving somewhere together for a while now, but he’s still nervous to bring it up. It’s a huge step, and he can only hope you are as ready as he is to take it—and if you aren’t yet, he’ll gladly wait for you to be. But as he slips into bed with you, your warm body shifting into his embrace even in sleep, he doubts he’ll have to wait long at all. The days of holding back are long gone—ever since it’s fully gotten through to you that he won’t ever leave your side if he can help it, you’ve opened up to him like never before, let him take care of you like he’s always dreamed of.

He looks down at you and your peaceful sleeping face, his initial dangling on a thin silver chain that you’ve worn since you found it again while organizing your jewelry box a few weeks ago. This is enough for now. But one day, if you’ll have him, he’ll make you his with another piece of jewelry, and falling asleep with you in his arms won’t be a once-in-a-while occurrence anymore.

It’s more than enough, he thinks as he presses a kiss to your forehead, and lets the soft sound of your breathing lull him into sleep. It’s everything.

.

.

“My wife.”

Jaeyun’s voice is a low, possessive grunt in your ear. He says those two words like they hold the most precious meaning in the world, and it makes fire rise deep inside you.

You thought the reason Jaeyun had been so antsy during your journey to Hawaii was because he’d never travelled this far. You’d chalked up his need to have his hand in yours or resting on your thigh for the entirety of the flight to it being his first time on a long-distance plane. You easily dismissed his clinginess on the drive from the airport to your hotel as his being tired, which always made him a little needier.

But when he pressed his body to yours the moment the door of your hotel room shut behind you, you finally understood what had actually been on his mind this entire time—the feeling of his erection, hard and insistent on your lower stomach, left no room for interpretation.

To be fair, since getting married three days ago, in the familiarity of your backyard and surrounded by your loved ones, you’d barely gotten any alone time. Relatives of his that lived far away stayed at your house until yesterday night, and at bedtime every night, either one or both of you were too tired to initiate anything. You haven’t had sex since becoming Jaeyun’s wife, and clearly, this has been weighing on your husband.

He kisses you like he has been starving for months, desperate, ravenous, crazed. His arms around you hold you in a tight embrace, your bags haphazardly discarded at your feet. Eventually, he reaches for the back of your thighs and, legs hooked around his waist, carries you to the bed you’ll call yours for the next week. You hadn’t expected to break it in so quickly, but you wouldn’t have it any other way, not when Jaeyun’s tongue laps at your mouth like this, not when his teeth graze your bottom lip so deliciously.

“Need to touch you so bad, my love. Can I?” he asks, voice breathy.

“Yes, Yun, please.” 

He slips a hand below your waistband and hums in satisfaction at the wetness he finds there. “Always so wet for me, aren’t you, baby? Always ready for me to fuck you.”

The feeling of his expert fingers on your clit render you unable to reply to him—it’s not like he’s waiting for an answer, anyway. The way you throw your head back and moan his name is all the confirmation he could need. 

Although you’d be content to go on like this, it seems as though this isn’t enough for him. He quickly withdraws his fingers, swallowing your whine of protest with a kiss. It’s unusual, the speed with which he makes his way down your body until his face is level with your core. He normally likes to take his sweet time with you, trailing kisses all over your skin before giving in to your pleas for more. You take a little pride in knowing that you don’t have to beg—for once, he’s the desperate one, he’s the one who can’t wait a second longer.

It’s obscene, and obscenely hot, the way he presses his nose against the crotch of your sweatpants and inhales deeply, a guttural groan escaping his throat. He presses kisses to your inner thighs and core over your clothes before he actually slides them down your thighs, letting them pool at your knees like he doesn’t have time to take them off completely. He doesn’t bother with your t-shirt, either, simply snaking his hands underneath it until they reach your breasts.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this pussy so much,” he mutters, admiring it like it belongs in a museum. 

You smile. “It’s been, like, four days.”

