Bunny

“Oh, Jungkook!” the scream echoes through the tin walls, clearly letting you know what activities your neighbor is up to.

“Fuck,” you mumble. “Here we go again.”

The bed's headboard hammers against the wall, and damn, you’re about to kill your neighbor. It almost feels like you’re in the bedroom with them. They are loud as fuck. This isn’t new at all, because your cheeky neighbor, Jungkook, is all charming and brings women quite often. The problem here is that he woke you up.

you: bro, it’s fucking 2am

You know you’ll get an answer later—if he doesn’t come after two minutes—but he’s so damn annoying. In four hours, you need to be up for work, and the shitty head is ruining your night of sleep. The urge to knock at his door and cockblock him is like burning you, but as much as you’d love to do that, you still care about your friendship. Jungkook is like the only friend you've made since moving here.

A year ago, you moved into this small apartment, seeking some freedom from your parents, but quickly realized that the building's thin walls would complicate your life. Thankfully, the neighbor sharing your bedroom wall is fun to be around.

Although Jungkook sometimes has some fun with ladies he finds in very questionable bars, he’s very nice and funny. He seems to know every gossip from your neighbors and tells them all to you the second he finds out. He also loves to bother you, as if it were his life mission.  

With your pillow in your head, you try desperately to fall asleep, but the girl’s voice keeps getting higher, her moans piercing through the pillow over your head. Jungkook’s deep voice grunts and says something you can’t understand, but it only makes her moan louder. The bed bangs harder against the wall.

This can’t keep going. As a barista, you need your eight hours of sleep, otherwise there’s no way you’ll survive the rude clients. If anything goes wrong at work after this, you’ll definitely kill Jungkook, who’s the only one to blame for it.

With a deep groan, you leave the warmth of your bed, heading straight to his apartment. The second you bang on his door, everything stops before footsteps are heard. Your heart stammers in your chest, too scared he might hate you.

When the door opens, an almost naked Jungkook stands in front of you. His toned and sweaty chest is on full display while his bottom is hidden in loose grey sweatpants. His chest also moves at a crazy fast pace, and his breathing is all over the place, just like his tousled hair. If he wasn’t your friend, you might have found your way to his bed because he looks devastatingly hot.

His intense dark gaze scares the hell out of you, but you couldn’t care less. “What are you doing here?” he says with clear frustration.

Jungkook takes the time to look down at you, clearly taken aback to see you here, and he can’t help but find you absolutely cute. Your cute and short pajamas leave little to the imagination.

“It’s 2 fucking am, Kook,” you tell him with some anger. “Can’t you both shut up and let me sleep?”

A smirk appears on his face, while a chuckle rumbles in his chest.

“Why would I do that?” he raises an eyebrow. “I’m having fun.”

“I don’t care!” you almost yell at him. “I need to sleep.”

“You never complained before…”

Your eyes dramatically roll, which only makes him chuckle more. Even though you love him, right now you don’t, and he’ll pay for it. You ignore how yet, but you’ll get revenge.

“Please choke her or whatever, but make her shut up,” you say. “Otherwise, I’ll do it myself.”    

“I’d love to see that,” he teasingly says with his damn smirk growing bigger.

“Jungkook,” you warn him, “I’m not joking.”

Your neighbor takes a deep breath, his hand running through his hair while he closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, there’s something in them that you can’t quite put your finger on.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, the guy down there is dead,” he gestures to his dick, and your eyes inevitably look down. There’s nothing, just as he mentions. “Somebody decided to ruin all the fun.”

“Ask for a blowjob or something else to wake your little guy,” you reply as if it was damn obvious.

“Are you for real?” he narrows his eyes. “Just go back to your place and sleep. We won’t be bothering you anymore.”

You nod before going back to sleep. As promised, silence follows, allowing you to return to sleep peacefully. When you wake up hours later, you feel so damn exhausted, and somehow, you don’t even find the energy to hate him. Probably, he hates you right now for cockblocking him, but you know it won’t last long.

After getting dressed and ready for work, you head to the elevator. Surprisingly, Jungkook is already waiting for it at the lobby.

“Good morning, Kook,” you smile at him.

“Only good morning to you, Voldemort,” he mumbles.

Anyone would be surprised by the nickname Voldemort, but it always makes you smile like an idiot. At first, Jungkook was saying it to bother you because you’re a mega fan of Harry Potter, but over time, it became a sign of affection.

“You’re mad?” you ask.

“Don’t know yet,” he honestly replies, his eyes finally looking at you.

“Will a super good breakfast prepared by your fantastic neighbor convince you not to be mad?” you try to sway him.

In order for you to get proper revenge, you need first to gain his trust again, so it’ll piss him off when you do it. A sly smile stretches across his face, and you know right there and then that you just won. Jungkook loves your breakfasts.

“Might help,” he smiles.

As promised, his breakfast was served at the coffee shop where you work, and in the blink of an eye, he devoured everything like a starved man. He definitely was starving, and even though you’re preparing your little revenge, it made you smile to see him eating everything.

The next day, Jungkook shows up unannounced at your place when a couple living next to you starts arguing very loudly. Melissa and Carter seem to enjoy arguing over the smallest things. For example, a week ago, it was because he bought the wrong tomatoes, and she made a big deal out of it. It’s funny, honestly.

“What are the popcorns for?” you ask when Jungkook steps inside your apartment.

“Their argument is juicy today,” he says, heading straight to the kitchen to place the popcorn in a bowl. “Apparently, she’s cheating,” he screams.

You laugh, shaking your head as your feet guide you to the kitchen. Jungkook is way too noisy for his own good. The two of you sit at the table, the bowl of popcorn between you, and you listen to Melissa and Carter arguing. Your kitchen connects with theirs.

“I saw you with him,” Carter yells. “How dare you deny it?”

“Because he’s just a friend!” she claps back. “Can’t I speak with friends now? Or are you the only one who gets the right to speak with women?”

This is so childish, even your nieces and nephews have more interesting discussions. But there’s nothing else really to expect from these two; they always argue over the silliest things. If they fight over tomatoes, they can’t possibly have a good conversation.

“A friend you kiss?” Carter’s voice gets incredibly higher.

Both you and Jungkook laugh with popcorn in your mouths.

“Gosh, she’s quite shameless,” you say with your mouth full. “Wouldn’t have expected it from her.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jungkook piles on, his eyes quickly looking at you with a smile on his face. “I wouldn’t have been surprised if the roles were reversed. Melissa left me speechless here.”

For a second, your eyes glance over to the man next to you. The memory of him, all sweaty and almost naked, comes up, and damn, your legs squeeze at the thought. You have to bite your tongue to push those thoughts away. He’s your friend—at least it’s what you’re trying to convince yourself.  

“Stop lying!” Carte yells all over again. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Maybe you should consider wearing glasses,” she fights back.

This time, none of you holds back the laughter. This Melissa is really bad at lying or finding excuses. She could have done better.

“She could have found better,” Jungkook says while laughing like an idiot.

“She could just admit it,” you add.

Somehow, this feels like watching a telenovela with him. There’s always something going on with your neighbors, and they quite entertain you a lot. You’ve laughed a lot over them, and the even funnier part is that they totally ignore how everyone is able to hear their silly arguments. Meeting them in the elevator or somewhere in the building makes it hard to hold back.

“For fuck’s sake,” Carter swears before a loud door slams.

“This time, they’ll for sure split,” Jungkook speaks with a mouth full of popcorn. “He can’t stay with a cheater.”

“I wouldn’t stay if I was him.” Who would stay with a cheater? It’ll be like accepting to torture yourself over and over again. Lucky for you, remaining in a relationship is the last of your wishes, which tends to annoy your parents.

Just like Jungkook, you tend to find rather questionable men, but as long as they give you an orgasm, it’s not important. Truth be told, sometimes, they’re absolutely bad at it, which can be frustrating, but it’s very rare.

“Me neither,” he says, his eyes meeting yours. “But first, we’d need to get into a relationship.”

You chuckle, shaking your head and grabbing a handful of popcorn. “That’d be a tragedy.”

Jungkook hates relationships, to say the least. In fact, he runs away from them as if the plague was following him. Hookups are his favorite, which you perfectly understand. The thing is that he might have a tiny little crush on you. How couldn’t he? His entire soul was drawn to you since the very first time he met you.

The thing is that he isn’t fully ready to acknowledge his crush, and he values your friendship way too much. Those moments with you, like this one, are what fill his soul. He always looks forward to being with you, and deep down, he knows he’s always finding an excuse to spend time with you.

For example, two days later, he shows up at your door because he’s absolutely bored, and doesn’t even try to hide it.

“I’m not your personal entertainer,” you tell him, not letting him in.

“Yes, you are,” he replies without even thinking. “So let me in.”

“No,” you shake your head.

The man waiting for you in the living room would clearly not be happy to see another gentleman barging in. Who would? Especially when you’re that close to getting into the warmth of your bedsheets to fuck.

“Please leave,” you tell him with gritted teeth.

“Yn?” the man calls for you while his footsteps get closer.

A bright smile grows on Jungkook’s face as he understands what the matter is here. Can he blame you? No, but man, he also definitely wants to bother you. However, he’s not going to do it because he doesn’t want you to hate him.

“Okay, I’m leaving,” he surrenders before letting you go back to your hookup. Jungkook still takes a peek inside, trying to see who the lucky guy is. “He’s a solid eight, by the way,” he says when he notices the blond man. “Have fun, dearest neighbor.”   

The two of you have this habit of rating your hookups whenever you get a look at them. His choices are sometimes not the best, but they never look too bad—as long as he has whatever he wants, it’s just fine for you.  

What Jungkook ignores is how loud you pretend to be when this blond guy fucks the shit out of you. This might be one of your revenges, and the fact that he’s bored makes it even better. He’ll have to listen to you while you spend a blissful moment with another man.

And man, you got loud. Jungkook even has to play some random video game, with the sound blasting in his ear and almost making him deaf, but at least your moans are lessened. Somehow, he understands why you disturbed him while he was busy with another woman a couple of nights ago.

The next few days are calmer, no hookups, and your neighbors are way too calm, but you still spend some time with Jungkook.

“Love your new haircut,” you tell him when you step inside the elevator next to him.

“Thanks,” he genuinely smiles.

“You’re trying to impress a new girl?” You narrow your eyes playfully.  

A sly smirk appears on his face, and you already know some shit is going to come from his mouth. Nothing good ever leaves his mouth when that smirk shows up. You already mentally prepare yourself to roll your eyes heavily.

“Maybe…” he whispers, shrugging.

Before you can roll your eyes, he steps closer and presses a gentle kiss on your cheek, causing shivers to run down your spine.   

“You’re unbearable,” you mutter, trying to ignore how your body reacts to him.

“And yet,” he says smugly as the elevator doors open, “you keep talking to me.”

This time, you definitely roll your eyes and scoff as you follow him out of the elevator. This man is clearly unbelievable. Sometimes, you even wonder how you manage to keep up with him, as he always acts bratty.

“That can change very quickly if I want to,” you say, crossing your arms.

Jungkook glances over his shoulder, walking backward down the hallway with that stupidly confident grin. The urge to slap his face tickles your hands, and if he keeps going, you might not be able to hold it back.

“You’re going to ignore me now?” he asks once in front of you.

“What if I do?” you stop in front of him, your bodies a breath away from each other.

“Yn,” he lets out a laugh, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You always forget half of your groceries every single time and then make me rescue you.”

Well, he’s absolutely right. Without him, you’d spend your time going back and forth between your place and the grocery store. You’ve tried everything to buy all you need, but it’s useless. Luckily for you, Jungkook always has what you need at his place.

“I’ll find a solution…” you say, but it doesn’t sound convincing.

“Looks like Melissa is rubbing off on you,” he begins, his fingers running from your hair to your cheek, making you shiver even more. “You’re starting to lie as badly as her.”

For sure, it’s a lie. You won’t ever be able to find a solution as efficient as Jungkook, but what can you do? If he keeps being this cocky, you might really stop talking to him. There’s no way you’ll feed his ego more.

“It’s not the same, and you know it,” you try to defend yourself. “She cheated on Carter, and this is about me and my shitty memory.”

“Not wrong, but it still doesn’t change the fact that you’re a terrible liar,” he says with that annoying smirk still on his face.

“If you keep going, I’ll really stop talking to you, and you’ll have to find a new personal entertainer.” You push his hand away from your face so you can resume walking to your apartment.

Jungkook sighs before running after you to catch you up. Fuck, he probably messed up.

“Sorry,” he says behind you. “I still need my personal entertainer and my partner in hearing Melissa and Carter’s silly fights.”

A chuckle leaves your lips as you turn around to face him. He looks cute when he apologizes, and to be honest, this new haircut makes him look way too hot for his own good.

“Apologies accepted,” you say. “On one condition.”

“I’m all ears,” he replies.

Your lower lip is caught between your teeth. This is the perfect moment to get revenge for the sleep disruption and for the nonsense he just threw in your face. He’ll probably kill you, but you don’t care. You have to try.

“No girls for a month,” you say with a sly smile.

Jungkook instantly shakes his head, “Absolutely no.”  

His face is absolutely hilarious. His eyes are incredibly wide, his eyebrows are furrowed, and his cheeks are taking on a pink shade. Is he embarrassed or shocked? Good question, but you hope for both.   

“Then, you’ll have to find a new neighbor to bother,” you immediately turn around and walk to your apartment.

“Wait,” he comes after you, his hand grabbing your wrist to prevent you from walking away. “Are you serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you tilt your head. “Did I look like I was joking?”

You definitely are, but you’re trying to see if he’ll just surrender. This will be the biggest cockblock ever.

“You’re asking me to go a full month without sex…” he runs his fingers through his hair. “You know I barely survive a week.”

“I know,” you say with the biggest teasing smile on your face. “But you compared me to Melissa and basically implied I couldn’t survive without you, which is deeply hurtful.” It isn’t, but you’re not going to say it. “It’s either your questionable chicks or me.”

“You can’t be serious,” he mumbles under his breath.

“You still have your hand to help you out,” you suggest, trying to offer him a solution.

“As if my hand could ever be like a pussy,” he shakes his head, completely defeated. You clearly handed him a dilemma, and it’s funny to watch. Even better than Melissa and Carter’s telenovela.  

“Maybe you can find something better at a sex shop,” you offer.

For sure, you’ll be the death of him before the end of the day. How can you just throw things like that as if you weren’t asking him to go without sex for an entire month? There’s no way he’ll survive that much. But he values your friendship way too much. If he has to go a full month without sex to keep hearing your bullshit when he bothers you, so be it.

“Okay,” he agrees with your crazy condition. “I’ll do it.”

To say you’re surprised is an understatement. You were expecting a lot of begging and bargaining, but definitely not him giving up that easily, especially when it comes to his mindblowing sex.

“Really?” A smile stretches on your face. “You’d choose me over your hookups?”  

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he rolls his eyes. “I’d rather use my hand for a month straight than be forever deprived of your stupid comments over our neighbors.”

You shake your head, taking whatever he says while you perfectly know that he cares about you, and even though you don’t want to admit it, it genuinely pleases you that he chooses you.

To both your surprises, you wrap your arms around him, pushing him into a warm embrace. None of you has ever been this close—unless you consider trying to put a drunk Jungkook to bed as closeness.

However, this is just the beginning of your revenge…

In the following days, you make sure to be as loud as possible whenever a man is between your legs. Damn, you’ve probably never moaned that loud, despite it being completely fake. None of the men actually manages to make you properly come.

Jungkook keeps wandering around you, as if nothing ever happened. Carter and Melissa never broke up, but they still argue like kids every day. The two of you playfully listen to their arguments. Now, you also have a new neighbor who’s like the biggest cheater in the world. He brings in multiple girls but keeps sweet-talking with his supposed girlfriend.

This is new entertainment for you and Jungkook.

jk🔥: no man tonight?

A smile appears on your face when you see the message.

you: too exhausted to open my legs 🥱

Through the thin walls, you manage to hear his contagious chuckle.

jk🔥: you sound like a whore

you: learned from the best

That isn’t true—you started long before meeting him. One-night stands have been part of your frequent vocabulary for a long time now. The sad part of it all is that you’re never satisfied. One could think that with all those guys, you’d find a way to be fulfilled, but it’s the opposite.

Sleeping with them only creates a bigger hollow inside you. Most of the time, it feels like you’re chasing after the unknown. You’ve no clue what you want, so sleeping with guys seems to make it easier.

What truly fills your soul is the time spent with your friends and family. There’s no feeling like laughing loudly at a friend’s joke, or playing with your nieces and nephews in your parents’ house, or even bothering Jungkook with the eggs you forgot to buy. Those moments are what truly nurture you.

jk🔥: you might have surpassed your teacher

You genuinely smile, but you don’t know how to feel. Is it a good thing you’ve been having all these men in your bed? Is it even worth it? Well, your body will definitely say yes, but your brain wouldn’t know what to think.

you: i’m the perfect student then 🤗

jk🔥: a tiny bit too loud student

Even though the purpose was to torture him a bit, you somehow feel a bit guilty. You’re not playing fair with him.

you: isn’t it too hard?

The three dots dance on your screen while you patiently wait for his reply.

jk🔥: no, except when you fake it

You gasp at his message. How can he tell that? Then, as you were typing your answer, Jungkook calls you.

“How do you know?” you straightforwardly ask.

“I just know,” he replies.

“You cannot say things like that,” you reply, as you shift onto your side, staring at the wall.

“But it’s true,” his voice lowers, somehow sending shivers down your spine.

“You’re unbelievable.” A little smile makes its way to your face.

“No, you’re the one being unbelievable,” he counters immediately. “Do you have any idea how torturous these past days have been?”

“That’s not what you said on your message,” you say.

He sighs deeply on the other side, and you can tell it’s been hard for him. Well, if it was the other way around, you’d be dying. No sex for a month, and hearing your neighbor going wild would definitely be torture.

“And you agreed to the deal,” you let out a nervous laugh.

“Yeah, and now I’m stuck listening to you through the wall every night while you sound like you’re auditioning for an Oscar,” he teasingly replies.

Honestly, the thought of it being terrible never crossed your mind. For sure, you’ve been faking it a couple of times or exaggerating it to annoy your neighbor, but you thought it was fine.

“Oh my god,” you bury your face into your pillow with some embarrassment. “You’re insane.”

Jungkook chuckles on the other side, amused by your comment. Honestly, since he agreed to this whole no sex for a month, hearing you has definitely been driving him insane. If he’s honest, it actually turns him on. He has even dreamed once of being on top of you and giving you as much pleasure as you want with his mouth, fingers, and cock.

“And you’re a terrible liar,” he adds.

Or maybe Jungkook knows you well enough to be able to say it. Over the past year, he’s hung out with you more than he has with his own friends, so there’s no doubt that he knows you quite well.

“When you fake it, your voice changes,” he says softly.

Sometimes, he wishes he didn’t know when you’re about to come or when you’re faking it. It can be embarrassing to a certain level.

Before you even get the chance to ask him how he knows all of it, he says, “The walls are way too thin, we can hear everything even if we don’t want to. It’s not our fault if we know how the other sounds in bed. I’m absolutely sure you know when I’m about to come.”

Of course you do, and like him, sometimes you wish you didn’t. Those are your most intimate moments, and it’s weird that the person you consider a friend knows about them. Although at this stage, your friendship is taking another turn.

“You’re saying you know me that well?” you whisper.

“I do, even if I don’t want to admit it,” he says softly. “Like I just know that you’re absolutely loving to drive me crazy.”

You try to ignore the warmth spreading through your stomach. He noticed it. He knows you’re doing this all on purpose.

“Maybe you’re just easy to mess with.”

Jungkook laughs quietly, his eyes glued to the ceiling while he runs his free hand through his hair. “You’re too dangerous,” he whispers with the deepest voice you’ve ever heard from him.

Your heart stops beating for a second. What can you even say to that? This is just you trying to get some revenge, but in a certain way, it feels like it’s coming right back at you.

“You’re making it sound like I’m some kind of villain,” you reply.

Jungkook chuckles, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Honestly, he wishes a wall wasn’t separating the two of you right now. It would have been a hundred times better to be with you.

“No,” he says gently. “A villain would at least have the decency to kill me quickly.”

Your heart hammers in your chest because you know damn well that he’s flirting with you. Somehow, you’d like to say that this doesn’t affect you, but it’d be a total lie. Fuck, you even want him to keep flirting with you.

“But you?” his voice drops lower. “You just smile, act nice, and take your sweet time killing me. You’re such a dangerous woman.”

His last words send shivers down your spine. 

“I’m not trying to kill you,” you whisper softly.

“No?” he asks while raising an eyebrow. “So, knocking at my door at 2 am while I’m balls-deep in someone, asking me to go a month without sex, and moaning loudly isn’t trying to kill me?”

Well, he might not be wrong, but this has been quite funny so far. 

“And do you want to know the worst part?” he continues.

“Tell me,” you whisper.

A part of you already knows what he’s about to say, but you still want to hear it.

“I don’t even want you to stop.”

Fuck, he definitely knows how to speak to women. For the first time, you’re experiencing the flirty version of him, which is a total turn-on.

“So, is this your way of telling me to keep going?” you ask, a teasing smirk playing on your lips.  

“Maybe,” he replies in a heartbeat.

“Then, brace yourself,” you say, your eyes closing for a second. “I’m not going to go easy on you.”

A bright smile grows on his face at the simple thought of it. He can’t wait to see what you have in store for him. A part of him knows that he shouldn’t be excited because it’d be playing with fire and probably risking your friendship, but his little crush on you speaks louder. He wants to ruin the friendship. Actually, he wants you to ruin him.

The very next day, you meet on the elevator after an intense day at work. Throughout the day, you avoided texting him to tease him a bit. It was also packed at work, but whenever you had five minutes for yourself, you’d leave him on read, which frustrates him.

“You know,” Jungkook says as soon as you step inside the elevator, “most people answer texts.”

A proud smile appears on your face before you turn your face to look at him. Your head tilts a bit to the right, trying to see if he’s angry or frustrated or maybe both.

“Most people aren’t me,” you nonchalantly reply.

“Clearly,” he sighs. “I was starting to think that I needed to file a missing person report.”

You heavily roll your eyes, your smile never once leaving your lips. His eyes admire you for a second, his breath faltering for a second, as he tries to remain composed. It’s been hard not to speak with you for an entire day. He’s not used to it.

“You’re being so dramatic,” you tell him.

“Says the woman who weaponizes read receipts,” he mumbles under his breath.

Even though he doesn’t want you to hear it, you still do, but you don’t react. You warned him yesterday, and you’re definitely going to push him over the edge. He’s clearly not ready for what’s coming, and in no time, he’ll be begging for your mercy.

When the doors open, the two of you leave the small cabin, walking toward your apartments. The sound of life echoing around fills the small silence between you, but your mind is racing with thoughts.  

The moment you both reach your apartment doors, you step closer, barely leaving any space between your bodies. Jungkook’s eyes scan your face, trying to read you.

“Did you miss me?” you teasingly whisper as your fingers run down his chest, sending electricity through both of you.

Jungkook is used to being teased, but man, when it’s you, he barely manages to think. He’s completely under your spell.

“What if I did?” he mumbles, his hot breath caressing the skin of your face. “Would it be terrible?”

“I’m not sure,” you reply with a smirk. “You should be the one telling me.”

For a second, he doesn’t reply, trying to think of a decent answer. The nastiest answer crosses his mind because he desperately wants to have you weak on your knees, but maybe it isn’t the most appropriate, especially not in the building’s hallway. Your neighbors could hear it, just like you can hear everything.

Jungkook leans closer, his lips brushing against your ear, and the feeling of his breath against your skin definitely sends shivers down your spine. Seems like your little game has backfired right at you.  

“You’re lucky I have enough self-control not to answer the way I want to,” he whispers, his husky voice sending a fresh wave of shivers through you.

Fuck, you never imagined yourself being so turned on by your neighbor. Over the past year, you’ve never truly pictured yourself getting freaky with him because being with him is what you've always valued the most. He’s a great friend.

But now, you’d open your legs for him… What kind of friendship is that?

A smirk appears on your face. “Is that so?” you tease him. “What’s holding you back?”

Without any warning, Jungkook licks your ear before kissing the spot right under. A whimper escapes your lips. Now, this is something you didn’t expect or even see coming. His lips leave a couple of more kisses on that spot before moving higher. Your eyes flutter shut while your hand finds its way to his fluffy hair.

This feels fucking good for both of you.

An anticipation builds within you as he slowly reaches your lips. Damn, you're so eager to feel his mouth on yours, to finally know what it's like to be kissed by Jungkook. So far, it's fantastic and thrilling. No wonder every shady girl wants him.

His lips halt at the corner of yours, his eyes moving up to look at you. The nastiest smirk appears on his face, and man, this is a fucking victory for him. Right now, he has you wrapped around his fingers, and he has never desired this much to kiss you as desperately as he wants right now.

Jungkook doesn’t move, his eyes glued to yours as they slowly open again. None of you moves, and it somehow drives you crazy. You need his lips on yours. His breathing tickles your face, but you couldn’t care less. His hand gently cups your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin.

“Can I?” he asks softly.

The simple fact that he asked instead of just rushing his lips on yours makes your heart swell. Never before has a man done that. In the heat of the moment, you wouldn’t have even thought to ask, but he did. You’d like to say that it surprises you coming from him, but it doesn’t. It definitely matches his personality and who he is.

“Absolutely,” you nod with a smile.

Without hesitation, his lips smash against yours, finally kissing you. The kiss is soft and tender, the kind of kiss that feels long overdue. You immediately melt into it, your fingers curling around the front of his shirt as he smiles into the kiss. His hands find their way to your back, pressing you against his body. The world disappears around you while he deepens the kiss.

You’ve kissed many men before him, but none of them were this great. Jungkook is more than a great kisser, and the more you get to see his flirty side, the more you understand the girls he brings home.

Your body leans into his while your fingers hold his shirt as tight as possible. The two of you desperately try to push each other even closer, as if you’ll run away if you let go. The kiss is all tongue and teeth by now, clearly indicating the nasty turn it’s taking.

But let’s not forget the sex ban you put him under.

It’s not because he has you wrapped around his fingers, or should you say, wrapped around his tongue, that he gets to get freaky. So, very delicately, you push him back with your hands, clearly putting an end to this mindblowing kiss.

A deep groan rumbles in his chest, the vibration running straight to your core and making you wet at the same time, as if this simple moment hadn’t already left you desperate for more.

“You’re still forbidden from sex, Kook,” you whisper against his lips. 

Jungkook doesn’t open his eyes, too scared to see your fucked out expression. He hasn’t really forgotten about it, but somehow, he was hopeful that if it involves you, you’d give him a pass. If he sees you, he won’t be able to resist.

You place a gentle peck on his lips before taking a step back, putting some clear distance between the two of you. This is highly frustrating for you both, but you still have your revenge to get on. And this really helps.

“Fuck,” he mumbles before opening his eyes and running a hand through his hair. “You’re such a fucking tease.”

“You can kiss as much as you want, but it can’t go any further than that,” you reply with a victorious smile on your face. “And you were clearly trying to get me into your bed.”

This sight right here could make him come in an instant. Your shiny, swollen lips are mesmerizing, making it impossible to look away, but beyond that, your beauty is breathtaking. He has never desired anyone as much as he does right now. He definitely wants more, but obviously, he won’t get it. Certainly not from you.

Seems like his hand will be his only consolation tonight…

“You’ll have to try harder for that to happen,” you add.

A smirk instantly stretches his lips, leaving no doubt that he’ll do everything in his power to see you contorting with pleasure underneath him.

In the following days, you purposely avoid Jungkook as if he has the plague, but it’s all part of your silly revenge plan. To say that it frustrates him is a rather huge understatement. Even hearing Melissa and Carter get freaky—because believe it or not, that woman is absolutely loud when she gets dicked down—is absolute torture to him. Usually, it’s quite funny, but not this time around.

Whenever you’d see him from afar, you’d devilishly smile and run away or hide from him as fast as you could. Your smile would grow even bigger when you hear him masturbating and moaning like a frenetic at night, totally ignoring that he’s also torturing you back.

Jungkook plays along with your game. You wanted to torture him, so be it, but he has to get back at you. His only plan is to make you hear his despair. And it’s working because he could hear you, too.

The tension is clearly growing, and none of you is preventing it from expanding. As vicious as it might sound, you are actually more than eager to make it unbearable.

And then, a heatwave hits.

Everything suddenly becomes too much. Your name would roll off his tongue at a surprisingly fast pace, your fingers would find their way to your core every time you thought of him, and avoiding him turns out to be almost impossible. You’re craving each other with a tremendous desperation.

Usually, heatwaves make it almost unbearable to think of getting naughty because it’s just too hot, but to the two of you, it’s actually the opposite. You want it. Maybe not as much as Melissa and Carter, because those two are not stopping for a second. It’s almost like he has forgotten she cheated on him not so long ago. Maybe he has selective memory.

The heat between your legs clearly becomes insufferable. You couldn’t do it anymore. So you probably did the most stupid thing and knocked on his door at midnight after you heard him moaning your name like it was some sort of mantra.

“Not avoiding me anymore, huh?” Jungkook says when he opens the door.

Your gaze drops to his sweaty chest, heavy breathing, and tousled hair before settling on the familiar pair of Calvin Klein briefs he always seems to wear. The prominent bulge instantly makes you drool.

“Actually, I wanted to warn you that I’m going to file a noise complaint,” you teasingly reply.

“Oh, yeah?” he kookily asks. “Isn’t it flattering to have a man masturbating at the thought of you?”

You instantly choke on your own saliva at his straightforwardness. He’s not even trying to hide what he was doing, which somehow surprises you while also not surprising you in the slightest. This man is a walking contradiction. And does it turn you on? Absolutely!

 “Maybe,” you reply, pushing him to get inside his place.

Tonight, you won’t be leaving without getting destroyed by him. Jungkook closes the door behind him before slowly making his way toward you.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, even though the answer is rather obvious.

“I told you—” you start speaking, but he cuts you off.

“We both know it isn’t true.” Jungkook now stands right in front of you, his chest almost pressed against yours.

“Who said I was going to file it against you?” You raise an eyebrow. “It could be against our beloved neighbors, and I’d need some backup, or…” your fingertips trail down his damp chest, sending shivers right through his body. “Or it could be against us and the noise we’re about to make.”

Your eyes follow the tip of your fingertip sliding over his body, noticing as well how his breathing picks up. Although it definitely looks like a victory, it doesn’t feel like one. Why? Because you crave him with your entire being, and he hasn’t surrendered just yet.

A smirk rises on his face before he snorts. “What noises?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, your eyes moving up to meet his gaze. He’s so fucking breathtaking with his tussled hair. “Maybe something similar to what Melissa and Carter have been up to for the past few days.”  

Anyone with two ears could perfectly hear how loud they’ve been fucking lately. This whole cheating thing has excited them even more. You’re sure that you and Jungkook haven’t been the only people turned on.

“May I need to remind you of the sex ban you put me under?”

The two of you know that it doesn’t matter anymore. The ban has long been forgotten. It simply has been the cataclysm of this whole teasing and flirting between you.

You dangerously close the distance between you, your lips brushing against his ear to whisper, “I don’t remember anything of it.”

Shivers appear on his body instantly. He’s fucked. But he perfectly knows it, and he doesn’t care. All he wants is to have you in any possible way, which clearly seems like he’d get it tonight. If he knew, he’d have called a wizard or whatever to create this heatwave sooner.   

In an instant, his arm wraps around your waist, pushing you even closer to his body. Your chest is pressed to his now, his sweatiness straining your large t-shirt. Jungkook leans closer, his face a breath away from yours. His eyes scan yours for a hot second before his lips fall over yours.

This kiss is far from slow and tender. It’s all tongue and teeth and completely desperate. This is the result of days and weeks of teasing, and man, it feels so fucking great. This time, you definitely aren’t going to leave him. You’re certainly going to let him ruin you in every possible way.

When you break apart, Jungkook walks the two of you to his couch and sits on it, spreading his legs wide. Without giving you much time to think about it, he pulls you into his lap, making you straddle one of his thighs. Your knees trap his toned thigh between you while he gently tugs you closer until you’re chest to chest.

He cups your face and kisses you again, and the heat of his body against yours wraps around you. The despair and lust entirely consume you. For sure, you’re not going to survive, especially with this damn heatwave. His tongue slides into your mouth, making you moan softly. His hands move down to rest on your waist, but they don’t stay there long.

Jungkook breaks the kiss before trailing his lips along your jaw and then your neck, which makes you tilt your head to give him free pass to suck you lightly. Very slowly, you start rocking against his thigh, and the friction between your bodies makes the two of you moan. His groan against your neck makes you move a tiny bit faster.

His hands move to your back, holding you against him while your hips desperately sway. For sure, he’ll leave a mark on your skin, but you absolutely don’t give a shit about it. He’s free to do as he pleases.

When his lips finally leave your neck, he takes a proper look at you, and his cock gets hard instantly. That’s a sight he’ll engrave in his brain forever. This is something he never thought he’d ever witness, but man, he’s fucking happy it ever happened.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his breathing frenetic. “You’re so fucking pretty.”    

You’re both breathing heavily, looking at each other with so much lust you might combust at any given moment. Jungkook pulls you back for another deep kiss, his tongue instantly making its way inside your mouth while his hands slide up and down your spine, leaving tons of goosebumps on the way.

This is all too wild, especially for Jungkook after going through three weeks without sex. He could just come right there and then just from the kiss, and he absolutely doesn’t care if it might make him look like a desperate man. He is desperate and full of hunger.

His lips move once more down to your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your skin. This time, he doesn’t suck your skin; he just wets it with his tongue and lips, causing moans to fall from your mouth. Your eyes close for a moment to savor this special moment.

Jungkook takes your t-shirt off, throwing it somewhere in the living room, and hooks his fingers into the front of your laced bra to tug it down. Before you can even process what he’s doing, his mouth closes around your nipple. A loud whimper leaves your lips as your back arches instantly.

His lips and tongue are gentle at first, but his desperation takes over his body, and then, he sucks harder. All the while, your hips keep rocking against his thigh. The combined feeling of his hot mouth on your nipple, his flexing thigh under you, and his hardness against your body drives you absolutely crazy.

And then, he slips a hand down your stomach, his fingers teasing the waistband of your pants. The motion of your hips increases instantly, your hands moving to his hair to push him even more against your chest, and a trail of moans falls from your mouth.  

“Can I?” his eyes look up at you before his tongue licks your sensitive nipple.

“Absolutely,” you nod.

At this stage, you can’t tell who’s the most desperate. Him or you? You don’t know, but does it really matter? No, because you’re both getting what you want. You’ve been craving this more and more since the kiss, and hearing him masturbating was like the cherry on top.

Jungkook slips his hand inside your shorts, his fingers immediately finding how wet you already are. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he says, his head resting against your chest while his eyes close at the feeling of your wetness.  

“Hearing you moaning my name turned me on so fucking much,” you mumble before tucking at his hair.

His finger drags slowly through your folds, gathering some wetness before circling your clit lightly. This is honestly too much. He’s so talented, and now, you definitely get why all the women are so fucking desperate for him. He’s so good at giving pleasure.

“I should do that more often, then,” he replies, his gaze shifting up to your face.

Before you even get to reply, he pushes a finger inside you, curling it slightly, and you clench around him, your hips rocking into his hand. Jungkook doesn’t even let you get used to it; he instantly slides another finger. Your mouth hangs open, small whimpers rumbling deep from within your chest. He thrusts them in and out at a steady pace while his thumb rubs your clit.

“Fuck,” you swear, your gaze locked with his as he fucks you with his fingers.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Ride my fingers.”

The pace of his fingers increases while they curl perfectly inside you with every thrust. His lips find yours again, swallowing every single moan. He shows no mercy to you, torturing you just the way you need it. For a while, his fingers stretch you as his thumb rubs your clit. You’re a complete mess on his lap.  

At some point, the feeling of his fingers inside you becomes too overwhelming, and you just cum with a high-pitched moan. His eyes never leave you, taking the time to admire how you fall apart on his lap. Your orgasm doesn’t stop him. On the contrary, his fingers thrust even faster.

“Kook…” you manage to say in between moans.

Your hands rest on his arm, trying to hold onto something while he keeps pushing you over the edge. Your hips move, your head falls, and your back arches in a way that might break your spine at some point.

“Too much…” you mumble when you feel your orgasm ready to burst again.

“You can take it, sweetheart,” he says against your shoulder, biting it gently.

The way he speaks to you with his deep voice and the nickname sends you right over the edge again. Your second orgasm is just as intense as the first one, if not more. Even with the hot weather, it feels fucking good. Jungkook looks at you, not wanting to miss a thing, and he halts his fingers.

“You look so fucking beautiful when you come,” he smiles at you like a pervert.

When Jungkook finally takes his fingers out, you whine at the loss, and he brings them to his mouth to taste you. Seeing him doing it makes you clench around emptiness. He’s so hot, it might even be a crime to look that fine.

“And you taste like fucking heaven,” he continues.

“No need to exaggerate,” you smile while shaking your head.

“I’m not lying, sweetheart,” he replies while pushing your body against his. “You know I always say what I think,” he whispers against your lips, pressing another kiss.

Jungkook pushes you off his lap and removes every simple piece of clothing still on your body. He shifts you forward on the couch, placing you on your hands and knees. His hands grip your hips from behind, pulling your ass toward him. The feeling of his bulge against your core makes you both groan. In two seconds, he pushes his underwear down, and then, you feel the head of his cock pressing against your soaked entrance.

Jungkook pushes forward, and the stretch is immediately intense. Your hands tighten into a fist, and your teeth bite your lower lip while he slowly sinks into you from behind. His hands almost bruise your hips as he holds you.

Your mouth falls open when he’s fully inside, and he just stops, giving you both the time to adjust to the stretch. He leans down, his chest pressing against your back, and he presses a kiss on your shoulder.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he whispers against your skin.

For a moment, he peppers the skin of your back and shoulder with kisses, as if he’s worshipping your body. At some point, you turn your head, and he instantly captures your lips for a kiss.   

As he kisses you, his hips slowly start to move into deep thrusts, and he swallows your moans. Your entire body rocks forward with the snap of his hips. Feeling him inside you is devastatingly overwhelming, but in such a good way. Right now, you’re starting to regret not doing this any sooner. He’s good at it. Really good.

Well, somehow it isn’t surprising since he has sex at least once a week. If he didn’t know how to use his dick by now, that would be something to be concerned about. The girls’ moans were definitely justified, even though you wished it never was at 2 am.

“You’re taking me so well,” he whispers against your ear.

“I know,” you tease him.

Jungkook chuckles before straightening his back. You look back at him with a devious smile on your face.

“You’re so full of yourself,” he says while his eyes are inevitably drawn to where your bodies are joined. It’s mesmerizing to see the way his dick disappears inside you and how you coat him with your wetness. He might get addicted to this sight.

“Not as much as you,” you reply.

His legs slightly spread yours a bit more, and his hand pushes your shoulders even more against the couch, making your back arch even more. Now, his shaft touches parts of your insides you never thought existed. Strangled moans fall from your lips instantly. This feels freaking good and overwhelming at the same time.   

“How couldn’t I be when I have you exactly where I wanted you?” He groans behind you.

Involuntarily, your walls squeeze around him, making the two of you moan. Hearing him say it out loud turns you on even more. It’s not a surprise because he was literally masturbating and moaning your name minutes ago, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s flattering.  

Instead of replying, you push back to meet his deep thrusts. Jungkook’s hands move to your ass, rubbing his fingers over your skin and watching over and over how you suck him in. He even pushes your cheeks apart to take an even better look, as if he wants to make sure this is real.

Slowly but surely, his pace turns faster, harder, and deeper. The wet sound of skin slapping against skin mixed with your moans echoes in his living room. Everything slowly becomes too much, and you know you’re so freaking close. Jungkook hits a special spot inside you, making your eyes roll back.

And then, your third orgasm just hits you intensely.

You squeeze him tightly while your body shakes under him. This one is honestly intense. You’ve never orgasmed that way before, and fuck, you only want more. You don’t care if you’re being overstimulated, as long as you get to come like this.

Jungkook looks at you falling apart under his ministration, and his chest swells with pride. This is all he ever wanted. As you come back down, he slows his thrusts before pulling out with a wet sound. You whine at the sudden loss, but he’s already turning you around to face him.

He sits back on the couch and pulls you into his lap, making you straddle him all over again. His lips find yours for a messy and sloppy kiss, while your hands wrap around his neck.

“Ride me,” he whispers against your lips.

Well, he doesn’t have to tell you twice—you just obey. Your hands move to his shoulder to balance yourself as you sink down onto his cock. Your body is so wet that he slides in so easily. His hands settle on your waist before you start riding him.

At first, the rolls of your hips are slow and shaky, but his hands help you all along. Every time you sink down on him, he groans deeply, which only makes you grow wetter. Slowly, your confidence increases, and your hips move rather faster and deeper. The two of you get completely lost in pleasure, enjoying every bit of this moment.

One of his hands finds your clit, rubbing slick circles while his other hand guides your movements. His face hides for a second in the crook of your neck, gently kissing and biting your skin. His fingers never stop teasing your clit, and it only brings you closer to the edge. If he keeps going, you’ll come at least three more times before this even stops.

Being with him right here feels honestly so good. Your mind is completely drunk on pleasure, your eyes are half-lidded, your lips parted, and your helpless moans keep falling from your mouth.

“This is so good,” he whispers against your skin as his fingers move faster on your clit, the slick sound of it filling the air.

His eyes look up at you, watching just how destroyed you are. He’s so close as well. It’s a matter of seconds before he’s coming deep inside you. Both your bodies are covered in sweat—proof of the damn hot weather and of your steamy activities.  

You whimper at his words, totally agreeing with him, and your head falls on his shoulder as you keep riding him. This is seriously becoming too overwhelming all over again. Jungkook feels it with the way your body starts shaking. He doesn’t want any of this to end any time soon.

The hand on your waist slides up on your back, pressing you even more against him. Your hard and sensitive nipples brush against his chest, which makes you moan against his skin. By now, your entire body is sensitive. He’s torturing you just so perfectly.

“You’re clenching so hard around me, sweetheart,” he whispers in your ear.

His fingers circle your clit even faster, wanting to bring you to orgasm for a fourth time. Without really noticing it, you bounce quicker on him, chasing this upcoming orgasm. Your moans get louder, just like the sound of skin slapping against skin.

For sure, your neighbors are hearing the free show you're giving them. You might as well inspire them to do the same, and you don’t even doubt that Melissa and Carter might follow you, if they aren’t already doing the deed.  

Jungkook is just as desperate as you are, so his hips naturally thrust up to meet your movements. The two of you moan way too loud, but who cares? Well, hopefully, none of your neighbors will file a noise complaint against you.

Before you even realize it, you’re coming hard around him, more of your juices running down his shaft. And he follows you right after, his cock pumping you full of his cum. Feeling it makes you squeeze him even harder, and a strangled sound escapes his pretty lips.

Your head rests on his shoulder as you try to get down from everything that just happened. His fingers trace circles along your spine. Your bodies are completely spent and covered in sweat.

“You definitely know how to use that dick of yours,” you say when you’ve managed to catch your breath.

Jungkook brushes damp strands of hair away from your face. “Who said I didn’t?”

You chuckle while shaking your head. He’s unbelievable. “I did,” you reply.

“Glad I finally got to prove you wrong,” he says before pressing a gentle kiss on your lips. “Maybe we should take a shower.”

You simply nod, and he drags the two of you into his bathroom. It’s supposed to be a simple and quick shower, but in an instant, it turns into another sex session where he completely rearranges your guts against the shower’s wall. Shower sex was a first for you, but you’re definitely going to try it again with him.  

The night turns out to be a long one, and the heatwave definitely seems not to matter at all. If you’re too hot, you ride him all over again. Luckily for you, you don’t have to work the next day, you wouldn’t have been able to present yourself at work.

As of now, let’s just say that whenever you gather to hear your neighbors’ shenanigans, it inevitably ends up with the two of you entwined.

You did your best to separate your mind from your body. Physically, you had a sweaty man rutting on top of you. Mentally, your mind drifted to your evening plans. You had to prepare more “extract” as soon as possible. Another poor housewife had sought you out for aid. Another good-for-nothing husband who couldn’t so much as treat their wife as a person, much less an equal. The bruises she sported were more than enough proof of her husband’s unsavory tendencies. 

Your attention was drawn back to the sweaty man above you. A few strategically timed gasps and moans on your part, and the patron finally reached his end. Your pleasure was, of course, no concern of his. This was a brothel, not a honeymoon suite. Not that you had ever been interested in any of the men that passed through here for physical pleasure anyway. High prices meant the only ones who could afford a night were those in high positions—ergo, older men who had well established themselves in their careers. 

As such, it was rare for your company to be requested bought for more than intellectual or artistic entertainment. 

Several days and one dead husband later, you again found yourself leading a man to your chambers. You knew the drill, and so you didn't waste time once in the privacy of your room. Those who paid so handsomely for this service always wanted to get right to it. Children and dogs exercise more self-control than the men you’d see. However, you hadn’t even removed your outer robe, only getting so far as uncovering your shoulders, when the man’s smooth voice interrupted you.

“Impatient, are you?” he asked, the teasing lilt to his voice a sharp contrast to his rigid posture.

You shrugged your robe back on and crossed your arms across your chest. You didn't miss the way his eyes were drawn to the way the movement accentuated your breasts. “In all my time here, I think you're the only man who has wanted me to keep my clothes on.”

He huffed. “Now wait a moment, I didn't say that.” He leaned in close, his breath fanning across your face. “Just that I don’t want to rush my time with such a beautiful woman. Why not a game first? Get to know each other, hm?”

Truthfully, you were taken aback, but not displeased. Not at all. Especially not with a man who looked like him. If he wanted to spend more quality time with you, then you certainly weren't going to argue, not if it meant you got to stare at his handsome face. He was obviously military, based on his uniform, but those violet eyes and strong build had caught your attention the second the madam introduced him as a customer. 

You nodded. “Do you have a game in mind?”

He looked at you thoughtfully before deciding. “Go.”

You gave him a small, playful smile. “I should have known that a military man would pick a strategy game.”

“Am I that easy to read?” he asked, watching you pull out the board from where it had been stashed. 

“Maybe just a little,” you answered, handing him the bowl of black stones.

He chuckled as he took his place across from you. “If that's the case, then I think the emperor might need to reconsider my position. A colonel is no good if his enemies can predict his moves.” He placed the first stone.

“Do you consider me an enemy, Colonel?” Your turn.

“Of course not. An opponent, sure—” he gestured at the board with its smattering of black and white stones, “but certainly not an enemy.” Another stone.

“Then what the emperor doesn’t know won't kill him.”

“The emperor happens to be a dear friend of mine, so I sure hope not.”

Your head jerked up. You knew it was a possibility that he had been directly involved in the new emperor taking the throne after usurping the last one, but you hadn’t expected him to confirm the suspicion.

He noticed the shift in your demeanor. “Does that bother you?”

“I’m not sure how I feel about that. Just… shocked, I suppose,” you answered honestly. 

“That’s fair. But I do hope it doesn’t distract you from the game any more than it has already.” He grinned, his voice more than a little smug as he captured one of your stones. 

You huffed through your nose, admittedly irritated that you had lost concentration on the game so quickly. Little did you know that petulant huff and the scrunch of your eyebrows as you refocused on the game at hand were about to be key in gaining the upper hand over the colonel. You were gorgeous; there was no question about that. Caleb’s pockets wouldn't be as light as they were now if you were an ordinary lower rank. But there was something endearing in the way you were determined to play a good game.

Every hum as you planned your next move and every groan when he took another stone went straight to his cock. He could ask you to bed at whatever point he wanted, he knew. But frankly, he was almost certain you would never forgive him if he cut the game short. He had long since decided that this would not be his only visit, not when the company was this good. Granted, it would be quite some time until he could afford any more than another game or a tea service, but he would be content with that. At least he hoped so. It was easier to assume such things when he hadn't yet experienced you. It was maddening how much you had already gotten under his skin, and all you had done was play a board game and tease him. He felt like every other fool who gets too attached to courtesans, and he couldn't even bring himself to care.

The game was drawing to a close, with Caleb having been thoroughly distracted for most of it. Even so, he’d still managed to come out the victor.