He shakes his head. “Never going without it for that long again.”

Jaeyun dives into your core, tongue licking a long stripe up your folds before it finds your clit and settles there, alternating between licking and sucking at the sensitive bud, two of his slender fingers quickly sliding inside of you. Your hands find purchase in his hair, tugging at it when a motion of his tongue feels particularly good, hips bucking against his mouth whenever his fingers hit that particularly deep spot inside you. He moans ceaselessly into your core, the vibrations making your thighs shake around his head, as though he needed this as much as you did—if not more. You swear you hear him mutter “my wife” at some point. Embarrassingly quickly, you start to feel that familiar coil of pleasure form low in your stomach, a warm, dizzying buzz spreading throughout your entire body all the way to your fingertips.

Your relief at not having to beg turns out to be short-lived. Jaeyun makes you come on his tongue a first, then a second time, as he is often wont to do. You’re impossibly sensitive, body heavy and boneless by the third time, but he isn’t satisfied. His grip on your hips is firm, and you don’t have the energy to fight it—nor the willingness, really. Tears stream down your face by the time your fourth orgasm hits you, at which point you can’t even tell pleasure from pain anymore. You really do need a break, though, and signal this to your husband — your husband — by lifting his head from your core.

He gives you a few minutes of physical respite, but the words that he whispers against your skin as he presses feverish kisses to your throat and jaw keep you in that hazy, nebulous headspace, and in those few minutes only, you already find yourself reaching for him, cupping his erection over his sweatpants.

You wince when he enters you, overstimulation setting in solely from having him inside you, but you shake your head when he asks if you need a longer break. “Want you, Yun,” you breathe out, holding onto his biceps, nails already digging into his skin.

As he pistons his hips into yours relentlessly, you almost can’t believe this is the same man who was standing before you at the altar mere days ago, the sweetest smile on his lips and tears in his pretty eyes. You guess he’s holding true to one of his vows—he said he’d never make you doubt how much he loves you, and right now, you can’t deny that he’s fucking you like you’re the only woman for him.

You think he must be close when his thrusts speed up and his grunts get louder. And recently, there’s been a new telltale sign that he was inching closer to his orgasm.

“Gonna fill you up, angel. Gonna stuff you full of my cum and make you the prettiest mommy ever. All round and beautiful, and carrying my baby. Show the whole world who you belong to.”

He mutters these words right into your ear just as his breathing gets heavier, more ragged, and seconds later, you feel him spurting ropes of his sperm inside you. When he first started talking to you like this, you assumed it was just long-term relationship dirty talk. But a couple of weeks ago, when you told him you were almost at the end of your last tablet of birth control, he asked how you felt about not renewing your prescription—so not just dirty talk, you realized.

He pulls out of you but stays on top of you, catching his breath as he rests his head on your chest and you play with his hair. Eventually, he grabs your left hand, lifts it to his lips, and presses them to your ring finger, right over the silver band. “Thank you for marrying me, angel,” he whispers. “You’ve made me the happiest man on Earth.”

You kiss the top of his head, basking in the pleasant warmth of his words, of his scent, of his reassuring weight as he lays on top of you. “I’m the lucky one.”

“Will you still feel lucky when I tell you we’re not leaving this room all day?”

When you lift your head to look at him, he’s wearing a devilish grin. “Why not?” you ask.

“Because,” he says, pressing his lips to yours, “I’m fucking the jetlag out of you.” Your body responds to him, heat already starting to swirl in your stomach as though you haven’t already taken more than you could handle—your desire for him is a bottomless well. “And, so that in fifteen years, we get to embarrass our kid by telling them they were conceived in Hawaii.”

Needless to say, over the next week, you spend a lot more time in your hotel room than you’d planned, often only going out around noon or coming back halfway through dinner—whenever Jaeyun sees that ring around your finger, he seems to need some alone time with you.

He doesn't think he'll ever stop needing alone time with you.

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