“Winners usually get a prize, right? Tell me, what are you going to reward me with?” The grin on his face told you exactly what he had in mind.

“But I thought you wanted me to keep my clothes on, Colonel.”

“I also told you that that was just until we got to know each other a little better, which I do believe we’ve done.”

Without answering, you began collecting the stones and returning them to their respective bowls. He watched the way you meticulously sorted the stones, imagining what those nimble fingers would feel like on his body. His eyes never left your figure as you stood to put the board away. While your back was turned to him, he stood from his seated position and walked behind you, pressing the hard plane of his chest against your back and settling his hands on your hips.

You froze where you stood, feeling the warmth of his toned body seep into yours. He didn’t say anything, only nuzzled his face into your neck to place light kisses up your throat until he reached the junction between your jaw and ear.

“I think it’s time you continued what you started earlier,” he rasped in your ear as he tugged on the tie that held your robe shut. You exhaled shakily as you obliged, letting the outer robe fall away. He used his grip on your hips to urge you to turn around. “Beautiful,” he purred.

You averted your gaze to the side, your face heating up. You weren't a stranger to receiving compliments, but you couldn’t remember the last time a man had bestowed one upon you when he wasn’t already grabbing handfuls of your flesh and taking what he wanted from you. But Caleb did, and he wasn't having any of your bashfulness. He caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger, directing your face back to his. He was closer than you anticipated, and he took full advantage of your brief moment of weakness, pressing his plush lips against yours.

You made a surprised noise that he swallowed eagerly, pushing his tongue into your mouth and tasting every bit of you that he could. Without separating, he hoisted you up. You got the hint and wrapped your legs around his slim waist. He didn't even struggle to hold your weight as he carried you to your bed. When his knees hit the edge, he laid you down gently, far more so than you’d expected from a man who had devoured your kisses as if he would die without them.

Above you, like this, he seemed even larger. You pitied the soldiers that had faced him in battle, but it was hard to continue that line of thought when he was using his size to thoroughly pin you to the bed as he removed your clothes, exposing your bare body to his hungry eyes.

His hands stroked your newly exposed skin reverently, worshiping every inch. He dipped his head down to lick a stripe up your neck, pulling back just slightly to blow cool air onto the wetness, making you shiver. The anticipation and eagerness to have him do something, anything, had your head swimming. You couldn't focus on anything except the remarkably handsome man who was now nipping and suckling your tender skin, doing his damndest to make sure that you would have something to remember him by long after tonight, to be sure that you would think of him every time you looked into a mirror.

You could feel the way he smirked into your skin as you squirmed beneath him, rubbing your thighs together for even a modicum of relief. “Patience, pretty girl. I want to take my time with you.”

“Colonel, please,” you whined.

“Use my name,” he said. “Came here tonight to forget about my job. C’mon, pretty, let me hear you say it.”

“Caleb,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. Your eyes were wide as you gazed up at him, breath coming in heavy pants. He had barely touched you, and yet you were already this worked up.

He groaned. “Such a good girl, aren't you?” Caleb reconnected his lips to yours, his soft lips parting yours as his hands groped at your body, paying special attention to your breasts and tweaking your nipples. You whined into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his hands continuing their journey down your supple skin.

He swiped a finger through your sopping folds and pulled away from your lips just enough to tease you. “You're soaked, pretty girl.

“Then do something about it,” you quipped, your brain officially incapable of thinking of anything other than having Caleb inside you, whether it was his fingers, cock, or even his tongue. You just wanted him to make you feel good.

He laughed, and his radiant smile completely stunned you. What was such a gorgeous man doing paying for sex when he could probably have people pay him for a night? Whatever his reasons, you didn't care. You chose to consider this a blessing—one you would happily accept.

“I plan to, don't you worry. Is this what you want?” he asked, slowly dragging a finger up and down your weeping slit, but never quite pushing in.

“Ngh—! Yes! More, please, Caleb!”

He dropped his head to the crook of your shoulder, a shuddering groan rumbling through his chest. “Fuck, baby, when you sound like that, how is a man supposed to be a gentleman?”

“I don't want you to be a gentleman, I want you—”

You didn't even get to finish your sentence before his finger was plunging inside of you.

You squealed at the sudden intrusion, but he wasn't going to hear any complaints from you. The drag of his knuckles on your inner walls felt heavenly, the pleasure amplified when he used his thumb to rub small circles on your clit.

You moaned his name, cupping the back of his neck with one hand as he mouthed at your neck, the other gripping the bicep of the arm he held himself up with. 

He added a second finger, curling them both to hit that spongy spot inside you that had you seeing stars. As his fingers thrusted in and out, his thumb applied more pressure to your clit. 

“Wait, wait, Caleb, I’m gonna cum!”

He propped himself up more, his pretty purple eyes meeting yours. “Do it. I want to see you make a mess on me. Wanna hear you scream my name, so give it to me, pretty.”

His filthy words were the final push you needed. Your back arched off the bed, your chest pressing into his as your cunt spasmed around his fingers. Even so, he never stopped moving, allowing you to ride out your high until you were nearly crying from overstimulation.

“There you go,” Caleb murmured, brushing hair away from your sweaty face as he slowed his movements to a stop. “Did so good for me.”

You were panting, desperately trying to catch your breath.

“Don't get too comfortable. We're not done. Not by a long shot.”

He rose from the bed to strip his uniform, his toned chest now in full view. You were again struck with the thought, “What on earth is he doing in a brothel?” But as soon as he dropped his pants, all rational thought flew from your mind. That wasn't going to fit. No way.

If Caleb noticed your internal dilemma, he didn't comment on it. Instead, he resumed his position above you, locking eyes with you, his expression asking what he didn't verbalize. “Is this okay? Do you want to stop?”

You pulled him into a gentle kiss with both hands cupping the sides of his face. Without breaking the kiss, you trailed a hand down his first chest and abs until your hand was grasping his stiff and leaking cock.

Caleb whined into your mouth, his hips bucking into your hand and catching your leaking entrance where you had lined him up. He took the hint, pushing his cock into you in one slow thrust, only stopping when his hips were flush with yours. You took a shuddering breath, his size filling you so thoroughly you felt like you were seconds away from coming apart at the seams, and he hadn't even started moving yet. Caleb didn't seem like he was faring any better; his breathing was shallow, and his face flushed.

“You feel so fucking good,” he moaned, his hands gripping your hips as he pulled out just to thrust back in fully, cockhead buried deep within your pretty pussy.

“Ah—!” You cried out. He set a quick pace, pummeling your insides with his brutal thrusts. Watching the way Caleb’s face contorted in pleasure was almost doing as much for you as his cock. You turned your face to the side, not wanting to be pushed over the edge this soon, but Caleb wasn't having it. He grabbed your face, forcing you to look at him. He chuckled slightly as he spoke. “Oh, no, baby. You’re gonna watch while I fuck you. If you look away from me, I’ll stop, and you don't want that, do you?” To prove his point, he stopped moving entirely, cock still nestled in your silky walls.

The immediate loss of such mouthwatering ecstasy had you begging and pleading for him to keep going. He almost laughed at your desperation, but he was every bit as desperate as you were. He pulled out slowly, slamming back in and picking up an animalistic pace, instincts overruling every ounce of self-control.

You were panting heavily, the girth of his cock stretching you out so good that all you could do was moan his name. All it took was a few expert touches to your clit before you were spasming around him, body tense with your release. He didn’t stop, fucking you through it until you were crying from the overstimulation. He slowed when he saw the tear tracks down your face. “Are you okay? Was that too much?” he asked, concern etched on his face.

You nodded. “That was perfect, I just need a second.” You laughed softly, still out of breath. God, your smile was mesmerizing. 

The more you came down from your high, the more and more aware you became of the fact that Caleb was still buried deep in your cunt, still painfully hard and throbbing. “You didn’t finish,” you pouted.

“You needed a minute,” he said nonchalantly, as if any other man would have done that for you.

“Oh,” was all you could muster, eyes wide as you stared up at him. He really did surprise you at every turn. “Well, I’m okay now if...” you trailed off, once again averting your eyes from his intense gaze.

Without a word, he pulled out of you completely. Your head snapped to look at him, flabbergasted.

“Turn over,” Caleb says, eyes clouding with want. Knowing you were okay to continue, his lust was reaching a boiling point. 

You did as he said, and his hands took their place on your hips as he pushed his length back inside in one fluid stroke. Your dual moans blended, his hips slapping against your ass from behind. He was moaning freely, too lost in the feeling of your walls clamping around him. His hips stuttered, and he began to babble. “You feel so—ah! S-so fucking good, baby, hnng!”

Still hypersensitive from your previous orgasms, it didn't take much to have you on the precipice once again. This time, though, Caleb went over it with you. His warm seed filled you so completely that it leaked out around the edges of where he was still pumping into you, prolonging the euphoria you each felt until it fizzled into nothing more than small sparks.

He pulled out of you slowly, his cum leaking out of your abused hole. He flopped onto the bed beside you, pulling you snuggly into his arms to lay your head on his chest. You were both panting, and you could feel his rapid pulse under your cheek where your head lay. His hand rubbed your back soothingly, his warm palm easing your aching muscles.

“Earlier,” you started, still somewhat breathless. “You said you came here to forget about your job. Your uniform is clearly military. Is it something—”

“Nothing like what you're thinking, so don't worry your pretty little head about it. Just an assignment that’s got me running around in circles.”

You looked up at him curiously. “What’s the assignment?”

He hesitated before speaking, not sure just how much he was allowed to share. After some consideration, he decided it wouldn't do any harm to tell you. “Sy—The emperor— said that there have been a string of mysterious deaths in the city. I’m here to figure out why. I’ve talked to all the widows and anyone associated with the men who died, but so far, nothing. It’s frustrating feeling like I’m not making progress, you know?”

Mysterious deaths, huh? You had a fairly good idea exactly which deaths he was talking about.

“What if it’s just an illness?” Maybe if you directed his attention elsewhere, he wouldn't catch on to the real reason. Poison. 

“I don't think so. If it were something like that, wouldn't their wives and the people around them have caught it? Surely at least one of them, right? But not a single person they typically interacted with was affected. I’m not saying foul play, but I’m not ruling it out either.”

You hummed, but otherwise didn't respond, mulling his words over in your head. He couldn't possibly trace anything back to you, right? The only witnesses to the deaths were the wives, and backstabbing you would also incriminate them.

“Hypothetically, let's say it is foul play. What do you know about the men who died? Any reason they could be targets?”

Caleb narrowed his eyes as he directed his attention down to see that you had adjusted your head to look up at him, eyes glistening in the light. Fuck, you were pretty. Looking at him like that, he could almost go again if it weren't for the subject matter killing the mood. “Why are you so interested in this?”

Because I don't want to get caught, duh. “Because this city is my home, and people are dying. I want to know if I or anyone I care about could be at risk. Plus, it helps to talk with someone else when you're stumped. Get a fresh pair of eyes, you know?” If only the colonel knew just how close he was to both the culprit and the means of death. That little, unassuming plot of purple flowers in a forgotten corner of the garden, tended carefully by your own glove-protected hands. Given that it was a generally unkempt area and that one of the girls had once seen a snake there, it was heavily avoided. Not to mention he’d have to do some serious mental gymnastics to even begin to suspect you.

He nodded slowly. “Would you be open to allowing me to pick your brain when I need another point of view? Perhaps over a game of chess next time? Maybe you'll actually beat me.” He smirked down at you, smug with his victory over you.

“You just got lucky. I won't lose to you again. And you never answered my question. Who died?”

Caleb sighed, trying to recall the men whose families he had spoken to. “Um, there was a traveling merchant, a restaurant owner, a potter, and a scholar.”

The merchant cheated on his wife during his travels. The restaurant owner was a drunk who drank more of his wares than he sold. The potter left his wife black and bruised for knocking over a vase. And the scholar was a narcissist who made sure his wife knew that he thought he was far superior to her. 

“Do you know anything else about them? Have you considered that their deaths might not be connected at all?”

“I have, but it would be one hell of a coincidence for all four to just up and die. None were old enough for it to have just been old age. I’ve talked to the widows, but none of them offered any useful information. Same story with all of them. They had dinner with their husband, went to bed, and he was dead by morning.” Wrong. They would have died painful deaths. You remembered the livestock where you grew up. It took a long time to realize that the reason so many were dying was because of a harmless-looking flower in the fields. 

“If you don't mind, I’d rather not use this time to talk about dead men,” Caleb said, readjusting his and your position so that he was spooning your smaller frame. His body was so warm, and yours was so tired from earlier that, before you knew it, you were drifting off to sleep.

When you woke the next morning, Caleb was already gone. You frowned but knew he had important business to attend to. It just so happened that that business was also your business, albeit on the opposite side of things. His presence didn't bode well, but all that meant was that you would have to be even more careful moving forward.

Caleb had figured that going to the brothel would kill two birds with one stone: relieve his pent-up stress and also give him an idea of the women who worked there. But wow, you had taken his breath away. It was no accident that he chose your brothel. A particularly helpful acquaintance of the restaurant owner said there was a brothel in town that had had a patron die of mysterious causes. Same story. He had been fine that night and was dead by morning. It wasn't much to go by, but it was more of a lead than he’d had previously. Presently, he was in the local inn he was staying at for the duration of the investigation, nursing a cup of tea, wondering if there really was any connection between your brothel and the deaths. He tapped his index finger against the rim of the delicate cup, deep in thought. You had seemed very interested, but, as you said, you lived there, so your reasoning made sense. Still… you hadn't just asked about the deaths themselves; you had wanted to know his working theories. He was grasping at straws, he knew. Actively looking for a reason to visit again.

It was about two weeks before Caleb waltzed back into the brothel, fully intending to make good on his request to pick your brain —two weeks and still no significant headway. Sylus had checked in once already, and Caleb had had to tell him that he was no closer to figuring this out than when he’d first started. He was frustrated and slightly ashamed, but Sylus seemed a little too frazzled to really care. A newborn will do that to you, Caleb figured. A prince this time. The heir that Sylus’ advisors wouldn't stop hounding him about. Tiny little thing, but so was the princess when she was born. It was especially amusing since Sylus was such a large man, and yet both of his children were so little. Caleb smiled to himself, thinking about his honorary niece and nephew while he waited for the madam of the house to take his payment.

The brothel was a social space, and instead of your bedroom, you were this time in the communal area dedicated to hosting guests. Mostly on account of him not paying for anything more. The other women were pretty, but the second his eyes locked onto your figure, there wasn't anything that could draw his attention away. You had played only one game, had spent only one night together, and yet you had stubbornly remained at the forefront of his mind ever since. 

He took the seat across from you as a younger girl brought out the Go board. “No chess?” he asked, one of his eyebrows raised. “Didn't think you'd be eager to lose again.”

You took your bowl of stones, answering, “I’ve been practicing with the other ladies. I won't lose again.” You were oozing confidence, and damn did it look good on you. Caleb smiled, a real smile. “Show me what you’ve got then, pretty girl.”

The game progressed slowly, with him telling you how he still couldn't find any meaningful connection between the dead men and how it was beginning to keep him up at night, not knowing what had happened to them.

“If it’s stressing you out so much, it might help to know that none of those men are worth this amount of effort.”

Caleb’s head shot up, his eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? What do you know?”

“Did some asking. You were vague when you were telling me who died, so I wanted to find out who exactly. They weren’t virtuous men in life, but people tend to avoid speaking ill of the dead. That’s likely why you didn't get much. Such awful men likely had a lot of people who wished them harm. This is, of course, assuming it's murder and that they didn’t all die of separate things.” You placed your white stone down, collecting Caleb’s black ones. He huffed at the move, staring at the board, trying to determine the most efficient placement for his next play. When he answered you, his eyes were still trained on the board, but his thoughts were on your words. How much else did you know? He had a feeling you weren't telling him everything. The game continued in time with the conversation.

“Awful, you say? How so?”

“Well, the merchant got around, so to speak. He also spread disease around. Enough said. The restaurant owner had a drinking problem and frequently became violent. He also had money problems as a result and wasn't reliable for paying back his debt. The potter had a quick temper. And the scholar was arrogant and condescending. Not well-liked.”

“I see. And why would you be privy to this information, but I wouldn't be freely given it until now?”

“My face is known here. I’m seen as more trustworthy. I also entertain patrons of the brothel who tell me the goings-on outside, so I’ve heard stories of all of them.” You shrugged like the answer was obvious.

Caleb scowled. You assumed it was finding out that people were intentionally uncooperative, which was partially true, but he also disliked the thought of you entertaining other men. He knew it was your occupation, and with the way brothels worked, it’s not as if you could just up and leave, but he didn't like that other men had had you the same way he did. If they could afford it, that is. That night with you hadn't come cheap, but the money from the previous emperor had been nothing short of a small fortune.

“And what would be your next course if you were in my position?”

“Well, I guess that depends. Do you still suspect murder? Could be that the merchant succumbed to his disease, or the restaurant owner to his alcoholism. If I’m not mistaken, then long-term anger like the potter experienced affects the heart. The scholar may very well have been intentionally killed, but the others could have rational explanations.”

Caleb sighed and began to rub his temples. This was all so confusing. You weren't wrong. There could be other explanations. But the timing is what was throwing him. These men had died in fairly quick succession. Something was nagging at him that this wasn’t right; he just didn't know what yet.

You could see that he was deep in thought. It was his move, but he was staring at the board blankly, not focused on it at all, his mind elsewhere. You called his name softly to get his attention. No answer. You tried again, this time laying your hand atop his where it rested on the table. His head jerked up, violet eyes meeting yours. “It’s your move,” you informed him.

“Let’s say it is murder,” he started, finally placing a stone on the board. You frowned. He was beginning to corner you. “Assuming that’s true, they would have all been killed in the same way and, taking that a step farther, by the same person.” Fuck. You were getting cornered in both Go and reality. “Do you know if any of their social circles overlapped? Could they have all made an enemy of the same man?”

You pretended to think about it. This could work for you. He’s looking for someone with a personal vendetta against all of them. Someone who doesn't exist. 

“It’s a possibility, but I can't say anyone comes to mind. After all, I didn't know any of them personally.”

You watched the way Caleb nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out.” Much like last time, he had reached a point of not wanting to discuss the case anymore. He asked you all sorts of questions. Where you were from, how you came to be in your line of work, how long you had been there, and even your favorite food. He seemed to want to know everything. In return, you asked the same, learning that he was a childhood friend of both the emperor and empress. You got the whole story on why you suddenly had a new empire and restructured government a few years ago. You could only dream of that kind of devotion. 

You continued the games the entire time, and you found yourself genuinely enjoying his company. You didn't have to pretend and put on an act as you did with a lot of the patrons that frequented it. It was refreshing. If only you weren't the very culprit he was assigned to find. 

The weeks flew by with regular visits from Caleb, and before you knew it, you were eagerly looking forward to the next time you would see him. Without discussing it, you had both begun keeping score of your games. So far, you led the score in Go, but he led in chess. Unfortunately, his visits never extended past a game or tea. You’d try to tempt him into spending more for the night, but no luck. He was adamant that he would not give in until the case was solved. One night together was enough to have his thoughts wandering to you when he was supposed to be cross-referencing accounts of the four men for any overlap. He could only imagine how bad it would get if he indulged in you the way you both wanted to.

But if Caleb kept holding himself back, he might never get the chance. Another week of dead ends, and all he wanted was to have tea with the pretty courtesan who had been occupying his every waking thought. Now here he was, sitting across from you, staring at you, dumbfounded.

“What?” he asked. He misheard you. It was a mean-spirited joke. Anything to make it not true.

“The madam came to talk to me earlier. There’s this man who comes from a wealthy family. He’s made a few offers to buy my contract, but no matter how many times I reject him, he always comes back with a higher offer. He just will not take “no” for an answer. According to the madam, he’s offering more than I’m worth, so she’s going to accept the offer.”

“Why can’t you just reject this offer, too?” Caleb was spiraling. He knew contract buyouts were part of the profession, but you were of a rank that it was near impossible for the average layman to afford so much as tea, much less pay your debt to the house. He didn't think he’d have to worry about you going anywhere, at least until he was able to get you out of there himself. 

“I bring in enough money for the house to have at least a little autonomy, but now he’s offering more than the madam can turn down. At the end of the day, it is her choice. I’m technically property of the house.”

Caleb clenched his jaw. He wasn't just angry; he was furious. He knew you weren't here of your own volition. The death of your father had left your family struggling for necessities. By selling you off to the brothel, your family had been given a large sum, and you had been trained in the arts.

“Who’s the man?” Caleb finally asked after getting himself in check.

“Some official’s son.” You shrugged, a small frown pulling at your lips. “He’s not much older than me, but I don’t think I’m the first courtesan he’s been interested in. From what I’ve heard, he has two other women at home but is still unmarried.”

You seemed almost unbothered by it all, and Caleb didn't know if that made it better or worse. On one hand, at least you weren’t distressed over it. On the other hand, he wanted you to care that he wouldn't see you anymore if the buyout went through. And it wouldn't. Not if he could get you to reveal a name.

“Ok, but who is he? I’m asking for a name, pretty girl.”

“Are you familiar with Magistrate Liu? His oldest son, Jian.”

Caleb nodded solemnly, the beginnings of a plan forming in his calculating mind.

Your potential suitor wasn’t nearly as difficult to get information on as the murdered men. People very readily complained about his blatant public misconduct. He was frequently intoxicated and disrespectful to his elders, starting fights with anyone he pleased just because of his father’s rank. Caleb was also helpfully informed that Jian’s father was on the brink of disowning his son altogether for the shame he was bringing to the family name. All it would take is a digression that the magistrate just couldn't ignore.

Caleb got his chance the next night. He had been told that Jian preferentially went to a particular tavern, and luck was on his side because there he was, seated at a table with a rowdy group of other young men. He entered the tavern, taking a seat at the same table without ordering anything. 

“Who the hell are you?” asked one of the younger men.

Caleb ignored him, instead addressing Jian directly. “This is how you waste your father’s hard-earned money? Drinking and buying women?”

Jian scowled as soon as the words registered in his inebriated mind. “What I do with the money my father allows me isn't any of your business,” he snarled, his infamous temper already getting the better of him.

Caleb maintained his small, polite smile as he goaded the man into an outburst. Preferably a violent one. “It’s only natural that I’m curious. Word gets around. You already have two courtesans at home and are trying to buy out a third. Is two not good enough? Are you so inadequate that you need multiple women to perform?”

“Shut up! The only reason you have any problem with me is because you can't afford a courtesan of your own!”

“That so?” Caleb cocked an eyebrow. “And pray tell, what makes you think you know anything about me? Unlike you, I don't have to pay for a woman’s company; I choose to.”

“You—!” Jian swung, his anger finally reaching a boiling point, and Caleb didn't do a thing to stop it. Jian was playing his part exactly as Caleb had hoped. Assault of a high-ranking military official, a lifelong friend of the emperor, and he was sure to ruin himself socially.

The shock of Caleb just accepting the hit and being nearly unfazed by it stopped Jian from continuing his assault. He looked around the table, gauging what they made of the situation, before fixing Caleb with a confused expression.

Caleb was rubbing his jaw, his violet eyes wild. “How would your father feel knowing his son was out starting fights with a colonel? Rumor has it that he’s already at his wits’ end with you. It would be such a shame if I had to tell him about it, wouldn't it?” Caleb was smiling now, but it didn't reach his eyes. It was menacing, promising that he meant every threat and more.

“What do you want from me?”

“Now you're catching on. I want you to withdraw your offer.”

“What offer? What the hell are you talking about?”

“That courtesan you're trying to buy out. Withdraw your offer.” Caleb wasn't asking; he was demanding, his tone leaving no room for interpretation.

“She’s just another whore—”

Caleb grabbed the man by his shirt, pulling him forward and emphasizing just how much bigger Caleb was than the other man. “Withdraw your offer. It’s not a request.”

For what was likely the first time in his pampered life, Jian looked truly afraid. His father’s influence wouldn't save him from the repercussions of both insulting and injuring a man who could likely personally report the incident to the emperor.

He scoffed, but acquiesced, trying to save face in front of the audience that the altercation had drawn. Caleb released Jian’s shirt and left without another word. If only these strange deaths were as easy to take care of as spoiled young men who had never worked a day in their lives.

Upon his next visit, he was thrilled to hear that the offer had been rescinded, not that he would directly admit to having anything to do with it.

“Did the madam tell you why it fell through?” he asked as innocently as he could.

“She said that he had changed his mind. He made so many other offers and was so determined that I can't help but wonder if someone intervened.” You gave him a knowing smirk, eyeing the fading bruise on his jaw.

He knew you knew, and he was entirely fine with that, so long as you kept looking at him like that. You were cute when you were smug. “Perhaps he realized two was already plenty,” Caleb suggested, as if he were truly clueless as to what the real reason was.

“Maybe so,” you agreed. Neither of you acknowledged it again after that, but you were certain Jian didn't just suddenly change his mind, and that a certain colonel did a little convincing. If you were being honest with yourself, you were becoming more and more fond of him with each visit, so much so that knowing he had prevented another man from claiming you was enough to fantasize about him being the one to get you out of the brothel. You wondered what it would be like for all of your evenings to be like this: having tea with a man who cared for more than just your body, who actually listened and cared when you spoke, who didn't treat conversation as a means to an end to get in your bed. As if that was even a possibility if they didn't pay for it.

You didn't realize you had gotten lost in your thoughts until Caleb was waving a hand in front of you. Heat rose to your cheeks, embarrassed that you had zoned out when technically you were working.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah! Yeah, sorry, um, just got distracted.” You fumbled to apologize. Difficult though it was, you tried to remember that his visits weren't just social hour with a friend; he was a patron of the house, and here you were not paying him any attention.

“You seem flustered. Do you want to go outside and get some air?” He asked, his brows pulled into a concerned expression.

“We can go to the gardens, but I’m not allowed to actually leave the grounds unless I’m doing a house call.”

He nodded in understanding before rising from his seat and offering you his arm. “That’s fine. Any time spent with you is alright with me.”

This was dangerous, and you knew it, but you couldn't stop yourself from feeling special whenever Caleb was around. He was bound to find out eventually that you were exactly who he was looking for, but until then, was it so wrong to indulge in his affection?

With your arm secured in his, you guided him to the lush courtyard. Cultivating the flowers was a hobby you and a few of the other girls were permitted when you had free time. Something to do that was just for you, not meant to impress anyone. “It’s beautiful,” Caleb reamrked.

You hummed in agreement. “The girls and I put a lot of work into it.” You were proud that all of the effort that was put into maintaining the space was getting recognition. 

Walking arm in arm with Caleb, discussing the flowers and their care, it felt peaceful, right. You were pointing out the asters and discussing how you wished you didn't have to regrow them each year when your name was called from behind you. You turned to see one of the girls still in training jogging towards you.

She was slightly breathless when she reached you. “Can you help me with my hair? The madam said it’s time to take customers myself, but…”

You hesitated, glancing over at Caleb, who released your arm from his, a silent gesture that told you he wouldn't mind your temporary absence. You smiled apologetically at him before agreeing to help her. 

While you were in her room, styling her hair into something befitting a courtesan, Caleb wandered around the garden, admiring the flowers and noting the ones he thought were prettiest to ask you about. The way your eyes lit up when you talked about plants rivaled even the most polished of swords. 

As he was walking around, he noticed an area of the garden tucked away from the rest, unkempt and wild with weeds and overgrowth. He made his way over, eyes drawn to a peculiarly shaped flower with brilliant purple blooms. He was reaching out to touch it when he heard your voice call out with an urgency he had never heard from you before. “Stop! Don’t touch those!”

He withdrew his hand quickly, eyeing the flowers suspiciously. “Why not?”

You faltered, unsure how to answer in a way that wouldn't bring suspicion to you. Might as well be honest. “They're dangerous. They used to grow in the fields back home, and sometimes the livestock would eat them. Usually resulted in death. I’m not really sure if they cause issues unless you eat them, but better safe than sorry, right?”

Caleb nodded, backing away a few steps from the tall stalks. “Why keep such a dangerous flower here?”

You turned your gaze to the patch of flowers, their petals as vibrant as ever. “They’re just too pretty not to keep.”

“I see,” he said, but he wasn't looking at the flowers anymore, his full attention instead directed to the courtesan with more to her than what was on the surface.

Two nights later, he was lying in bed, deep in the throes of denial. The pretty little courtesan he had spent so much time with, and had shared so much about the case and his theories with, had slept with was also his most likely suspect. He groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

After he left the brothel that day in the garden, he began sifting through the pieces of the case when it began to dawn on him: poison. They all died after having dinner with their wives. According to you, they were subpar men who were likely even worse husbands. Those flowers and your intense interest in the case…the way you always suggested that it might not be murder at all… He couldn't prove anything, but if he could make the connection between you and the wives, he could have potentially figured out the missing piece. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. And yet, what if it’s not you? Those flowers are accessible to anyone living in the brothel. If you had warned the others of toxicity, then any one of them could have been responsible. 

The next logical step was to visit the wives again and find out if they knew you. He was thorough in his questioning, searching for anything that could possibly connect you or at least someone else in the brothel. After hours of questioning, he had his answer, and everything began to fall into place.

The Liu family, the very same Lius that Jian belonged to, had hosted an event to celebrate the magistrate’s birthday. Those in attendance included all the men for various reasons. The owner of a restaurant that the magistrate was particularly fond of, to aid with food, a scholarly official with whom he worked, a potter who was a lifelong friend, and a merchant with whom he often had dealings and had begun to befriend. When he inquired about the entertainment provided for the night, he wasn’t even shocked to hear that courtesans were hired to showcase their talents and serve tea. He was even less surprised when he took that information back to the madam of the house you served to ask for a list of which courtesans were hired and found that you had indeed been there. A girl with both knowledge of and access to a deadly plant who had contact with the men and their wives. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and from what he had gathered about the men’s less-than-virtuous lifestyles being true, then who would have more motivation to kill than the women who had to live with them?

But now what? Arrest you? Given the nature of the charges you would receive, he’d have to reconcile himself to the fact that he’d probably never see you again. Not to mention what it would do to the brothel’s reputation. There were so many other ladies there that would suffer the consequences, likely being sold off to the highest bidder just to keep the doors open. That, or having to lower prices and extend contracts. It would be disastrous for everyone. Caleb sighed wearily. This was such a mess.

The next day came quickly, and the second the morning fog wore off, he made up his mind. It was a rash decision, and he would definitely have to pull some strings, but he would make it work. It was still early, and he had plenty of time to kill, so he made the short trip to the palace. This case had been a pain, but at least it was conveniently located. No need to worry about the long delivery time of letters when he could just request an audience with Sylus directly. This was definitely an abuse of his privilege, but if he was being honest with himself, he really didn't care. Not that Sylus had a leg to stand on, given he’d led a successful rebellion against the previous emperor and was now seated on his throne.

Now, standing in front of his longtime friend, he wasn't sure how to actually put his dilemma into words. At least Sylus couldn't berate him too harshly while he had his daughter seated on his lap. Thank god for small mercies. 

“What did you need to discuss with me so urgently? You’re always welcome, of course, but I’m afraid the other one isn’t sleeping, and my wife also needs me.” Ah. The new prince. Caleb could see the dark circles under his friend’s eyes, but he couldn't deny that the way he looked at his children was nothing short of adoration. If he could overthrow an empire for his wife, Caleb could only imagine what kind of force he would be for his kids.

“This case you’ve had me working on,” Caleb started. “I think they were poisonings.”

“There’s a ‘but’ to this, isn't there?” Sylsu asked knowingly.

Caleb nodded sheepishly. “So, there’s this woman.”

Sylus raised a brow, a smirk on his lips, and his voice amused. “You met a woman while investigating four deaths?” 

Caleb sent him a withering scowl. “I was stressed! She helped! Fill in the gaps yourself.”

His friend chuckled at his outburst, motioning for him to continue, and so he did. He recounted everything. How he had come to make your acquaintance (withholding the more savory details because of a little princess’ ears), how he had gone to you when he needed a new perspective, your interest in his progress in the case, the flowers, the party, and your connection, and even how he had intervened in your buyout.

Sylus listened patiently to the entire account, nodding and humming along periodically, his eyes thoughtful as he figured out what exactly it was that his friend was struggling with so much.

“You don't want to arrest her,” he said simply. Caleb’s lack of a verbal answer was enough for the emperor.

“So, you’ve grown quite fond of this woman, even went through all the trouble of making sure another man didn't take her from you, and, from the sounds of it, she did not aid in the deaths out of bloodlust. I’d be willing to turn a blind eye if you can figure out a way to ensure something like this doesn't happen again.”

For as long as it took him to figure out the deaths, Caleb wasn't actually stupid, just perhaps a little blinded by affection. He knew what Sylus was insinuating.

“Yeah, I get it. I was already planning on doing that, just wanted your opinion.” He informed Sylus.

“Good. I’ll take my leave then. You may stay as long as you’d like.” With that, he securely gathered the now-sleeping princess in his arms, presumably going to check on the empress and prince.

He mostly just wandered the grounds and joined Sylus and his family again for lunch, playing honorary uncle and conversing with both him and the empress, anything at all to kill time until the brothel opened its doors for the night.

Hours later, he stood in the entryway of the house, an obscenely heavy box in hand. The madam had been posted at the front, her eyes immediately drawn to the box in Caleb’s hands. Before she could ask questions, Caleb declared that he wished to make a purchase. He presented the box to the madam. “In full.”

“Of course,” she said, eyes wide when she opened the box to verify the contents. “Follow me, please.” She led him to a backroom that functioned as her office space. She gestured to a side table, telling Caleb he could set down his heavy load over there.

“If you wait here, I’ll go fetch her.” There was a teasing glint in both her eyes and her tone that Caleb didn't miss, and his own voice took on the same lilt when he responded.

“I didn't even say which girl.”

“Young man, you are a returning customer who has only ever requested one girl. But if there’s someone else—”

“No! No, you're right,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Thought so.”

You were seated at a table with a few of the other ladies when the madam found you.

You greeted her, and she wasted no time blindsiding you with the fact that there was a man here intending to buy out your contract. Your jaw dropped open in shock. How could she spring this on you so suddenly? Surely Jian wasn't coming back, right?

You looked around the table to see the other ladies looking just as confused as you. The madam bid you to follow her, and you rose hesitantly from your seat. She didn't answer any of your questions the entire way downstairs and to the little back office. Who was the man? Did you at least know him? Or did he just waltz in today, deciding to buy a courtesan on a whim?

She would only chuckle at you, telling you to be patient and that you’d soon see who the mystery man was. Outwardly, you were as composed as what was expected of a courtesan of your position, but inside, you were frantic. Where the hell did this come from?

She stopped in front of the door when you reached your destination, where the man was waiting. “You go on in. I’ll be right outside if you need me, but I doubt you will.” You frowned at her expression. She was absolutely keeping something from you and was incredibly smug about it. You agreed exasperatedly. Sure. Why not? Everything about this was already strange enough.

You pushed open the wooden door to see a man with his back to you, gazing out one of the windows. Even before he turned around to face you, you knew that uniform and those broad shoulders anywhere.

“Caleb?” you whispered.

“Hey, pretty girl.”

The best you could manage to respond with was half-formed words, unable to appropriately ask what the hell was going on.

“I know I’m handsome and all, but I’d have thought you were used to it by now. Still take your words away, huh?”

You scoffed. “I own a mirror. I’m used to beauty.” Nothing is more dangerous than a man who knows just how attractive he is.

“Just can’t let a man dream, can you?”

“Where’s the fun in that? I’m paid to entertain, aren’t I?”

“That you are. How would you feel about leaving that behind, though?” For maybe the first time since you met him, he seemed unsure of himself, nervous to hear your answer. He was taking a gamble, he knew. If you said no, he would still go through with it anyway. He could either keep you with him the way he wanted, or he could arrest you, and lord knows the consequences of that would be dire. If you were upset, it wouldn't be for long. You would thank him for this later.

Except all of his worrying was for naught.

“I think it would be a nice change of pace. I’ve been doing this for long enough.” Your soft, sweet smile wiped every negative thought and doubt from his mind. If you were okay with it, then he could take you home with him without feeling like Jian some creep. 

Caleb smiled back at you, a large, genuine smile that lit up his features. Oh yeah, there would definitely be some jealousy when the other girls saw who was buying you out. “Do you want to get some of your things together while I talk with the madam to get everything in order?”

“You mean go with you today? It usually takes a bit of time to pack and finalize everything.”

“Sorry, Pips, but I don't think I have the patience to wait another day. Can pack some essentials for now and collect the rest later.” God, please don't hate him after this. 

You nodded apprehensively but ultimately agreed. Pips? That's a new one. 

You turned to leave, but before you could take so much as two steps, a firm grip was pulling you back into a sturdy chest. “Thank you, and I’m so sorry,” he whispered solemnly, his head buried in the crook of your neck.

You were completely taken aback and more than a little confused now. Surprised with him showing up, offering to pay your contract, and seeming so happy to do it, but now he was both thanking and apologizing? What on earth was happening? There was something he wasn't telling you. “What for?”

He pulled away from you, turning you in his arms to face him. “I’ll tell you later. You just worry about getting some things together while I talk with the madam, alright?”

You left the room, telling the madam that Caleb was ready to talk business with her, but the whole way back to your room, your head was swimming. What was all of that? Did he know? Had he discovered what the flowers were? Or maybe one of the wives had come clean? But if any of that were the case, why not arrest you on sight? How did your life get so messy over the course of a few months?

You were folding some of your clothes into a box when Caleb waltzed in to lean on the doorframe. “Almost ready? There's a carriage waiting outside to take us back to mine.”

“Yeah, just a moment.” You gave up on folding neatly, just balling it up and tossing it in before securing the lid. Caleb walked forward to take the modest-sized chest, hoisting it into his arms. 

The walk out was both awkward and emotional, with a few of the girls stopping you to say their goodbyes and offer hugs. Caleb was patient, even when it was obvious some of them were there more for him than to say goodbye to you.

When you did finally get to the carriage, Caleb offered you a hand to help you up before climbing in himself, your chest of clothes in tow.

“What part of the city do you live in? I’ve been wondering,” you asked. 

“You’ll just have to wait and find out, won't you?”

You huffed but didn't push the matter. “Ok, so why the sudden need for a personal courtesan?”

“Patience, pretty girl. I told you I’ll tell you later. ‘Later,’ as in when we get home.” He lightly chastised you, not truly annoyed but entertained by your curiosity.

You practically pouted the entire way to his home, but it was quickly dropped when you saw the size of it. Being a colonel must pay even better than you thought.

You could see Caleb’s smug face in your periphery as you gawked at his home. Show off.

The carriage came to a slow stop, and Caleb got out first, again offering you a hand to help. With you securely on the ground next to him, he grabbed your clothes to hand off to one of the few staff he kept on hand, instructing him to bring them to one of the empty bedrooms.

“Not your room?” 

Caleb’s face reddened at your words. “I didn't know if you would be comfortable with that. I mean, you're more than welcome to share my bed, but I thought you would appreciate your own space.”

He’s adorable. You gently placed a hand on his flaming cheek, directing his attention towards you as you pushed yourself up on the balls of your feet to press a soft kiss on his other cheek. “I do appreciate it. Thank you.”

The longer he waited, the harder it would be to confront you. But fuck, you looked so different when you weren't in the brothel, when the madam wasn't around the corner waiting to correct any mistakes. It was nice, and he was about to ruin it.

“You’re the one responsible for the murders,” he blurted out before he could talk himself out of it. “At least partially. Those flowers you were growing. You said they were toxic. You were also hired to entertain at a birthday party in which all the men and their wives were present, which would have given you ample opportunity to speak to both the men, thus your poor opinions of them, and the wives, who were likely more sick of them than anyone else.”

All the color drained from your face. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. There’s certainly no way to talk yourself out of this one.

“And so what? They were awful husbands who inflicted as much harm as they received. Seems fair to me.”

He stalked towards you, his eyes stern. You backed away from him until there wasn't anywhere else to go, your back hitting the cold wall. Caleb took the opportunity to bring his face to your level. “I never said it wasn't fair. But it can't be allowed to happen again. That’s why you're here with me, and you’ll never leave.”

There was an uncomfortable tightening in your chest. “How long have you known? Is this the only reason you visited so much?” Your voice was quiet and hesitant, unsure if you were ready to hear the answer. Not only would it be humiliating to have developed feelings for a man who was only doing his job, but it would be hurtful as well.

Caleb practically melted. He felt like such an asshole. “I only figured it out a few days ago. I was there to spend time with you. You just very conveniently turned out to be who I was looking for. And it’s because of all that time spent together, I haven't arrested you, and won’t. But I’m not doing this entirely out of goodwill. I do expect something in return.”

You weren't going to be arrested? Awfully generous of him. A little suspicious, but you weren't exactly in a position to complain. “And what is it that you want?”

“For you to stop making poison, for one.”

“It wasn't a career choice! You make me sound like a—”

“I wasn't done, Pips. It's rude to interrupt people when they're speaking.”

“You just interrupted me!”

“Because you interrupted me first.”

You rolled your eyes, choosing to keep whatever dignity you had left intact. “Any other requests?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” He lowered his voice, the new sensualness of his voice making your body shiver. “I want you to give yourself to me body and soul, to be my wife one day.” He didn't wait for a response, pressing his lips against yours lightly, giving you ample time to turn your head or tell him to stop. Honestly, he half expected you to slap him. Instead, he was met with you returning his show of affection. He made a noise of protest when you pulled away, following your lips until you pressed your fingers against them.

“Why do all this? Why not just arrest me?”

AZUL ASHENGROTTO

You had every intention of pretending the whole incident, your boyfriend forgetting, or rather confusing, your face, had never happened. Mostly for the sake of his mental well-being.

Unfortunately, the twins who spent most of their time around him did not share your mercy.

Every single time Jade or Floyd brought it up—and they brought it up often—Azul looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole, no matter how many times you scolded them for teasing him.

You weren’t upset at him. Not even a little. But Azul couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed to make up for it somehow… to prove that he’d never mistake you for anyone else ever again.

“Good morning, my girlfriend.” You blinked, staring at him in confusion. “My girlfriend looks even more radiant today. Have you changed something about your skincare routine?”

Taking your hand, he pressed a gentle kiss to the back of it before smiling. “Would my girlfriend like an energy drink to start the day?”

Jade glanced over from the corner of the room, immediately straightening his posture. He cleared his throat politely. “…I believe I should be going. I suddenly remembered I need to clean the glass on my terrarium.”

MALLEUS DRACONIA

After the rather unfortunate rejection you’d suffered the day before, you decided it would be best to give Malleus some space and wait for the effects of the accident to wear off completely.

You leaned over the sink, humming quietly to yourself as you washed your face. Drying your skin with a towel, you opened your eyes and let out a startled scream.

Malleus immediately turned around as well, assuming you’d been frightened by something else. Realizing your surprise was directed at him, he placed a hand over his chest. “I sincerely apologize for entering without permission… especially after committing such an unforgivable offense—”

You rubbed your eyes, briefly wondering whether you were still asleep, or hallucinating. "What are you..."

“I understand!”

“…Understand what?”

“That my presence has become unwelcome.” Malleus bowed his head, his tail swaying quietly behind him. “I behaved irrationally yesterday. I failed to recognize my own beloved… but even worse…” He lowered his gaze. “I rejected the gift you had chosen so thoughtfully, with my preferences in mind.”

You scratched the back of your head. “Malleus, I was much more worried about your condition than what happen—”

“If you choose to bring our promising relationship to an end…” Your eyes widened, “…I ask only that you reconsider with kindness. If granted another chance, I swear such a mistake shall never happen again.”

“Malleus.” You placed your hands on his shoulders, “Where on earth did you get the idea that I’d break up with you over something so silly? I—” Before you could finish, his arms wrapped carefully around your waist, gently pulling you into an embrace.

Almost instinctively, your hand found its way into his hair, your fingers absentmindedly playing with the soft strands, “You seem much better today.”

He nodded against your shoulder.

You understood this in the first week. The girl who came before you, Liana, had walked you through everything: cameras, angles, schedules, the way the athletics department liked their content formatted. But had failed to mention that the players would not look at you so much as look through you at first. Like you were part of the furniture. A tripod with a heartbeat.

In a way, that was fine. Being invisible was a perfectly good way to do the job. Players acted more naturally when they forgot the camera was there, and natural content was always better than posed content. This was something you had understood instinctively from the beginning.

You had been doing this job since the beginning of fall semester. It had come to you not accidentally but not exactly sought either, you had always followed the team, always been a genuine fan. Liana, the former social media girl, was a friend from a very boring Thursday morning class you had both suffered through together. When she came close to graduating she recommended you for the job. You had been working the library circulation desk before that. When the athletics department called it had seemed like a no-brainer.

A few months in, you knew the inner workings of the team the way you knew the layout of your own apartment. Their training schedule, their game schedule, the subtle social architecture of a group of people who spent most of their waking hours together. You knew which players were camera shy and which ones had a natural appeal and actively enjoyed being filmed — cough Dean cough — and by now you knew everyone's best angle, best light, best moment.

Which brought you to Logan.

You were also, which was a separate and entirely unrelated issue, completely down bad for one of the players.

It had not happened all at once.

You had known who John Logan was before you got the job, everyone who followed Briar hockey knew who he was, which was most of the campus, but knowing of someone and being in the same building as them four times a week were different things entirely.

You had known about his escapades too. His romantic history was the kind of thing that Olivia, your friend and a woman of genuinely exceptional gossip quality, had mentioned more than once with the relish of someone who considered this information a public service. Before the job, you had laughed about it the way you laughed about things that had nothing to do with you.

Now that you actually knew him, not knew knew him, but saw him daily, which was its own specific category, you thought about his former, and hopefully past, escapades and felt something uncomfortably close to jealousy.

The crush had consolidated gradually and against your will, the way water finds its way through things. A practice here. A post-game there. The specific way he looked when he was focused on something, the way he talked to his teammates, the way he sometimes looked directly into your camera with an expression that suggested he had briefly forgotten it was there and was just looking.

And then there was the other thing, which was honestly the worst part: he was so unfairly polite. He said good morning and good afternoon. He smiled when he caught you filming something. He said goodbye when he left and apologized if the puck flew in your direction, which it occasionally did, and each time he said sorry about that with the specific sincerity of someone who actually meant it.

You knew you had a crush on him. Obviously. That part was not new information.

What was new information was the following Tuesday, late after practice, the rink mostly empty, you sitting in the stands with your laptop open and the tiredness of someone who had been on their feet for three hours. The players were filtering out through the doors and you were reviewing footage on autopilot, not really watching, when you looked up without thinking about it.

You were looking for Logan before you had decided to look for him.

When you found him, he was at the boards, removing his helmet and pushing a hand through his hair.

Fuck me, you thought.

And then it seemed like he had heard you, because he lifted his eyes and looked straight at you across the empty rink and smiled.

You smiled back and closed your laptop.

Time to go home and think about John Logan in bed.

You reached for your camera on the tripod — force of habit, you always checked the last few shots before packing up — and opened the gallery.

Logan drinking water. Logan laughing at something Garrett said. Logan tying his skates. Logan high-fiving Tucker after a good drill. Logan making a face directly at the camera, having clearly just noticed you filming him, looking entirely unbothered about it.

You stared at the screen.

Oh.

Oh no.

The real problem came later.

The game was at Harvard, which meant the bus, which meant a situation you had been successfully avoiding for six months. You never took the team bus, too much male energy, too many large people occupying space in a way that made you feel like you had accidentally wandered into someone else's environment. You usually went with the student bus, which was fine, which was your preferred option.

The student bus had a mechanical issue and couldn't make the drive in time.

So you, along with the other team staff, boarded the team bus with approximately forty hockey players and the quiet resignation of someone who had lost a negotiation they hadn't known they were in.

The game itself went fine, nothing groundbreaking, but Briar won, which was all that mattered. You packed up your equipment and joined the line filing back onto the bus, looking for the same seat you'd had on the way there.

You were making your way down the aisle when you spotted Logan sitting alone.

You slowed down. Made the calculation. Gave yourself approximately four seconds of internal encouragement.

A freshman defenseman sat down next to him before you could finish the thought.

You did not pout. You were a professional.

"Aw, look who it is." Dean's voice came from the seat directly behind Logan. He was sitting in the aisle seat, legs stretched out, watching you with the expression of someone who had seen everything. "You can sit with me."

"Sure," you said.

"Geez, don't look so happy about it." He pulled his legs in so you could slide past. "I even let you have the window."

"What a gentleman," you said, settling in and pulling your laptop from your bag.

"Are we watching a movie?" Dean pointed at the laptop.

"No. I'm working."

"Bummer," he said, shifting in his seat to get comfortable. Dean was a broad person and the seats were not designed with broad people in mind, which meant that when you sat down you were immediately, unavoidably in contact, arms pressed together, shoulders touching. You had briefly considered putting the armrest down for some personal space, but Dean seemed completely unbothered by the proximity, which somehow made it easier to be unbothered yourself.

This was the thing about Dean that had surprised you most when you first started the job: there had never been an awkward phase. No stiff introductions, no careful professional distance, no period of working out who you were to each other. He had simply decided you were friends and proceeded accordingly, and somehow six months had passed and it felt like you had known each other much longer than that.

You connected your camera to the laptop and started pulling up photos from the game. Selected the best ones. Started uploading them to the shared drive.

"Uh oh," Dean said, leaning over. "That's not my best angle."

You looked at the photo. He was facing almost entirely away from the camera.

"Shut up," you said, lightly slapping his hand away from the screen. "What do you mean not your best angle? Are you not proud of your very nice backside?"

This was a callback, and Dean knew it. He had said something similarly direct about you at a party two months ago in the shameless way that Dean said most things, and you had decided that the only appropriate response was to give the same energy back.

 "I am," he said, "but the front is much better. You should check it out sometime."

"Are you referring to your face as the front of your backside?"

Dean repeated the question back to you in a mocking tone.

You opened the photos and started scrolling through them, and approximately three seconds later you noticed the pattern and began praying, quietly and sincerely, that Dean would not notice it too.

Too late.

"Why do you have so many pictures of Logan?" He was looking at the screen with his eyebrows raised. "There are like ten Logan pictures for every one of anyone else."

"Logan just photographs well."

"He photographs well."

"Yes."

"That's your explanation."

"That's my explanation."

Dean looked at you with the expression of someone assembling a conclusion. "You have the hots for Logan."

"The hots? Dean, what is this, a Disney Channel movie? And no. I don't."

"Yeah? Explain the hundred photos of him drinking water. Sorry, but you can't use those for Instagram." He paused. "Unless you're using them for something else. Like, I don't know. Your spank bank."

You gasped and punched his arm. "Shut up."

"Admit it."

"I plead the fifth."

"That's not how that works."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You have to. I'm your best friend."

"No you're not. It's Olivia."

"On the team, I meant."

"It's probably Tucker."

"Tucker?" Dean looked genuinely wounded. "Tucker? Don't try to change the subject."

You closed the laptop.

"Go to sleep, Dean."

"This conversation is not over."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not," he said, adjusting himself against the seat with the decisive energy of someone settling in for a nap. You let your head fall back against the window. A moment later his head dropped onto your shoulder with the comfortable weight of someone who had decided this was acceptable.

"Do not drool on me," you said.

"I bet if it was Logan you wouldn't mind," he said, eyes already closed. Of course not.

"Don't be disgusting."

"And by the way —" he opened one eye "— he has the hots for you too."

"Oh my god," you said. "Stop talking like this is iCarly."

He closed his eye again.

The bus moved through the dark and you sat there with Dean's head on your shoulder and the laptop closed on your knees and tried very hard not to look at the back of Logan's head in the row in front of you.

Oh no, you thought, again, for the second time that week.

A couple of weeks later, Dean found you setting up the tripod in the corner of the film room before pre-game interviews.

"So," he said, appearing at your elbow with the energy of someone who had been waiting for the right moment. "I saw that you didn't RSVP to the invitation for mine and Beau's birthday bash. And it's tomorrow."

You winced. You had been avoiding this topic.

"I have a thing," you said, very casually, adjusting the tripod height without looking at him.

"A thing." He repeated it back with the tone of someone who found this deeply insufficient. "What thing could possibly be more important than my birthday?"

"They painted a new wall in the hallway of my apartment so —"

"Shut up," he said, moving closer. "You're coming. Also —" he said it with the specific energy of someone deploying their strongest argument "— Logan is going to be there."

You kept your eyes on the tripod. "I would assume so. Since you live together."

"You know what I mean."

"I really don't."

"Yes you do."

"I'm working tomorrow night," you said.

"It's a Saturday."

"Content doesn't take weekends off."

"You literally schedule everything in advance and you know it." Dean leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. "Come to the party. Talk to him. He's going to be right there."

"I talk to him all the time. It's my job."

"Yeah, but when you talk to Logan you do the thing."

You looked up for the first time. "What thing."

"The thing." He gestured vaguely at your face. "The thing where you forget to be normal."

"I am always normal."

"You called his assist last Tuesday 'genuinely cinematic.'"

"It was a good play."

"To his face."

"As a professional observation —"

"He smiled about it for the rest of practice." Dean looked at you steadily. "Come to the party."

You turned back to the tripod.

"I don't think Logan has the hots for me, you know," you said. "He's like a hot athlete. And I'm like the social media nerd."

Dean stared at you with the expression of someone who had just heard something that offended him on multiple levels simultaneously.

"Geez," he said. "You're not the girl in every romcom who doesn't know she's pretty." He paused. "Also you may be a nerd but — with all due respect to you and to my buddy Logan — you're pretty hot."

You pushed his shoulder and muttered a low stop.

"I'm being sincere!" He caught himself on the wall, laughing. "Party. Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Logan will be there." He pointed at you one more time. "You will also be there."

He walked away before you could respond.

You looked at the camera. The camera looked back at you.

Genuinely cinematic, you thought, mortified.

You were definitely not going to that party.

The thing about watching two people be completely oblivious to each other was that it was, at first, entertaining.

Dean had found it genuinely funny in the beginning, the way you would track Logan across a room without realizing you were doing it, the way Logan would find reasons to be wherever you were without announcing that was what he was doing. It was like watching a nature documentary.

It had been funny for approximately three weeks.

It was now week seven and Dean was losing his mind.

It was a Thursday practice, nothing special about it. Dean was on the ice going through drills with Tucker when he caught it, the peripheral awareness of someone who had been watching a situation develop for too long.

You were in your usual spot in the stands, laptop open, camera on the tripod, doing the thing you always did where you looked like you were reviewing footage but were actually, if you knew what to look for, tracking Logan across the ice without moving your head.

Logan, for his part, was doing the thing he always did where he skated past your section of the stands more than was strictly necessary for any drill that had been assigned.

"He's done that four times," Tucker said, appearing at Dean's elbow.

"Five," Dean said. "You missed one while you were talking to the coach."

Tucker watched Logan complete another unnecessary loop near the boards. "Are they ever going to do something about that?"

"Apparently not," Dean said.

On the ice Logan slowed near the boards not stopping, that would have been too obvious, just slowing and said something up toward the stands. You looked up from your laptop and said something back. Logan smiled. You looked back at your laptop immediately, in the specific way of someone using a screen as a shield.

Logan skated away looking slightly more cheerful than he had thirty seconds ago.

"It's painful," Tucker said.

"It's excruciating," Dean agreed.

"Wow, that's a big word" Tucker said mocking Dean and skating away.

After practice Dean was still thinking about it in the locker room.

He was unwrapping his tape when Garrett sat down across from him.

"You have a face," Garrett said.

"I'm thinking."

"About what."

"Logan and the social media girl, or as I call her, (Y/N)"

"So her name—" Garrett replied.

Garrett looked at him with the mild, steady expression he used when he was waiting for someone to either say something sensible or stop talking. "And?"

"And they've been doing this for like seven weeks and nothing is happening and I'm tired of watching it."

"So tell him to do something about it."

"I've told him." Dean had, in fact, told Logan approximately six times in varying tones of directness. "Telling doesn't work. Logan needs a push."

"A push," Garrett repeated.

"A significant push."

Garrett looked at him for a long moment. "What kind of push."

"A financial one," he said.

"Dean —"

"Hear me out."

"I don't think I want to."

"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "I bet him a thousand dollars that he won't ask her out. He needs the money, he likes her, this solves both problems simultaneously. It's elegant."

Garrett stared at him. "It's really not."

"It gets him to do the thing he already wants to do."

"By paying him."

"By incentivizing him."

"Those are the same thing."

"Garrett," Dean said, in the tone of someone who had considered the counterarguments and dismissed them. "They have been doing this for weeks. At this rate they'll still be doing it at graduation. I'm helping."

Garrett looked at the ceiling briefly. "You shouldn't do this," he said finally.

"Noted," Dean said.

He did not change his mind.

Logan came in from the showers to find Dean sitting on the bench across from his locker with an expression that meant something was coming.

Tucker was in the corner pretending to check his phone. Garrett was lacing his shoes with more focus than the task required.

"What," Logan said.

"I have a proposition," Dean said.

Logan looked at Tucker. Tucker looked at his phone. Logan looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at his shoes.

"What kind of proposition," Logan said.

"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "All you have to do is ask her out."

He didnt't have to specify who the her was.

The locker room was quiet.

Logan opened his locker. Got his jacket. "No."

"Logan —"

"No, Dean."

"You like her."

"That's not —"

"You've skated past her section of the stands five times today during drills that don't require you anywhere near the boards." Dean's voice was completely even. "I counted."

Logan said nothing.

"You check her posts before anyone else on the team," Dean continued. "You know her schedule better than your own. You said sorry to her last Tuesday when the puck went near her even though it didn't come close to actually hitting her." A pause. "You apologized preemptively."

"I was being polite."

"You were being in love with her," Dean said, simply. "Which is fine. Great, actually. And fixable. With one conversation and a thousand dollars."

Tucker made a small sound that was not quite disapproval and not quite agreement.

Garrett said nothing, which was its own kind of answer.

Logan looked at his jacket in his hands. He thought about the time that had passed, the practices and bus rides and the specific way you closed your laptop when you were trying to hide something. He thought about his bank account, which was having a difficult semester. He thought about the rent that was due. The equipment he needed.

He thought about asking you out, which he had been meaning to do, which he had been telling himself he was going to do, which he had not done.

I was going to do it anyway, he told himself. The money doesn't change what I was going to do anyway.

"Fine," he said.

Tucker made the sound again, slightly louder.

Garrett looked up from his shoes for the first time. His expression was not angry, not exactly. More like a person watching a decision being made and knowing already how it was going to cost someone.

Dean produced a check from somewhere — written on the back of a receipt, which was so Dean that Logan almost laughed — and held it out.

Logan took it.

He folded it once and put it in his jacket pocket and did not look at Garrett again.

I was going to do it anyway, he thought.

He almost believed it.

The subject of the party was a sore one.

Part of you wanted to go and part of you didn't, and the two parts had been arguing since Dean walked away from the tripod, and by the time you got back to your apartment you had resolved nothing except that you needed to talk to Olivia about it.

Olivia listened to the full recap of the Dean conversation with the focused attention of someone taking notes. When you finished she was quiet for approximately three seconds.

"We're going," she said.

"I said I wasn't sure —"

"I've made up my mind. You were invited so you need to go, and I'm coming with you because—." She looked at you with the expression of someone who had already decided the fun they were going to have and was simply waiting for logistics to catch up. "What's the theme?"

"Dynamic duo."

"Perfect for us." She was already opening her laptop. "I know exactly what we're wearing."

"I don't even know what to wear," you breathed out, dropping flat onto your bed and staring at the ceiling. "What kind of theme even is that? Dynamic duo? That's so vague."

"It's not vague, it's versatile." She turned the screen to face you. "Clueless. Cher and Dionne. The plaid."

You looked at the screen. You looked at Olivia.

"Obviously," you said.

You walked into the party in matching plaid ,short skirt, blazer, the whole thing and felt immediately, objectively, like you had made the right costume choice. Olivia walked in beside you with the confident energy of someone who had never had a bad entrance in her life.

The house was full and warm and smelled like every college party you had ever been to. You did a quick scan of the room in the completely professional way of someone who was not looking for anyone specific.

You found him in approximately four seconds.

Logan was in the kitchen with Dean, drink in hand, laughing at something. He was wearing a sleveless gray shirt with a pair of wings.

You gave a small wave in their direction. Dean spotted you first and his face did something immediately, and then he clapped a hand on Logan's back and pushed him in your direction with the subtlety of a person who had never heard the word subtle.

Logan crossed the room.

"Hey —" His eyes moved over you and something in his expression shifted slightly. "Clueless?"

"Yeah," you said, nodding perhaps a few more times than necessary.

Beside you, Olivia made a sound that she converted, barely, into a cough. She had been documenting your inability to form complete sentences in Logan's presence for approximately three months and found it genuinely hilarious.

"You look very pretty," Logan said.

"Oh — thanks." The blush arrived before you could do anything about it. Compose yourself.

Logan seemed to remember that you were not alone. "You too, Olivia."

"Yeah, right," Olivia laughed. "I'll go get a drink."

She disappeared into the crowd. As she passed behind Logan she turned to face you and mouthed make a move with the enormous unsubtle energy of someone who had been waiting three months to say it.

You looked back at Logan.

"I'm glad you came," he said. "Dean mentioned you weren't sure."

"I had some content to edit," you said.

"This is more important," he said, lightly, like a joke, but with something underneath it that wasn't entirely a joke.

"Yeah," you said.

And then you were both just standing there. Drinks in hand, the party moving around you, talking the way you had discovered you talked when you were alone together, which was easily, which was the specific ease of two people who had been in the same orbit long enough to have figured out each other's rhythms without officially acknowledging it.

"So what are you supposed to be anyway?" you asked, taking the opportunity to look at him properly. The gray shirt. The wings. The arms, which were — you looked at his face instead. "Jacob Elordi in Saltburn?"

Logan laughed — a real one, surprised and warm. "Bird and the bee. I'm the bird. Tuck's the bee."

"Oh," you said. "That tracks."

"Does it."

"The bee has better energy," you said. "No offense to you."

"I'll tell Tucker you said that."

"Please don't."

Dean chose this exact moment to appear between you.

"Hello, you two." He looked between you with barely concealed delight. "What are we talking about?"

"The birds and the bees," you said, and watched Dean's eyebrow go up in real time.

"Oh, I like where this is headed."

"No — I mean his costume," you said quickly. "What are you supposed to be?"

"Maverick." He pointed across the room to where Beau was talking to a very beautiful brunette. "Beau's Goose."

You considered this. "Was there not a dynamic duo where one of them didn't have a tragic ending? You could have been Ice."

"Ice and Maverick hated each other," Dean said.

"No they didn't! In your own words they had the hots for each other."

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed at you. "That is actually a fair point."

"Thank you."

"You're insufferable," he said, smiling. He looked between you and Logan one more time. "I'm going to go find Beau. You two —" he gestured vaguely at the space between you "— continue."

He disappeared back into the crowd.

You looked at Logan. Logan looked at you.

"He's not subtle," you said.

"No," Logan agreed. "He really isn't."

The party continued around you. At some point you had moved slightly closer together. Neither of you had announced it. At some point his hand had found the small of your back, briefly, when someone pushed past in the crowd. It had stayed there a moment longer than strictly necessary. You had not moved away.

At some point Olivia had caught your eye from across the room and given you a look of such unrestrained triumph that you had been forced to look at the floor to keep from laughing.

"So —" Logan started. He stopped. Tried again. "I've been thinking. For a while actually." He looked at you with the expression of someone abandoning a rehearsed script entirely in favor of just saying the thing. "Would you like to go out? With me. On a date."

Inside your chest, something that had been very carefully managed for months made a sound like:

YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES —

"Yes," you said, with great composure. "I'd like that."

Something settled in his expression warm and certain. "Good. I was hoping you were going to say that."

"I was hoping you were going to ask," you said.

He smiled. Not the polite one, not the team-photo one the real one, the one you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.

Across the room, completely uninvited into this moment, Dean let out a noise of triumph loud enough that Tucker turned around to look.

You and Logan both looked at Dean.

Dean pointed at both of you, then at himself, then gave two thumbs up with the energy of a man who had absolutely no shame about any of this.

"He planned this," you said.

"Obviously," Logan said.

You looked at Dean, who was now saying something to Beau that was making Beau look confused and Dean look extremely pleased with himself.

"I'm going to delete all his content," you said.

"Probably," Logan said. "But maybe tomorrow."

You looked back at him.

"Yeah," you said. "Maybe tomorrow."

What you did not know — what you would not know for three months — was what had happened two hours before that conversation.

The first date was a Tuesday.

Logan had asked on a Saturday and then spent the intervening three days being completely normal about it, which meant he had checked his phone approximately forty times and suggested three different restaurants to Dean who had not asked for his opinion and had given it anyway.

He picked you up at seven. You had worn something simple and he had looked at you the way he sometimes looked into the camera, direct, unhurried, like you were something worth paying attention t, and said you look great in the specific voice he used when he meant things, and you had said thanks, so do you and meant it, and the evening had been easy in the way that things were easy when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right outlet.

You talked for three hours. Not about anything important about the team, about your job, about the things you had noticed about each other without ever saying so. He told you about the preemptive puck apology before you could bring it up and looked slightly embarrassed about it, which you found endearing in a way you did not make him aware of. You told him about the forty-seven saved clips and watched his expression do something warm and complicated.

He walked you back to your dorm. He kissed you at the door — soft and unhurried, the specific patience of someone who had been waiting a while and had decided that arriving was enough for now.

You went inside and stood in the hallway for a moment.

Oh, you thought. Not oh no this time. Just — oh.

What followed was three months that assembled themselves quietly and completely, the way good things tended to do when you stopped trying to manage them.

You learned the specific rhythm of being with Logan, which was different from the rhythm of being near Logan, which you had spent seven months memorizing from behind a camera. Being with him was easier. Less careful. The things you had noticed from a professional distance — the way he focused, the way he was with his teammates, the particular quality of his attention when he was genuinely listening were the same up close, just without the glass between you.

He remembered things. That was the detail that accumulated the most weight over three months small things you had said once, in passing, that he filed away and produced later in the specific way of someone who had been listening more carefully than you knew. The coffee order. The fact that you hated the overhead lights in the film room. The name of the professor whose class you had shared with Liana.

You told Olivia about the coffee order detail on a Thursday night and she looked at you with an expression that said everything she was choosing not to say out loud.

"Don't," you said.

"I'm not saying anything," she said.

"You have a face."

"I have my normal face."

"Olivia."

"I'm just glad," she said simply, and went back to whatever she was doing, and you sat with that for a moment and found that you were too.

Logan was also, three months in, still thinking about the check.

Not constantly. Not the way he had in the beginning, when it had surfaced at inconvenient moments, the first dinner, the first time you laughed at something he said, the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder watching something neither of you were paying attention to. Those early weeks it had been a persistent background noise, a low-level static of something he should have said and hadn't.

But the weeks had passed and the static had gotten quieter, the way noise does when you choose not to listen to it long enough. He had paid his rent. He had replaced the equipment. He had told himself, again and again, that he had been going to ask you out anyway, that the money had been incidental, that what they had built in the three months since was real regardless of how it started.

All of that was true.

The part that was also true, the part he didn't let himself look at too directly, was that you didn't know. And not knowing was its own kind of thing, a thing that existed in the space between you without you being aware of it, that he was aware of every time you said something honest to him, every time you looked at him the way you looked at him.

He had meant to tell you. In the beginning. There had been a window, early on, when it would have been a small thing — by the way, Dean made a bet, it's a whole thing, I was going to ask you anyway—. He had rehearsed it. He had not said it. The window had closed, and then it had been a week, and then a month, and then three months, and now saying it felt like dropping something large into a quiet room.

So he didn't say it.

He told himself it didn't matter because it hadn't changed anything real.

He was getting better at believing that.

It was a Saturday afternoon in February, the specific grey-white quality of a winter afternoon that had given up pretending it was going to improve, and you were in Logan's room doing nothing in particular.

This had become one of your favorite things — the doing nothing in particular. You had a tendency, left to your own devices, to fill time with productivity, with scheduled content and edited footage and the general sense that unoccupied time was time being wasted. Logan had, over three months, introduced you to the concept of lying on a bed on a Saturday afternoon and simply existing, which you had resisted and then accepted and now found genuinely necessary.

He was on his back, one arm behind his head, reading something on his phone. You were beside him, legs tangled, working your way through a Cosmopolitan from 2003 that you had found at the thrift store the previous weekend when you had gone with Allie. It had a younger Jennifer Lopez on the cover and approximately forty pages of advertisements for perfumes that no longer existed, and you had bought it for fifty cents because something about it felt like an artifact.

"Listen to this," you said.

"Mm."

"It's a quiz." You held up the magazine. "Is your relationship ready for the next level? I feel like we should take it."

"I feel like that magazine is older than some of our teammates."

"That's what makes it valuable." You turned back to the page. "Okay. Question one. When you picture your future, does your partner feature prominently? Options are: always, sometimes, or only when I'm feeling optimistic."

"Always," Logan said, without looking up from his phone.

You looked at him sideways. He was still reading, expression neutral, like he had answered a question about the weather.

"Okay," you said, and looked back at the magazine, and did not make anything of it, because making something of it would have required acknowledging that it had landed somewhere specific and stayed there.

You worked through several more questions — about communication, about conflict, about shared values — Logan answering in the same unhurried, matter-of-fact way, like the answers had already been decided and he was simply reporting them.

And then you got to the last one.

"Okay, last question." You shifted onto your side to face him. "If your partner made a serious mistake — something that hurt you — what would it take to make things right? Option A: a heartfelt conversation and genuine apology. Option B: time, space, and proof of change. Option C —" you paused, because option C was very 2003 "— a grand romantic gesture. Flowers, candlelight, the whole thing."

You said it like it was funny. You said it with the lightness of someone reading from an old magazine on a Saturday afternoon.

Logan put his phone down.

He looked at the ceiling for a moment. Then he turned his head and looked at you with an expression that was doing something complicated underneath the surface.

"What would you pick?" he said.

You considered it. "Honestly? C, but private. Like not in front of everyone. Just — showing up. With flowers, or peonies, they are my favorite. And meaning it." You paused. "The meaning it is the important part."

Logan looked at the ceiling again.

"Many flowers," he said. His voice was even. Carefully even.

"Like an unreasonable amount," you said. "Like someone made a decision about it."

"Right," he said.

He was quiet for a moment. You looked at him — at the careful evenness of his expression, the specific stillness of someone sitting with something — and almost asked what he was thinking about.

Then he turned back to you with the warm unhurried expression you knew, and kissed your temple.

"Good to know," he said.

You looked back at the magazine. Jennifer Lopez looked back at you, unbothered.

You did not know, lying there on a grey February Saturday, that you had just handed him the exact shape of something he was going to need.

Logan knew.

He stared at the ceiling after you looked away and thought about a check written on the back of a receipt and a conversation in a locker room and the specific, settling weight of something that had been waiting a long time to be said.

Too many flowers, he thought. Private. Meaning it.

He closed his eyes.

I have to tell her, he thought.

He did not tell her.

Allie had not been looking for information.

She had been in the kitchen at the off campus house on a Wednesday evening, waiting for Dean to finish getting ready so they could go to dinner, scrolling through her phone with the patience of someone accustomed to waiting for Dean to finish getting ready. She was not listening. She was not paying attention to anything except the particular injustice of being told seven-fifteen and it being seven-thirty-two.

And then Dean's phone rang on the counter.

She glanced at it automatically. Logan.

Dean came out of the bathroom still pulling on his jacket and picked it up. "Hey. What's up."

Allie went back to her phone.

"What do you mean you need to tell her." Dean's voice had shifted into something lower, more careful. "What's — Logan. Logan, have you not told her yet?"

Allie looked up.

Dean had his back to her, one hand pressed to the counter, the specific posture of someone having a conversation they hadn't prepared for. "It's been three months, man. How have you — okay. Okay, calm down. Just — tell me what happened."

A pause. Dean listening.

"So tell her," Dean said. "Just — tonight. Call her and tell her. It's been long enough, she'll —" another pause "— Logan, I know it's not going to be easy but you can't just — yes I know you actually love her, that's not the — okay, listen —"

Allie set her phone down on the counter very carefully.

"What," she said.

Dean turned around.

The expression on his face moved through several things in quick succession — surprise, recalibration, and then the specific, flattening look of someone who understood exactly what had just happened.

"Allie —"

"What did you do," she said. Not a question.

Dean lowered his phone slowly. On the other end Logan was saying something, unaware.

"Dean." Her voice was very even. "What did you do."

He told her.

He told her all of it — the bet, the thousand dollars, the locker room — and Allie stood in the kitchen and listened with the stillness of someone who was getting progressively more furious in a way that had not yet found its exit.

When he finished she said nothing for a moment.

"She's my friend," she said finally.

"I know —"

"She is my friend and you let her date him for three months without telling her."

"It wasn't supposed to —"

"Dean." She picked up her keys from the counter. "Do not follow me."

"Allie, please just —"

"I have to tell her," she said. "She's my friend. I'm not going to —"

"Please," Dean said, and his voice had lost all its usual confidence, stripped down to something that was just — asking. "Please just give me a chance to fix it. I'll tell Logan to tell her tonight. Just give me —"

"You had your chance to fix it three months ago," Allie said. "And two months ago. And last month." She looked at him for a long moment. "I love you. And you did something really wrong. And she needs to know."

She left.

Dean stood in the kitchen alone and listened to Logan's voice still coming from the phone in his hand.

He put the phone to his ear.

"She already knows," he said.

You were in your aparment when Allie knocked.

She told you everything standing in your doorway, quickly and directly, the way Allie did things — no preamble, no softening, just the facts arranged in order. The bet. The thousand dollars. The locker room. Three months.

You stood very still while she talked.

When she finished you said nothing for a long moment.

"Get your keys," you said.

"(Y/N) —"

"Get your keys, Allie."

The drive to the off campus house took four minutes. You did not speak. Allie drove and you looked at the road ahead and felt cold clarity of someone who had moved past the part where things hurt and into the part where they simply had to be dealt with.

The lights were on when you pulled up. Of course they were.

You didn't knock.

You walked in and Logan was already in the hallway, like he had heard the car, like some part of him had known — and the expression on his face when he saw you was the expression of someone who had been waiting for this and was still not ready for it.

Dean was behind him. Tucker and Garrett further back, in the doorway of the living room, with the expressions of people who understood the room and had decided to stay very still.

"Hey —" Logan started.

"Did you take a bet," you said, "to ask me out."

The hallway was very quiet.

"Yes," Logan said.

The word landed.

"How much," you said.

"A thousand dollars."

You looked at him. This person. This person whose coffee order you knew, whose preemptive apologies you had found endearing, whose smile you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.

"You had to be paid," you said. Your voice was very quiet. "Someone had to pay you. To ask me out."

"It wasn't —"

"A thousand dollars," you said. "That's what it cost. That's what asking me out was worth to you. A thousand dollars and someone else's idea."

"That's not —"

"I told you I loved you." The words came out steadier than you expected. "Three weeks ago. In your room. I told you I loved you and you said it back and the whole time —" you stopped. Started again. "The whole time there was a check. There was a check and you knew and you said it back anyway."

"I meant it," Logan said. "I mean it. I love you, that has nothing to do with —"

"It has everything to do with it." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "Because maybe you do. Maybe you actually do love me. But I will never know that now. Do you understand that? I will never know which part was real and which part was a thousand dollars because you didn't tell me. You had three months to tell me and you didn't."

"I was going to —"

"When?" you said. "When were you going to tell me? After another month? After a year? Were you ever actually going to tell me or were you just going to keep it and hope I never found out?"

He said nothing.

"That's what I thought," you said.

You turned to Dean.

Dean was standing very still with an expression that had none of his usual ease in it, stripped down, uncomfortable, genuinely ashamed in a way that you recognized as real and that made it worse rather than better.

"I thought you were my friend," you said. Your voice was different now, not cold, something more broken than cold. "I thought — you were supposed to be my friend. I told you things. I told you how I felt about him and you used it. You turned it into a transaction and then you watched me fall in love with him and you said nothing."

"I know," Dean said. His voice was very quiet. "I know."

"I taught you how to use the camera," you said, which was not what you meant to say but came out anyway, and somehow it was the most honest thing — the small specific intimacy of it, the way you had shown him the angles and the settings and he had been genuinely interested and you had thought this is what a friend looks like. "I showed you everything. I thought you were —"

"I was," Dean said. "I am. I'm so sorry."

"Don't." You picked up your bag. "Don't apologize right now. I can't — I need you to not talk to me right now."

You looked at Logan one more time. He was standing in the hallway with his hands at his sides and the open, devastated expression of someone who had run out of words and knew it.

"Please," he said. Just that. Just the word, quiet and without any of the composure he usually wore like a second skin.

"I have to go," you said.

"Please just let me —"

"Logan." Your voice broke on his name, just slightly, and you steadied it. "I have to go."

You walked to the door. Behind you you heard him take a step.

You opened the door.

"You two fucking suck," you said, to the hallway, to both of them, to the three months of Tuesday practices and bus rides and magazine quizzes and I love you said and meant and received by someone who was keeping a check in his jacket pocket the whole time. "Never talk to me again."

You walked out.

Allie was waiting by the car. She took one look at your face and said nothing, just unlocked the doors, and you got in, and she drove, and the campus moved past the windows dark and quiet and entirely indifferent.

You did not cry until you got back to your aparment.

And then you did, for a while, with Olivia sitting beside you saying nothing because there was nothing to say, just being there the way people who actually loved you were there when things went wrong.

You had to be paid, you thought, in the dark.

A thousand dollars.

The house was very quiet after you left.

Tucker and Garrett had retreated to the living room. Nobody was saying anything.

Dean sat on the bottom step of the stairs and put his head in his hands.

Logan stood in the hallway where you had left him and looked at the closed door and thought about everything — the check, the locker room, the first dinner, the magazine quiz on a grey February Saturday, too many flowers, private, meaning it — and underneath all of it, constant and quiet, the thing he had known for three months and had managed to convince himself didn't matter:

You had deserved to know.

You had deserved to know from the beginning and he had chosen not to tell you and you stood in his hallway and said I will never know which part was real and he had had no answer because there was no answer that fixed that.

Garrett appeared in the doorway of the living room. He looked at Logan for a long moment.

"I told you not to," he said. Not unkindly. Just said.

"I know," Logan said.

"From the beginning. I told you."

"I know, Garrett."

Garrett looked at him for another moment. Then he went back to the living room without saying anything else, which was somehow the most devastating response available.

Logan sat down on the floor of the hallway with his back against the wall and stared at nothing.

I have to fix this, he thought.

He had absolutely no idea how.

The email to the athletics department went out the following morning.

It was professional and brief — you cited personal reasons, thanked them for the opportunity, offered to train your replacement, gave two weeks notice. You sent it before you could think about it too hard, before the part of you that loved the job could talk the other part out of it.

You were not going to sit in that rink anymore. You were not going to film those practices or those games or stand in that corridor outside the locker room with your tripod and your equipment bag and pretend that everything was the same as it had been before.

Your phone had messages from Logan and Dean by noon. You read none of them.

The football team's social media coordinator reached back out by the end of the day.

You started the following Monday.

The football team was different from the hockey team in ways that were both obvious and unexpected. Louder, in some ways. Different rhythms, different energy. The guys were nice and the work was interesting and you were good at it, because you were good at this, that had never been in question.

You were fine.

You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it.

Allie texted. Garrett texted — I'm sorry, for what it's worth I told him not to — which you appreciated more than you could say. Tucker sent a single text that just said I tried to talk him out of it and you believed him and told him so.

You did not respond to Logan.

Logan's days had a new shape to them and he hated it.

Practice was the same, same drills, same ice, same team, but the stands were wrong. The spot where you always sat, third row back on the left side, was empty now, and he knew it was empty without lookin. He looked anyway. Every practice, every morning skate, every film session, he looked, and the spot was empty, and he looked away.

Logan texted you every three days. Not long messages, just checking in, just your name sometimes, just I know you don't want to hear from me right now but I'm sorry. He did not expect responses. He sent them anyway because not sending them felt worse.

He watched your football content. Every post, every reel, every behind-the-scenes clip. He watched the way you filmed the new team — the same eye, the same instinct for the right moment, the same ability to make something look like something worth watching — and felt the specific, particular ache of someone who understood what they had lost because they had been paying attention to it the whole time.

He had always been paying attention.

That was the thing that made it so much worse.

Three weeks after you left, the hockey team got a new social media person.

Her name was Jade. She was a sophomore, enthusiastic, slightly overwhelmed, and she had asked you to walk her through the setup on a Tuesday morning when the team had a late practice, which meant you were in the rink, with your old equipment, showing someone else how to use the angles you had spent seven months learning, when the team came off the ice.

You had not planned for this. You had assumed they would be gone by the time you were done.

They were not gone.

You heard them before you saw them, he familiar noise of the team coming out of the locker room corridor and then Tucker saw you first and stopped walking so abruptly that Garrett walked into him.

"What —" Garrett looked up. Saw you. His expression did something complicated.

The rest of the team filtered out around them, and then Dean, and then Logan, and the corridor went through a specific collective recalibration.

You kept your face completely neutral. "Hey," you said, to the general group. "This is Jade. She's taking over the social media. I'm just showing her the setup."

Jade waved cheerfully, unaware of the atmospheric pressure of the corridor.

"Taking over?" Tucker said slowly.

"Yes," you said. "I moved to football." You said it simply, like it was information and not anything else. "Jade is great, she's going to do a really good job."

The team was looking at you with various expressions. Tucker looked pained. Garrett looked like he was doing math.

Dean was looking at the floor.

Logan was looking at you with the expression of someone watching something leave that they had already lost and were only now understanding the full shape of. You could feel it without looking directly at him. You had spent seven months learning the specific weight of his attention.

"You're actually leaving," Tucker said. "Like permanently."

"I already left," you said. "This is just the handover."

"But —" Tucker started.

"Tuck," you said, gently. "It's fine. Jade is great."

Jade smiled again.

"We kind of made you leave," Tucker said, in the specific tone of someone who had been holding something for three weeks and had finally said it out loud.

"Tucker —"

"No, like —" he stopped. Looked at Dean. Looked at Logan. Looked back at you. "We made you leave. That's what happened. And I just — I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say but I'm sorry."

The corridor was very quiet.

"You didn't make me leave," you said carefully. "You tried to talk him out of it. I know that."

Tucker nodded. Still pained.

"Right," Garrett said finally, in the tone of someone deciding to be graceful about something painful. "Good luck with football."

"Thanks," you said.

You turned back to Jade and kept going with the walkthrough, and the team filed past, and you did not look at Logan as he walked by even though you could feel him slowing down, even though you could feel him wanting to say something.

"Hey," Logan said. Very quietly. Just that.

You kept your eyes on the camera settings you were showing Jade.

He stood there for a moment. Then his footsteps continued down the corridor.

You exhaled very quietly and kept talking to Jade about angles.

Behind you, fading, you heard Dean say something low and urgent to Logan that you couldn't make out. And Logan's response, quieter still:

"I know."

Logan started showing up.

Not to you, he respected the never talk to me again enough not to push himself into your space. But he started showing up in the ways that were available to him.

He fixed the tripod mount in the storage room that had been broken since October — the one you had mentioned once, months ago, in passing, because it made the camera angle slightly off and you had learned to compensate for it. He left a note on it that said finally fixed it. sorry it took so long. No signature. He didn't need one.

He started showing up to the football team's games.

Not every game. Not in a way that was dramatic or obvious. Just there, in the stands, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that if the mountain wouldn't come to him he would go to the mountain and sit in the stands and watch from a respectful distance.

Olivia told you the second time it happened.

"He was there again," she said carefully.

You said nothing.

"He's not doing anything," she said. "He's just — there. Watching."

You said nothing.

"I thought you should know," she said.

You knew.

You knew because you had clocked him the first time — third row back, left side,— and you had kept filming and not said anything and thought about it for three days.

He texted you after the third game.

logan: you got a good shot of the QB in the third quarter. the one right before the play call. it was good.

You stared at the message for a long time.

yn: how would you know

logan: i was there

A long pause.

logan: i'll keep coming if that's okay. i won't bother you. i just want to be there.

You put your phone down.

You picked it up.

yn: it's okay

Dean did not sleep the night you found out.

He lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about the specific expression on your face when you said I thought you were my friend — not angry, which would have been easier, but broken, which was not easier at all.

At four in the morning he picked up his phone.

dean: allie

allie: i'm awake

dean: i know i really messed up

allie: yes

dean: i don't know how to fix it

A long pause.

allie: you start by not trying to fix it. you start by just being sorry.

dean: i am

allie: i know. she needs to hear it from you. not a text. not through anyone else. you.

dean: she said never talk to her again

allie: i know what she said. give her time. and then go.

Dean put his phone down.

He stared at the ceiling until it got light outside.

You took your own sweet time.

Not to feel better, you were not operating under the illusion that time fixed everything, but to feel what you needed to feel without an audience. You went to classes. You went to work. You filmed the football team's Tuesday practice and focused on the angles and the light and the professional satisfaction of a job done well, and you did not think about hockey, and you did not look at your phone when certain names appeared on the screen, and you let Olivia bring you food and watch bad television with you without making you talk about it.

On the fourteenth day Dean was waiting outside your lecture hall.

He looked terrible. Not dramatically terrible — Dean was constitutionally incapable of looking terrible — but tired.

You stopped when you saw him.

He held up both hands. "I'm not here to make excuses," he said. "I know you said never talk to me again. I know. I just — five minutes. And then I'll go and I won't bother you again if that's what you want."

You looked at him for a long moment.

You stepped to the side of the path, out of the flow of people. He followed.

"Say what you have to say," you said.

Dean looked at you with the expression you had never seen on him before, no performance, no charm deployed at the right moment, nothing managed. Just a person who had done something wrong and knew it and was standing in front of the person he had done it to.

"I've never had a friend like you before," he said. "Like — actually. I have guy friends. I have girls I've hooked up, almost dated or whatever. But I've never had a girl who was just — a friend. Who I talked to and who talked to me and who I could be around without it being anything else." He paused. "And I took that and I made it into a scheme. And I told myself I was helping and maybe part of me was but part of me just — didn't think far enough ahead. Didn't think about what it would mean to you if you found out. Didn't think about you at all, honestly, which is the thing I'm most sorry about." He held your gaze. "I thought about Logan being in love with you and I thought about the bet being clever and I didn't think about you being a person who deserved to know the truth. And I should have. You should have been the first thing I thought about."

The path had mostly emptied. A bird somewhere was doing something aggressively cheerful.

"I miss my friend," Dean said. "I know I don't get to just say that. I know. I just needed you to know that it's real. You are actually my friend and I actually miss you and I'm actually sorry, not sorry like I feel bad, sorry like I understand what I did."

You looked at him.

You thought about the bus and his head on your shoulder and on the team, I meant and the way he had looked genuinely wounded when you said Tucker was probably your better friend on the team.

"It's going to take time," you said finally.

Something in his expression shifted — careful, not quite hope yet.

"I know," he said.

"You don't get to just be normal yet. We have to rebuild that."

"I know."

"And you have to actually be different," you said. "Not just sorry. Different."

"I will be," he said. "I already am. Or I'm trying to be." He paused. "Is that enough to start with?"

You looked at him for a long moment.

"It's enough to start with," you said.

The careful-not-quite-hope became something more than that.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Don't thank me yet," you said. "We have a long way to go."

"I know," he said. "I'll go as slow as you need."

You looked at the path ahead.

"I have class," you said.

"I know. Go."

You went.

It was a start.

Logan was harder.

Not because you were angrier at him — you were, if you were being honest, angry at both of them in equal measure, just differently. Dean had betrayed a friendship. Logan had betrayed something larger, something that had your name on it, something you had handed him on a grey February Saturday when you said I love you and meant it with everything you had.

You saw him at the football games. Third row back, left side, every time. Not looking at you directly, just there, present, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that showing up was the only thing available to him and had committed to it without reservation.

He sent you a text after every game. Not about him, not about them, about your work. Good shot in the second half. The one where you caught the receiver right before the snap. The slow motion reel you posted was really good. The timing was perfect. Small specific things that said I was paying attention without saying anything else.

You read them all.

You responded to some of them.

Small things. Thanks. I almost didn't post that one. Nothing that opened a door, just acknowledgment. The acknowledgment of someone who was not ready and was not pretending to be and was also not entirely gone.

He was not pushing. That was the thing you noticed most. He had shown up to three football games and fixed a broken tripod mount and sent careful specific texts about your work and he had not once asked for anything in return. Had not once said I think we should talk or please give me a chance or any of the things that would have made it easier to keep the door closed.

He was just — there.

Being different.

The grand gesture arrived on a Thursday, five weeks after the fight.

You were in the football team's equipment room going through footage on your laptop when someone knocked on the door. One of the managers looked in.

"There's someone outside asking for you," he said, with the specific expression of someone who had seen something and found it notable.

You went outside.

The path outside the athletics building was where you found him — Logan, in the cold, with flowers. Not a bunch. Not a normal amount. An amount that represented a decision — sunflowers and peonies and something small and white, wrapped loosely in paper, assembled with the specific intention of being too many, more than one person could reasonably carry, held in both arms with the careful energy of someone who had thought about this and decided it was not enough and added more anyway.

You looked at the flowers. You looked at him.

He looked tired in the same way he had looked tired since the night you left — not dramatic, not performing it, just genuinely worn down in the way of someone who had been carrying something for five weeks without putting it down.

"You said private," he said. "Too many flowers. Someone made a decision." He paused. "I made a decision."

Your throat did something inconvenient.

"Logan —"

"I'm not asking you to forgive me today," he said. "I just you said meaning it was the important part. And I needed you to see that I mean it. That's all. I'm not asking for anything."

You looked at the flowers. Peonies. He had gotten peonies specifically.

"You remembered the peonies," you said.

"You mentioned them once," he said. "A long time ago."

"You were paying attention," you said.

"I was always paying attention," he said quietly. "That was never the problem."

You stood there in the cold outside the athletics building and thought about I will never know which part was real and the third row left side and the texts about your work and five weeks of him being different without being asked to prove it.

"This isn't enough," you said.

Something flickered in his expression.

"I know," he said.

"I need more than flowers."

"I know," he said again, steadily. "Tell me what you need. Whatever it is. I'll do it."

You looked at him for a long moment.

"I need time," you said. "Real time. Not rushing. Not us going back to how things were because it was comfortable and we missed each other. Actually starting over and doing it right."

"Okay," he said.

"I need you to keep showing up," you said. "Not just when it's easy. When it's hard and uncertain and you don't know if it's working. You keep showing up anyway."

"I will," he said.

"And I need you to understand that I might get angry again," you said. "Even after I've forgiven you. It might come back and I might need to say something and you have to let me say it without shutting down."

"I will," he said. "I'll listen. Every time."

You looked at him.

"The texts," you said. "About my work."

"Yeah."

"You were at every game."

"Yeah."

"Third row back. Left side."

He looked at you quietly.

"I know," you said. "I noticed."

Something in his expression shifted.

"I was always going to ask you out," he said. "I need you to know that. Not as an excuse. Just as a true thing. The money didn't change what I felt. It just — it gave me a reason I shouldn't have needed and I took it and I'm sorry. But what happened between us was real. Every single part of it was real."

"I know," you said, which surprised you slightly, because you hadn't known you knew until you said it. "I know it was real. That's what made it hurt so much."

He nodded.

"Give me the peonies," you said.

He carefully extracted the peonies from the arrangement and held them out. You took them.

"The rest you can take home," you said.

"Okay."

"And Logan —" you paused. "The showing up. Don't stop."

Something broke open in his expression — not dramatically, not loudly, just quietly and completely, the expression of someone who had been holding something for five weeks and had finally been given a place to put it down.

"I won't," he said. "I promise."

You looked at him for one more moment.

"Slow," you said.

"As slow as you need," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

You went back inside.

You stood in the equipment room with the peonies and thought about everything — the check and the bet and the fight and five weeks of third row left side and too many flowers on a Thursday afternoon in the cold.

You were not okay yet.

But you were standing with peonies, which was somewhere.

It was enough to start with.

The getting back together did not happen all at once.

It happened the way the crush had happened — gradually, against nobody's will this time, the way things did when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right conditions.

The first time you went back to the rink it was not for work.

It was a Saturday game, mid-March, the kind that mattered for standings, and you had told yourself you were going because Allie and Hannah were going and Olivia was going and it was a group thing and had nothing to do with anything else.

You brought your camera.

Not the work camera your personal one, the smaller one you used when you were filming for yourself rather than for a content schedule. You told yourself it was habit. You told yourself you just liked having it.

You sat third row left side.

The thing about watching hockey when you actually knew what you were looking at was that it was a completely different experience from watching hockey when you were just there for the atmosphere. You knew the plays. You knew the patterns. You knew which moments were about to become something before they became something, the specific pre-motion stillness that preceded a good play, the way certain players telegraphed their intentions without knowing they were doing it.

You knew Logan's tells better than anyone.

Which was why you had your camera up and ready when he got the puck in the second period the slight shift of his weight, the way his head came up a half second before anyone else's, and then the play unfolding exactly the way you had known it would, clean and fast and entirely worth watching.

You got the shot.

Forty-three seconds of it, actually.

You lowered the camera and looked at what you had captured and felt something settle in your chest that was warm and quiet and entirely familiar.

Genuinely cinematic, you thought, and smiled at the ice.

Briar won.

The team filtered out of the locker room in the usual way in ones and twos, loud and post-game, spilling into the corridor where the usual group had gathered. Allie found Dean. Hannah found Garrett. Tucker found someone to complain to about a call in the third period.

You were reviewing footage on your camera when you felt someone stop beside you.

You looked up.

Logan was still in half his gear, hair damp, and he was looking at you with the expression you had forty-seven saved clips of — the real one, the one that had nothing managed about it — except that now you were allowed to look at it directly, which was still something you were getting used to.

"You came," he said.

"I came," you confirmed.

"You brought your camera."

"I brought my camera."

He looked at it. He looked at you. "Did you get anything good?"

You turned the camera around and hit play. The second period play unfolded on the small screen — the weight shift, the half second of stillness, the clean fast movement of something that knew exactly where it was going.

Forty-three seconds of it.

Logan watched it. Something in his expression went soft in the specific way it did when he was actually feeling something and had decided not to manage it.

"That's —" he started.

"Genuinely cinematic," you said.

He looked at you.

You looked back at him.

And then he kissed you right there in the corridor.

It was warm and certain and tasted like relief of something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.

When you pulled back he was smiling the real one, the one you had been filming without quite admitting why for seven months.

"So," he said.

"Yeah," you said. "We're back together." You pointed at him. "Don't fuck up."

Logan laughed a real one, surprised and warm, the kind that carried down the corridor and made Tucker laugh too without knowing why.

"I won't," he said.

"I mean it."

"I know you mean it."

"Good." You tucked your camera back into your bag. "Buy me food. I've been at a hockey game for two hours and I'm starving."

"Done," he said immediately.

You started walking and everything was different from before, which was the whole point, which was exactly what you had asked for.

Better. Not the same. Better.

Behind you, fading, you heard Tucker say something to Garrett.

"Called it," Tucker said.

"You called nothing," Garrett said.

"I said they'd get back together —"

"You said that last week —"

"Which was a call —"

"Tucker —"

You and Logan kept walking.

"Do they ever stop?" you said.

"No," Logan said.

"Good," you said. "I missed it."

He looked at you sideways. That expression.

It was a messy jumble of words, ink stains obvious on the fading paper, the emotions spilling out before you could even register what you were writing. All you knew was that you needed the whole thing out of your system and onto the only thing you knew what to do and that was to write. 

Before you could stop, or be smart about it, everything was poured on the paper. Lengthy, descriptive, and full of the things you wanted to say, and things you know you can’t say, because even at that age, you knew that liking John Logan was a beautiful terrible idea. 

Because he was your best friend. And you aren’t supposed to like your best friend. At least, in your head. Who are you to ruin the friendship, you know?

You remember folding it in half. Then again, then for a third time, like you were trying to make it as small as possible. Like diminishing it physically would diminish what the words on the paper meant. 

You'd been looking for somewhere to put it. The trash felt too final, too much like admitting it had existed, and you were halfway on just stuffing it under your pillow  when you'd found the box. Your grandmother's, handed down at the end of summer with a kiss on your forehead and the words for letters you mean to send someday. Wooden, old-smelling, with a brass latch that stuck a little if you didn't press it just right.

You'd tucked the letter in and shut the latch.

That was the beginning of it.

-

It had been a random tuesday, back in junior year of high school.

John – he had always been John to you before he became Logan – had after school hockey practice. You'd been draped over the boards for the past ten minutes, watching from the bleachers the way you always did when you had nowhere better to be, which was most days— something you'd never quite admitted to yourself until recently. Because the walk home was shorter from this direction. You had a whole catalogue of reasons, and not one of them was true.

John had been the last one off the ice.

That in itself was not unusual. John Logan was always the last one off the ice. The coach was nice enough to lend him that extra time, considering that he had always been the kid that loved hockey more than anything else. 

And you would always wait in the bleachers. Sometimes on your phone, most times watching him as he skated. You count the amount of times he circled it, especially when you felt bored but didn’t have the strength to look away. Because something about him was magnetic to you. You wondered what it was, every time you stay that extra ten minutes in the rink.

Then after his usual rounds (at most, seven rounds), he looked up, and caught your gaze.

John grinned. The stupid, lopsided grin that suddenly made your heart skip. Then he skated all the way over to the boards, where you were, and leaned on them as he grinned. His helmet was tucked under his arm, hair damp at the temples, “You just got here?”

“Yep. Passed by after practice.” You tried to keep your tone as casual as possible, like the sight of him didn't make your heart skip. 

“You really didn’t have to come by, you know. It’s late.”

“I wanted to.” You smiled. You didn’t say anything else as follow up. Because adding something else after that would mean that you were admitting something that you weren’t ready to admit. And you would have to explain everything else that you didn’t name yet.

He looked at you for a second, searching for something in your face, and then he looked down and smiled again. It was softer this time, private, the one that felt like it wasn't for anyone else, the one he wore when something surprised him in a way he found pleasant, and tilted his head. 

"Sure. Thanks for that.”

You just shrugged.

John nods over at the locker rooms. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll get you hot chocolate at the cafe nearby.”

You huffed, lips curling in amusement. “There? Really? Last time we went there, you said you didn't like the hot chocolate they made.” 

John just grinned at you. “Yeah. But you like it.” 

He skated away after that. Like those words didn’t make you freeze, your eyes trailing after him, heart stuttering and your brain finally naming that warmth that spread on your cheeks. 

And that was it. That was the whole thing. That was the moment that broke you open.

You'd gone home that day and picked up the closest paper and pen, and the words just started coming, because they didn't have anywhere else to go. You wrote about how his smile was the most disarming thing he could have. You wrote about the way he'd leaned on the boards and looked at you like looking at you was just a natural extension of breathing. You wrote about how his curls fell perfectly on his face.

You wrote about how the hot chocolate from the machine in the convenience store nearby had been terrible, watery and too sweet for him, and even when you told him he didn't have to drink it, he'd laughed and drank it anyway and said that it was fine with all the cheerfulness of someone who genuinely didn't mind, and how that had somehow made everything worse.

You wrote, hesitantly, but filled with everything in your chest— I like him. 

You folded the paper into thirds, tucked it into your grandmother's box, and pressed the brass latch shut.

You didn't open the box for three weeks after that. Not because you were over it, but because you were hoping, very determinedly, that if you didn't look at it, the feeling would dissolve on its own.

It didn't.

-

The letters accumulated the way all things do when you are trying not to notice them: gradually, and then all at once. 

By the end of junior year, there were ten. By senior year of high school, fifteen.

They were not all long. Some were barely a paragraph, dashed out on notebook paper in the middle of class when something happened that you had no one to tell except him, which was the problem, because he was the person that you would usually go to about these things… so you tell the paper instead.

Junior year, you wrote about how naturally John seemed to do things for you. Carrying your bag, buying things in the cafeteria when you didn't want to get up from the bench. But at the same time, it was always the question if he liked you, or if he was being nice

You remembered I hate raisins in things. You picked them out of the muffin before you gave it to me. You've been doing that since seventh grade and I only just noticed today that it's something you do on purpose.

Jealousy would often seep into your letters, as well. Because you knew he was well liked. That John had a future of having girls that would throw themselves at him, and he would always entertain it with his smile and pretty curls and— 

— but you act like I’m special, and that they don't matter. But I don't have the right to even stop them from liking you, so all I could do is watch and wish that you would instead look at me.

You kept those folded five times. 

--

Senior year, anger would sometimes seep into them.

I should tell you. I should tell you that I lie in bed until 3 am wondering if anything would happen between us. I should— but you are so unfair. You act like you care, and then I'm left hanging again. I still have your jacket. That stupid, gray jacket that you gave me. The damn gray jacket that was your favorite and you don't let anyone wear but you handed it to me when I was cold. And at the same time, you turned and smiled at Kaia like she mattered and. I hate that I like you and I hate that it feels like you do too— but then you turn around and act like you don't.

Some were the soft, bewildered variety, written in the margins of homework you’d never turn in, about something small he'd done that shouldn't have meant as much as it did.

You know how everyone else talks over me when I'm telling a story and moves on before I'm done? You always wait. You just… wait. You wait until I'm finished, and then you respond to what I actually said, not what you were going to say next. I don't know if you know you do that. I don't know how to tell you that it matters.

When you both got into Briar University, John on a hockey scholarship, you on a Merit Scholarship— you celebrated together in the parking lot of the ice rink, his arms around you, lifting you a full two inches off the ground, and you laughed and said “John, put me down!” even if you knew that deep down, you didn’t mean any of it, wanting him to keep his arms around you longer. 

You'd gone home that night and written four pages.

I keep telling myself I'm not following you. And I'm not. I worked for this, I studied late into the night and doubled my efforts whenever I would fail because I wanted Briar before you got in.  But some part of me is terrified that the reason I want it so badly is mixed up with the reason you're going, and I can't separate them cleanly, and that scares me.  What if I didn't want Briar so much as I wanted to be wherever you were going to be? What does that mean? What am I supposed to do with that? I don't have an answer. I'm going to go to sleep. I'm going to not think about it. I'm going to go to Briar, even if I can't solidify why I am.

You went to Briar.

You don’t address it after the long four page letter, and somewhere between orientation week and prelims, the box had gone from a strange habit to a necessity, a pressure valve that kept everything from building to critical mass.

You'd gotten good at it. At the translation of feeling into ink, at the sealing away of things that had no business existing in the open air. The box lived under your bed, behind your extra blankets and a stack of Intro to Lit anthologies you kept meaning to donate. The latch, temperamental from the start, had gotten worse with age. 

You'd meant to fix it.

You kept meaning to do a lot of things.

The letters still ranged from two lines to four pages, even when you entered Freshman Year in Briar. They still kept the same amount of yearning and thoughts you would never find the courage to say, or even send to Logan– and soon after, you started signing them too.

John – or maybe Logan?  You started being called Logan after you teamed up with Tucker and the rest. So maybe I should change it up to. Adapt and change, you know. Though it would be weird to start calling you by your last name.  – With love, and judgement.

You tried to call him Logan. He looked at you then with such offense that you back tracked and went back to calling him John. He said it made him feel better. Special, because John was a name only you could use. 

You wrote another letter that night, trying to reason out the butterflies and the implications of what he meant. Because rationalizing it away makes it easier than admitting it out loud.

They kept piling up. Letter after letter.

This sucks. You remembered my coffee order even after I changed it three times in two months. I can’t blame you for how well you treat me. It’s just how you are.  I should just stop putting meaning into things, but the other part of me just wants to believe that maybe it did mean something. UGH. John Logan you fucking suck. I hope you trip on the ice during practice. Actually, no. That was a joke. Maybe. – With love.

You called the longest ones your pathetic, yearning lovergirl letters. Late-night things, written when the distance between what you felt and what you were allowed to say felt too wide to sleep across. Those ones you sometimes read back in the morning with a kind of horrified tenderness, like finding a diary from a younger self. 

They were overwrought. 

They were honest in ways you couldn't quite access in daylight.

John, I've been thinking about the thing you said last week, that you don't know what you'd do without me. You said it so easily. Like it was just true, just a fact of your life, the way you'd say it's cold out or practice got cancelled. I don't know what to do with that. I've been turning it over and over in my head trying to figure out what it means and I think the honest answer is that it means exactly what it sounds like and nothing more and I need to learn to be okay with that. I'm working on it. – With love. P.S. You should stop handing me your hoodies when I get cold and letting me keep them. It messes with me and my late night 3 am delusional thoughts.

John, You have this thing you do when you're listening to someone — you get very still. Most people, when they listen, they nod, they mm-hm, they start formulating their response and you can see the moment they stop actually hearing you. You don't do that. You just go still and you look at the person and you listen, like it costs you nothing, like you have all the time in the world. I don't think you realize you do it. I don't think you realize what it does to people. What it does to me. I'm going to stop writing now. Before I start turning into the 3 am yearner I was last night. Again. — With love.

By freshman year of college, there were thirty letters.

Sophomore year is when it all cracked.

Classes started to weigh on you in a way freshman year hadn't warned you about. Rehearsals that ran until midnight, choreography notes bleeding red ink across marked-up scores, tech week for the department showcase bleeding into finals week, the constant ache in your calves and the tape on your feet that never seemed to come off in time — a dance major was not a degree that let up, and you were running harder than you ever had, barely sleeping, more often than not with Logan being the one thing keeping you sane, showing up with food you hadn't asked for and quiet company at your desk — or in the studio doorway — at midnight, watching you run the same eight counts until your body finally understood what your brain already knew. 

And then there was the puck bunny thing.

You didn't have the right to say anything about it, not really. You understood why. John Logan was hot. He was charming, easy to talk to, easy to fall for — and there was always a rotating cast of girls finding excuses to linger near him after games. You watched it happen the way you'd always watched it happen, except now you were closer to it, in his dorm, at his games, in the middle of the aftermath. And you had no claim to any of it. He wasn't yours. He'd never been yours. You just got to watch, the way you always had.

So you stopped writing. You shoved the box into the dark crevice under your bed and didn't take it out again. You prayed it would stay there. You told yourself you were moving on.

Meeting Davis was almost spontaneous — a late night out at Malone's, small talk with a guy from your gen-ed class that turned into something steadier. He was easy. Uncomplicated. He didn't make your chest hurt the way John did, and for a while, that felt like a relief instead of a warning sign. The letters stayed buried. Things between you and Logan went back to what looked, on the surface, like normal. Friends. Best friends. 

Because that was all it was going to be.

-

"So how are things with Davis?" Logan asked, leaning against the kitchen counter while you hunched over a marked-up piece of choreography notation, notes scattered across the counter in purple and yellow highlighter, counts and spacing diagrams bleeding into the margins. Gen ed notes scatter on top of them, but you seemed more preoccupied with the scrawls of markings for your major.

"Things are fine." You tried to keep the annoyance out of your voice, but Logan had always been perceptive, and it showed in the way his brows drew together.

"Yeah? Then why do you sound like that?"

Your pen dug a little deeper into the page. "Sound like what?"

"Like things aren't fine."

Your head snapped up, an evident frown pulling at your mouth. "It's none of your business, John."

Your voice came out sharper than you meant it to, and you winced, immediately regretting it. "Sorry. That was — sorry."

He didn't push on the apology. Just crossed his arms and softened his voice instead. "What's wrong?"

You hesitated, pen hovering over your notes, and then you let out a long groan and dropped your forehead against your textbook. "I don't want to start venting."

"Vent anyway."

"He keeps asking when I'm free. Wants to hang out constantly, and I get it, I do, but callbacks are in two weeks and I have a showcase piece I'm not off-book for yet, and I told him that, and he just —" You sat up, dragging a hand down your face. "He said it's kind of pathetic that I care this much about a theater degree. That I don’t have a future in this and that I’m only wasting my time."

Logan's jaw went tight. He would also do that when something pissed him off, and you knew him enough to know that he was also pissed off at what you said. "He said that?"

"Basically."

"That's not — " He stopped himself, exhaled through his nose, clearly working to keep his voice level. "You've wanted this since we were sixteen. You used to run your combinations for me in your driveway at eleven at night in the middle of winter because you couldn't get the phrase to feel right, and I stood there freezing my hands off holding your phone so you could film it."

That got a small, watery laugh out of you. "You always came outside, though. Even when it was that cold."

"Because it mattered to you." He said it so plainly, like it wasn't even a decision he'd had to make. "Anyone who makes you feel stupid for caring about the thing you've wanted since we were in high school doesn't get to also get your time. That's not — that's not how it should work."

You didn't have an answer for that. You just nodded at your notes, throat tight, and went back to studying, and Logan stayed leaning against the counter a while longer before he finally pushed off it and went to make you tea you hadn't asked for, the same way he always did.

-

Things ended with Davis not long after that — quietly, without a scene (an irony you did clock, even mid-breakup), the kind of ending that comes less from a single fight and more from a slow accumulation of moments where you'd chosen your scripts, your late rehearsals, your friendship with Logan, over him, and he'd finally said out loud what he'd clearly been thinking for weeks. You didn't wallow in it. It hadn't felt like losing something so much as setting something down.

Allie, your dorm neighbor across the hall, caught you in the laundry room a few days later, sorting a basket of mismatched socks.

"Wait, so you and Davis are actually done?" Allie asked, propping her hip against the dryer.

"Yeah." You shrugged, feeding a quarter into the slot. "It didn't work out." She knew about what he said, and she made the same face as you the moment you told her. She was the friend you made in one of the early collaborations your major did with hers, and she was the one who knew well how taxing it would be on your body and to have someone just brush it off? She had also pushed for you re-evaluating your whole relationship before you even talked to John about it.

"Huh." Allie studied you for a second too long. "You don't seem that broken up about it."

"I'm fine," you said, and mostly meant it, which felt strange enough that you didn't examine it too closely.

Allie didn't push, but she gave you a look on her way out that said she'd clocked something you hadn't said out loud.

Your roommate and best friend in all things best friend, Jai, was less subtle about it. She came in that night to find you cross-legged on your bed, not doing anything in particular, just sort of staring at the wall.

"Okay, what's actually going on with you?" Jai said, dropping her bag and sitting across from you. "You broke up with Davis, which you knew most of us had been telling you to, but usually break ups have the whole grieving process. And right now,  you look like you're thinking about a math problem, not a breakup."

"I don't know. I think I just — I didn't care as much as I should have. The whole time. I feel bad about that." You fiddle with your fingers. “That maybe I feel this apathetic because I didn’t care as much in the beginning.”

Jai considered you for a moment, tilting her head the way she did when she was about to say something you weren't going to like. "You know what I think?” 

You looked up at Jai, who nodded over at the space under your bed. “You never wrote about him.”

You blinked. "What?"

"The letters." Jai said it like it was obvious, like she'd noticed the box's absence the same way she'd notice if you'd rearranged the furniture. "You've had that thing since I've known you — you disappear into it when something's actually gotten to you. You didn't write a single letter about Davis. Not one, in like four months."

You opened your mouth to argue and found you didn't have anything to argue with.

You hadn't written about Davis. Not once. Every single letter in that box, every one you'd ever written, had one name on it, and it wasn't his.

The realization hit you like cold water. 

You hadn't moved on. Not even a little.

That night you pulled the box out from under the bed — dusty, a stray cobweb clinging to one corner — wiped it down, and wrote the first letter in months. You didn't let yourself think too hard about what it meant that your hand knew exactly how to start again, like it had never really stopped.

I dated someone in hopes of getting over you– only to realize that every time I sit across from him, I imagine its you. It’s not fair on him. Or myself. But though he did deserve the break-up… he didn’t deserve someone who is still hung over a guy she liked since high school, It’s stupid. Terribly so, but I had four months of thinking that dealing with him was much easier than dealing with the constant ache in my chest every time I see you.  Maybe it’s more stupid of me to get back to writing to you and acknowledging the constant hurt i feel. — With love, reluctantly, again, and always.

By Junior year, the letters slowed but never stopped completely. The program was, if anything, worse than sophomore year — a full-length ensemble piece now, not just technique classes, and you were buried in rehearsal schedules and rep notes, and the only thing that made any of it bearable was Logan, constant as ever, still showing up with food, still sitting on the studio floor with you at 1 a.m. while you both pretended you weren't exhausted, still somehow always exactly where you needed him to be. 

Jai, who had appointed herself the unofficial keeper of your feelings since the Davis revelation, was relentless about it.

"You have to tell him," she said one night, apropos of nothing, while you were both supposed to be doing readings for your gen ed classes. "Junior year of high school, senior year, all of freshman and now half of junior year of college. That's — I did the math, that's four years, and you're going to keep writing it down instead of just saying it?"

"It's not that simple."

"It kind of is, though."

You'd relented eventually, worn down by her insistence and your own exhaustion at holding the same shape for four years straight. You told her you'd do it. You'd tell him. Maybe at the house party that weekend, when everything felt looser and easier and less like something you had to plan for.

You didn't get the chance.

You found him in the kitchen of the party, laughing with a girl whose name you didn't know, and before you could process anything, she'd leaned in and he hadn't leaned away.

You didn't wait to see more than that. You turned around and left before he ever noticed you'd been there, walked back to your dorm in the cold without your jacket, and didn't cry, exactly — just sat on your floor and wrote until your hand cramped.

I stopped hoping tonight. I think I needed to see it to actually believe it, because apparently telling myself wasn't enough. I'm not writing this one for you to ever read. I'm writing it so I stop lying to myself about what almost happened this weekend, and didn't, and isn't going to.

I keep thinking about how badly I wanted to walk over there and how I didn't, and how that's the whole story of us, isn't it. Me, standing a few feet away, wanting, and staying exactly where I am.

You told Jai it hadn't worked out. She didn't push for details, just sat with you until you didn't feel like crying anymore.

Things between you and Logan, in the weeks after, went quiet in a way that wasn't quite a fight and wasn't quite normal either — some instinctive retreat on your end that you dressed up as being busy. Eventually it faded, the way most things did when you were both incapable of staying upset at each other for long, and by the second half of the semester you'd settled back into something that looked, from the outside, exactly like it always had. You told yourself that was enough. You tried, in your quiet, determined way, to move on.

There was one more letter before the long silence, written the week after, when he'd shown up at your studio with soup because Jai had mentioned you were sick, and stayed on the floor doing his own reading while you slept on and off on the yoga mats, and woken you gently every hour to make sure you drank water.

You have no idea what you do to me by being like this. You have no idea, or you do, and you just don't care, because it's easier to be kind to me than to explain why you keep being kind to me. Either way, I am so tired of this constant wishing and wanting. I’ll move on. I have to. Or I’ll never get out of this stupid hole.  I love you. But it hurts to keep loving you.

By the second semester of junior year, there were forty-three letters. You left it at forty-three letters.

Ever since that night, where your anger and everything about you spilled into paper and ink– you didn't slip in another letter. It stayed at forty-three.

Forty-three letters, across four years, across the span of a friendship that had become the most important thing in your life and the most carefully guarded secret you kept. Forty-three letters that were supposed to go with you to the grave while you plan out your whole moving on shtick.

That was the plan. That had always been the plan.

The plan, it turned out, was not consulted before Thursday afternoon.

—

It was a fire drill that turned out not to be a drill.

You'd been on the floor beside your bed, hunting for your phone charger, having pulled the mattress out from the wall and tangled yourself in the extra blankets you kept stuffed behind it, when the alarm split the air — sudden, violent, the particular shriek of the Briar dorms that had never once not startled you no matter how many times you'd heard it.

Your elbow caught the edge of the blanket stack. The box, which you'd shoved back into place after re-reading that last letter just the other day, teetered on the edge of the mattress frame. You grabbed for it, fingers catching the corner.

The latch — that brass, temperamental, long-suffering latch you'd always meant to fix and never had — gave.

The box opened.

Forty-three letters, across the floor of your dorm room.

You were still on the ground, staring at them, trying to process the scope of the disaster, when you heard Logan's familiar voice, your name, followed by a quick, "It's me, don't freak out —"

You looked up. Panic set in immediately, your heart dropping to your feet.

John Logan stood in the doorway, your dorm key in his hand — the one you'd given him freshman year for emergencies and never asked back — the opening words dying in his throat as he watched the letters settle.

The alarm was still going. Someone in the hall was shouting about everyone needing to get out. The late-afternoon light came through the window, gold and slanted, landing on the scattered envelopes and the stunned expression on his face and every single letter that bore, in your own handwriting, his name.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then you hit the floor on both knees, grabbing at the letters with both hands, stacking them against your chest with no particular order, your mind repeating the same panicked loop — collect them, get them back in the box, get them away from his line of sight.

"These are nothing — they're old, they're just — don't look at those—" You scrambled, but the panic made the ones in your hand slip loose again, and you nearly wanted to just sprawl over the envelopes and pretend they'd never fallen at all.

But John was crouching too. He wasn't reading them. He was just looking at the envelopes scattered across your floor, and you could see the exact moment he registered what they all had in common.

All of them. Every single one.

John Logan.

Your handwriting. His name. Over and over, in blue ink and black ink, and once in green, junior year of high school, when you'd been out of everything else.

His name on the front of forty-three letters you never sent.

He picked one up. He did it with the careful hands he used for things he wasn't sure about — the same way he picked up injured birds on his way to practice, the same way he handled other people's textbooks, and, twice, your feelings, on the two occasions you'd broken down in front of him and he'd gently cradled your face and helped you through the tears. Those were among the ten thousand other things written in your letters. Things you loved him for.

"These are addressed to me," he said. His voice was quiet. Unsure, tentative, like if he spoke louder he'd scare you off entirely.

"They're not —" you stammered. "I didn't send them. That's the whole —" You pressed the stack still in your hand to your sternum. "Please. Just — pretend you didn't see them."

"How many are there?"

His voice was doing something you couldn't quite pinpoint. Low. Careful. Something heavy underneath it, if you read between the lines.

You looked at him over the letters clutched to your chest, not sure what expression was on your face that made him soften even further. Maybe it was the pure panic. Maybe it was something else.

"Twenty — wait, uhm." You paused, blinked. "Thirty-four."

He lifted a brow. "You hesitated."

"...Forty-three."

The silence after that had weight. The alarm had stopped — someone had pulled it, or the drill was over, or building staff had caught up to whatever triggered it — and the sudden absence of noise made everything feel louder. Your heartbeat. His breathing. The soft scratch of the envelope he was turning over in his hands, not opening, just turning.

"How long?" he asked.

You didn't want to answer that. The answer was the part that would make it real. The part that would say out loud what had only ever existed on paper.

"Since junior year of high school," you said quietly.

You watched him absorb it.

He sat back on his heels, and you could see him doing the math. Junior year of high school. The end of the letter stack. The date on whatever letter he was holding. The span of years between then and now.

"You've been writing me letters," he said slowly, like he was learning the sentence as he spoke it, "for four years. That you never sent."

"It's not — it's a journaling thing. It's not —"

"Your journals have my name on them."

You winced and closed your eyes. "Yes."

"Why didn't you send them?"

You opened your eyes. He was watching you with an expression that made it very hard to think clearly, and you needed to think clearly to get through this conversation without losing something you couldn't afford to lose. Carefully, you thought. Be careful. He is your best friend and he is looking at you and you are not allowed to ruin this.

"Because I didn't want things to change," you said, which was the truest and most incomplete answer you had.

"What things?"

"Us." The word landed between you, bare, nothing around it to soften it. "The way things are. The way things have always been. I didn't — I wasn't willing to risk it. So I wrote it down instead, and I kept it, and I was going to keep it forever, and this was a mistake, Logan —"

"John." He interrupted quietly. You ignored the correction.

"— you were not supposed to see these."

"What are they?" he asked. "Just — tell me what they are. In plain English."

You looked at him. Then at the forty-three letters — the ones against your chest, the ones still sprawled on the floor, the one in his hands, the stupid brass-latched box open between you. You thought about every 2 a.m., every bleacher, every game, every borrowed hoodie you'd never given back. You thought about how long you'd been careful not to say a single thing. How much energy you'd spent on the not-saying, and how completely, catastrophically exhausted you were from it.

"They're everything," you said, "that I didn't know how to say to your face."

—

He was quiet for a long time after that.

You spent most of it looking at the floor, cataloguing the letters you could see from where you sat — the corner of the very first one, faded and ink-stained, from that Tuesday in junior year. The familiar blue pen of the one from a few months ago, the night of the game where he'd scored the tying goal in the final minute and looked up into the bleachers and found you immediately, like he'd known exactly where to look, like he always knew where to look, and you'd gone home and written four pages you didn't remember most of the next morning.

Then right by your knees was the latest letter. The one that was lengthy and full of hurt and anger and everything else that you poured out after seeing him make out with another girl– You push down the memory. 

The afternoon light had shifted. It was later than you'd realized.

"I want to ask you something," Logan said, "and I need you to answer honestly."

"Okay."

"Is it —" He exhaled through his nose, tried again. You watched the struggle on his face — that particular Logan expression of someone who had something to say and was working out how to say it without saying too much or too little. You'd seen it a thousand times. You'd written about it. Letter fourteen, sophomore year of high school. The way he gets quiet before he says something he means.

"Is it the same thing I think it is?"

"Probably," you said, to the floor. "Unless you think it's a grocery list, in which case, no."

He made a sound that might have been a laugh — hoarse, surprised out of him.

"You've liked me," he said, still careful, "since junior year."

"Yes."

"And you didn't say anything because you didn't want to lose the friendship."

"Yes."

"And you wrote — forty-three letters. Instead."

"I was going to say forty-three seemed excessive, but honestly, given the timeline, I think it's fairly restrained."

"Hey." His voice changed. That made you look at him. He was watching you with something so open on his face it hit you square in the sternum. "Don't do that. Don't make it a joke right now."

You swallowed. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry either." He set the letter down between you, gently, the way he set down things he didn't want to damage, and ran a hand through his hair — the thing he did when he was thinking hard, when something had knocked him somewhere he hadn't planned to go. "I just need a second."

You gave him the second.

Outside, someone on the quad was playing music, drifting up through your open window without any particular hurry. Late afternoon light cut across the room at the angle it only ever hit in March — long and gold and slanted, the kind that made everything look like it was happening in the last good hour of something. The last hour before whatever came next.

He abruptly brings up Davis. "What about Davis?"

Your brows furrow. "What about him?"

"You dated him last year."

You hesitate. "It was a half-hearted attempt to try and get over you."

"Did it work?"

You deadpan. "Well, I broke up with him, didn't I?"

John laughs through his nose. "Yeah. Yeah that makes sense."

Another beat passes, quieter this time, before he asks if you know why he's shown up to every single one of your performances since freshman year. Not just the winter and spring showcases. The studio showings nobody came to, the ten-minute improvisation pieces you took for the sake of getting better, performed to an audience of six, the Tuesday afternoon rehearsal run-throughs that overlapped with his lift block, when he'd shown up, hair damp, sitting cross-legged in the back corner of the studio so he could leave before anyone noticed a hockey player watching a modern dance rehearsal like it was the only thing happening in the building.

"That's practice, though," you say. "You're always busy."

"Not always." He says it like it's nothing, like it was never a real sacrifice, just a matter of arranging things around each other the way you'd both always done. "I never missed a lift block or a mandatory practice for it, if that's what you're asking. Coach would've had my head, and there goes the scholarship. I'm not that much of an idiot."

"So how—"

"I just used the time I actually had. Free blocks. The hour after morning skate before class. You'd be in Studio B until midnight running the same eight counts over and over, and I'd come sit in the corner with a granola bar and my laundry, because doing laundry at the machines by the dance building was somehow always more urgent than doing it in my own dorm."

You protest anyway, because your brain is still catching up, still trying to file this under good friend the way you have filed every other thing he's ever done for four years running. "You're just — that's just you being supportive. You did that for Summer-"

"I went to Summer's event once, and that was because Dean wanted us to. I have sat through you running the same eight counts eleven times in a row at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday because you couldn't get the turn right, and I have watched you mark a whole solo with a busted ankle because you didn't want to fall behind, and I still came."

"That was one time."

"I know. I counted the limps."

That gets you. Something in your chest cracks open a little wider.

He tells you about the incidents, then — the small things you never clocked because you were always mid-combination or too deep in your own head to notice him in the doorway, or slumped against the wall outside the studio with his bag still packed from practice. The night your partner dropped you a beat early in a lift and you both recovered it so smoothly the audience never noticed, and how he'd told Tucker after, unprompted, that he'd never seen anyone save a mistake like that mid-air, like it mattered to him the way his own game footage mattered.

The way he'd show up straight from morning skate, hair still wet, to walk you back to your dorm after a late rehearsal because he didn't like the idea of you crossing the quad alone at midnight, ice pack pressed to your shin, making conversation about nothing in particular just so you wouldn't have to walk in silence. The stretch of a week during tech for the fall showcase, when you barely left the studio, and he started just bringing his own homework to do on the floor during your five-minute breaks, so you'd have someone there without either of you having to say why that mattered.

"You did that the whole week," you say slowly.

"I did that the whole week."

"You never told me you had a physics midterm that same week."

"Didn't want you to feel bad about it." He shrugs, like this is a reasonable thing to have kept from you for two years. "It wasn't your fault. I wanted to be there."

You're quiet for a second, turning that over, and something about the quiet must give you away, because he tilts his head at you. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You've got a face on. That's not nothing."

"It's just—" You stop. Start again. "If you wanted to be there that badly. If you were doing all of that. Then what was with the girls?"

He blinks. "What girls?"

"You know what girls, Logan." Your voice comes out sharper than you mean it to, two years of swallowed irritation finally finding a door. "The ones after games. Hanging off the boards. The ones who got to walk up to you, because they didn't have some — some rule in their head about not ruining anything."

"That's what this is about?"

"I'm asking."

He drags a hand down his face, and for the first time all night, he looks ashamed instead of careful. "Those weren't anything," he says. "You know that, right? They were never anything."

"They looked like something."

Logan lets out a hoarse laugh — short, not really about anything funny. It's the sound of a person getting cornered by their own bad decisions. "Yeah," he says. "I bet they did."

There's something almost shameful in the way his jaw works before he goes on.

"They were a distraction." He says it plainly, no dressing it up. "You didn't — I thought you didn't feel the same way. I thought I was the only one carrying this, and I didn't know what to do with that, so I did the dumbest possible thing, which was try to feel something for anyone else so I'd stop feeling this much for you. It never worked. Not once. I always ended up back at your door with food you didn't ask for, like an idiot."

"I did care," you say, and it comes out smaller than you mean it to, four years of carefulness still clinging to your voice even now. "I thought you didn't."

"I know that now."

You stare at each other for a second, and it lands on both of you at once — the sheer, staggering waste of it. Four years of two people orbiting the same unspoken thing, each one certain the other didn't want it, each one building elaborate, private monuments to a feeling neither of you would say out loud. You almost want to laugh. You almost want to be furious. Mostly you just want to sit in the wreckage of it with him and not move for a while.

That's when he tells you about the texts.

"There's something you should probably know, since, well– I just accidentally saw your very personal letters." he says, and something in his voice makes you go still before he even finishes the thought. "I've been deleting texts to you since October of junior year."

"What texts?" you said.

"The ones I wasn't going to send." A muscle in his jaw moved. "Different medium. Same problem."

You stared at him.

"You," you said carefully, "have also been —"

"Yeah."

"Since —"

"Junior year." He kept his eyes on you. "You did that solo — the contemporary piece, the one set to that stripped-down piano track, for the fall showcase. I only went because you asked me to come, and also promised to buy me free snacks right after. So I came. I sat in the back row not expecting to care, and then the lights came up on you and you just — you weren't you anymore, you were something else entirely, and I remember thinking, very clearly, that I had never seen anything move like that. Not the piece. You. I didn't say anything to anyone. I definitely didn't say anything to you. I just knew, sitting in that folding chair, that something in me had rearranged itself and it wasn't going back." He stopped. Shook his head. "I thought you knew, later, that something had shifted for me. I thought it was obvious. I thought you didn't feel the same way, and I figured I could live with that — be your friend, be fine. And I was mostly fine. I was fine until you and Davis started whatever that was, and I wasn't fine anymore, and that's when I knew I was a lost cause."

"There was nothing with Davis," you said. "It was just — a gen-ed class, and I thought it was something—" The words died on your tongue.

"I know that now."

"John." Something enormous was rising in your chest — too big for any letter, too loud for that box. "We've been — we've both been —"

"Catastrophically stupid," he said, with a short, helpless laugh. "Yeah. I'm aware."

"Four years."

"I know."

"I have forty-three letters —"

"I know, I can see them —"

You laughed, and it came out slightly broken, and he laughed too, and for a moment it was just that — the two of you on your dorm room floor, surrounded by four years of everything you hadn't said, laughing at the sheer, impossible absurdity of it. At how close you'd been the whole time. At how completely you'd managed to miss each other while never once being apart.

Then the laughter faded.

He was looking at you. The gold light had shifted, fallen across him, and he looked the way he always looked when he was done thinking and had arrived somewhere decided. You knew that look. You'd written about it. Letter twenty-one. The way he looks when he's made up his mind about something and nothing in the world is going to unmake it.

"What do we do now?" you asked.

John reached out slowly, giving you every chance to move away if you wanted to. He tucked a loose strand of hair back from your face, hand staying at your jaw, careful. His thumb traced, barely, along your cheekbone.

"I have a practice slot tomorrow morning," he said. "Early. Six a.m., the rink's usually empty." He paused. "You could come. Sit in the bleachers, like you always do. And after — I could buy you hot chocolate. And maybe this time I could actually say what I haven't been saying for four years."

You looked at him. His hand was warm at your jaw, and the room smelled like old paper and cedar and whatever that specific thing was that his jacket always smelled like, because of course he was wearing the jacket you knew best.

"And we're doing it at the rink," you said slowly, "because —"

"Because that's where it started," he said, shrugging. "It should start there too. Not the ratty ice rink back home, but it still counts."

The feeling in your chest crested, enormous and warm, nothing like the quiet ache you'd carried for four years. That ache had been private and careful, kept deliberately small so it wouldn't take up too much room, wouldn't crowd out anything else. This was not small. This was taking up every room you had. This was refusing, loudly and completely, to fit inside a box.

"Okay," you said.

He smiled — the full one, the private one, the one that had always felt like it was only for you. Maybe it had been. Maybe you'd just been too busy cataloguing reasons not to believe it.

"Okay," he echoed.

He let go of your jaw slowly, like he was in no hurry about it, then stood and started helping you gather the letters off the floor, stacking them with surprising care, not reading them, just collecting. You watched him do it and didn't say anything. There was something strange and sweet about watching his hands handle these things that had existed in secret for so long.

He asked a few questions. Simple ones. The things you could admit to. Small rants you'd written. How you didn't read back on some of them, out of fear of what you'd find. You mentioned the one where you'd hoped he tripped, and how the very next day, he actually had.

Logan laughed at that — bright, curls settling around his face. You had to stop yourself from staring too long.

"Which one's your favorite?" he asked, holding the stack against his chest the way you'd been holding it minutes ago.

"I'm not telling you that."

"Come on."

"Absolutely not."

"I'll find it eventually."

"That sounds like a threat."

"It's a promise." He looked entirely too pleased with himself. "I have forty-three letters and the rest of my life. I'll get there."

When all the letters were back in the box, he set it on your desk and looked at it for a moment.

"You're going to have to let me read them eventually," he said.

"I really am not."

"The 'I hope you trip' one. I want to find that one."

"Absolutely not."

"I'm going to find it."

"Get out of my room, Logan."

"I thought I said you could call me John?"

You rolled your eyes. "I'm adapting to Briar. You're either Logan or John. Now get out of my room."

He grinned, the lopsided, lethal one, and you felt it the same way you always had — right in the sternum, like a bell being struck — and went, unhurried, toward the door.

"Six a.m.," he said from the doorway.

"Six a.m.," you agreed.

He left.

You stood in your room surrounded by the afterimage of all of it, then sat on the edge of your bed and put your face in your hands, staying that way for a while — not crying exactly, just feeling the full, enormous weight of something shifting into a new configuration, four years of tectonic plates rearranging themselves into something that finally made sense.

After a while, you got up, took the box from the desk, and put it back under your bed.

You set your alarm for five-thirty.

Hockey rinks always smelled and looked the same, no matter where you would go. It would always smell like ice and rubber and something underneath, though it didn't have the same ratty smell from the old hockey rink at home.

You climbed to your usual spot in the bleachers. Third row, center. You'd been sitting here since the first time you ever came to watch him practice. Even when you moved closer to Briar, you always gravitated to the same spot, before you'd known it was your spot, before you'd known you'd keep coming back. You'd just sat where the sight line was clear and the draft from the ventilation didn't hit as hard. You'd sat there every time after that, out of habit, out of something you'd told yourself was just habit.

John stepped onto the ice.

He didn't look up at the bleachers right away. That wasn't unusual. He rarely did, at first. He had a routine — you knew the routine, had watched it enough times to know it by heart — where he'd take a lap or two before he settled into the actual work of it, like he was reacquainting himself with the ice, reminding himself of the particular quality of this rink on this morning. Then he'd pick up speed. Then he'd look like himself.

You watched him. You were done pretending you weren't.

He skated the way he always skated — like it required nothing, like it was breathing, like the rink was just another place he lived and the ice was simply the ground beneath him. He did a lap, and then another, and then he started working through something, crossovers into a long sweep across the length of the rink, and you watched the way he held his weight, the clean economy of every movement, and felt the thing you always felt watching him, which you'd spent four years filing under aesthetic appreciation, nothing more, and which you were now allowed to call by its actual name.

After a while he came to the boards and looked up at you.

"You're in your spot," he said.

"I'm always in my spot." 

"I know." He leaned on the boards, the same way he had the first time, junior year, helmet under his arm, and he looked up at you with that look you were done misreading. "I skate better when you're here. I don't know if you knew that."

"I didn't."

"I didn't either, for a while. I thought it was just that the bleachers were less empty, which helps. But then I figured out it was specifically you." He said it matter-of-factly, like it was just a thing that was true. Like it was weather. Like it was temperature. "Third row, center. Every time."

"You knew the seat."

"I always knew the seat."

You looked at him, and the rink was cold, and the light was just beginning to come in through the high windows, pale and early and new, and forty-three unsent letters sat in a box under your bed, and standing at the boards in front of you — in his skates, in his gear, on his ice — was the person they were all addressed to. 

With a smile, you got up and headed down from your seat. The second you stopped in front of Logan, the only thing separating you being the rink’s wall, you smiled wider. "Hi," you said.

"Hi," he said back.

He reached for you, and you reached back, and when his hand found yours over the boards it was easy, the easiest thing, like something that had been waiting a long time to finally happen and was not going to make a fuss about it now that it had. His hand was cold from the ice, and you held it anyway, and neither of you said anything for a moment, because there wasn't anything that needed saying.

You got the hot chocolate from the machine in the convenience store. Different store, same franchise. It was, as promised, terrible. Watery and too sweet, dispensed in a thin paper cup that was already going soggy at the base.

He handed it to you and watched you take a sip and pull a face.

"Still bad," you reported. “It’s surprising how consistent the store is.”

"Still bad," he agreed, leaning against the wall, holding his own cup, looking entirely unbothered. He'd never minded the terrible hot chocolate. You'd written about that once. Letter seven. The way you seem genuinely content with things that aren't good. Like the contentment is the point, not the quality of the thing.

"You said you were going to say what you hadn't said."

"I was getting to it."

"It's been twenty minutes."

"I was working up to it," he said, and there was something almost shy in the way he said it, which was not a quality you'd had many opportunities to observe in him, and which was doing things to you that you weren't prepared for. "I've been working up to it for four years, give me another thirty seconds."

You giggled, but you still waited.

He looked at his terrible hot chocolate. Then he looked at you.

"I love you," he said. "I've loved you since I saw you performing on stage and I thought — I thought, that's her. That's the person. And I didn't say anything because you didn't, and I figured I was misreading it, and I kept not saying anything for four years and I had a phone full of deleted texts and a very long mental list of things I was not going to tell you, and then yesterday I walked into your room and saw my name on forty-three envelopes on your floor and I thought—" He stopped. Something moved across his face, somewhere between wrecked and grateful. "I thought: we are both absolute idiots."

"We really are," you said.

"We really are." He pushed off the wall and set his cup down on the machine and took yours out of your hands and set it next to his, and then he looked at you the way he had yesterday, with that decided, arrived quality, and said, "I'm done not saying it. I love you. Okay? I just — I love you."

You looked at him. This person you'd known since before you knew what it meant to know someone. This person who remembered your coffee order and picked raisins out of muffins and drove forty minutes in the rain and kept nine of your hoodies and showed up to every meet in every kind of weather and had, apparently, been composing and deleting texts to you since junior year of high school.

"I love you," you said. "I have loved you for a very long time."

He exhaled, slow, like something he'd been holding finally let go, and then he smiled — the private one, the full one, the one that had always felt like it was only for you because, you understood now, it had always only been for you — and said, "Yeah. We're definitely idiots."

"Monumental idiots."

"Historically unprecedented idiots."

"There should be a word for it."

"There probably is, in some language we don't speak." He reached out, and you let him pull you in, and he held you the way he'd held you before, the same arms, the same warmth, but with something different in it now, something that had been allowed to be what it was instead of being carefully kept at a certain size. You pressed your face against his shoulder. His chin dropped to the top of your head.

"We wasted four years," you said into his shoulder.

"Nah." His voice rumbled against your ear. "We just took the long way."

You thought about that. About the letters, and the bleachers, and the hot chocolate, and the forty-minute drives in rain,  the deleted texts, and the space between what you feel and what you're brave enough to say. About all the things that had happened in the gap.

"The long way," you agreed.

Outside the rink, the morning was getting started. Inside, it smelled like ice and rubber and cedar and something new.

—

The forty-fourth letter was the last one. Written that night, because some habits deserve a proper ending.

John. Logan. Or whatever name you want to be called–  The hot chocolate was terrible. The one near our old school was better (I’m lying, but you know that), but it’s not like you would drive an hour just to get there. Still, you know hot chocolate is always terrible from that machine. You bought it anyway because I said I wanted it and you cannot help yourself. I've been writing these since high school. I don't think I'm going to write another one. Not because I have nothing left to say — I think I'm going to have a lot to say, for a very long time — but because I'm going to say it to you from now on. Out loud. In real time. Without a box to put it in afterward. You told me today that you skate better when I'm in the stands. I wanted you to know that I run better when you're at the end of the finish line. I have never told you that. I'm telling you now. I love you. I have loved you since a Tuesday in junior year in High school when you offered me bad hot chocolate on an empty rink and smiled at me like I was someone worth skating across the ice for.I loved you through every year after that, through every letter I wrote and sealed and tucked away, through every moment I talked myself out of saying something because I was afraid of what it would cost. It turns out it didn't cost anything. It turns out you were over there deleting texts. We were both such idiots. Though I guess it does make sense with our track record. I'm done keeping it in a box, and I'll say it to your face from now on, and I'm sorry it took me four years and a broken latch and forty-three embarrassing letters, some of which you are never going to read, to get here. But I'm here. And so are you. That's enough. That's more than enough. — With love.

The scent of yeast, burnt sugar, and baked flour always hangs heavy in the midnight air of the kitchen. It's comforting, warm, familiar, and completely separate from the cold, stoned streets of the village beyond these walls, which encompass your life. You wipe a stray smudge of flour from your forehead with the back of your hand, leaning over the heavy wooden workstation to knead the first batch of dough for tomorrow's, well, today's morning rush.

Deep in concentration, you almost don't hear the bell above the back door, which lets out a tiny, muffled chime. But you don't even have to look up to know who it is.

"You're late," you say, keeping your voice flat, still pounding the dough, though a familiar beat of warmth thumps against your ribs. "Shouldn't you be tucked into your silk sheets at the palace by now, Your Royal Highness?"

"A gentleman is never late, sweetheart. He arrives precisely when he means to," Jungkook says, his voice a smooth, playful purr as he slips into the kitchen nestled behind the main bakery area. "And I told you to stop calling me that." He is dressed in his usual disguise, a faded, oversized linen tunic and dark trousers. The entire kingdom knows the face of Prince Jungkook, though few would expect him to be sneaking out of the citadel walls just to loiter in a dusty village bakery. He pushes his hood back, revealing strands of unruly dark hair and those ridiculously large, glittering doe eyes which you can't stare into for too long without feeling heat crawl up your neck.

You sigh, ignoring him as you turn around to face the pantry. You reach for a jar of imported cinnamon, but, of course, it is sitting on the absolute highest shelf, tucked away near the ceiling. You huff, stepping up onto your tiptoes, stretching your arms as high as they can go. Your fingers brush the base of the jar, but you cannot for the life of you get a proper grip. Suddenly, a broad, solid chest flushes directly against your back. All you feel is lean muscle as the heat of him radiates through your apron. Then an arm clad in faded linen reaches up over your head, his large hand wrapping around the jar. You will yourself not to let your eyes linger too long on the prominent veins running across his forearms to his hands.

"Need a hand, love?" Jungkook murmurs right beside your ear, his raspy late-night voice sending a shiver straight down your spine.

You drop back onto your heels, turning around within the small space he has trapped you in. His free hand comes down to rest casually on the edge of the shelf beside your head, effectively boxing you in. He looks down at you, a smug, devastating smirk playing on his lips as he hands you the cinnamon. Your fingers lightly twitch as they brush his.

"I had it under control, Crown Prince," you shoot back, tapping the jar against his chest to force him to take a step back.

"Right, maybe from over there you did, but from here, all I saw was you hopping up and down like a grasshopper," he teases before turning back.

And before you can swat at him, his hand shoots out toward the cooling racks. You attempt to block him with an elbow, but he uses his height advantage, leaning over to snatch a freshly dusted, warm beignet from the tray. Ones you had just made as a test batch, so the recipe was perfect for the morning rush. He pops the entire thing into his mouth in one go.

"Hey!" You glare, swatting at his arm with your flour-covered hand, leaving a stark white handprint on his dark sleeve. "Do you have any idea how early I had to wake up to prep those? The yeast has to rise for hours, Jungkook! Hours!"

Jungkook chews happily, closing his eyes in mock ecstasy. "Mmm. So worth it. You outdid yourself, truly." He leans his hip against your table, entirely too close, invading your space with the scent of the crisp night air and something rich, clean, and faintly expensive. He points a finger at a bowl of glossy chocolate batter. "What do we have here?" His eyes are lit with nothing short of mischief.

"Don't you dare-"

Too late.

He dips his index finger straight into the bowl, swirling it around before sucking the batter off with shameless, slow deliberateness. He locks eyes with you, a wicked, teasing tilt to his lips. "Sweet. " He pauses. "Just like the baker."

You feel the heat rush straight to your cheeks. "You are an absolute menace. I don't know why I keep letting you break into my shop. I really need to invest in a heavier deadbolt. Or tell the royal guards that their beloved prince is a little sugar thief."

"Because you love me," he says instantly, shifting his weight around the table to follow your movements like a shadow, or more like a separation-anxiety ridden puppy. "And because I am excellent company. Who else is going to help you with labour at one in the morning for the low price of sugar? Besides, the guards would never believe you."

"A public nuisance is what you are," you correct, though your lips twitch. You turn to a tray of unadorned cupcakes and sigh, handing him a backup piping bag filled with sweet vanilla buttercream. "If you're going to loiter, at least make yourself useful. Pipe the tops of those. Like this." You demonstrate a perfect, elegant swirl on one, pulling the tip up to create a flawless peak.

Jungkook takes the bag, his chest puffing out with entirely unwarranted confidence. "Easy. Watch a master at work. I've got great hand-eye coordination."

He grips the bag with way too much force, causing an explosion of frosting that lands on the cupcake, tilting precariously to one side like a melting snowman before sliding off the edge completely.

You burst out laughing, a bright, clear sound that echoes in the quiet kitchen. "A master? Jungkook, it looks like a squashed toad!"

"It's abstract! It has personality!" he protests, bumping his shoulder heavily against yours to disrupt your balance. He looks down at your laughing face, his own expression softening into something incredibly tender. His eyes track the way your eyes crinkle at the corners, capturing the exact shade of warmth in your smile. "See? I made you laugh. That’s worth at least three more free pastries tonight."

"In your dreams, thief," you scoff.

After a few minutes and many fails later, he gets the hang of it, leaving you to grab a heavy wooden spoon and begin vigorously beating a massive bowl of thick, stubborn cookie dough. You hate this part the most. After a long day, hours of selling and continuously running through the main shop and the kitchen, creating new batches and noting down special orders, the physical effort of the mixture, especially after the non-stop whipping of the meringues and the kneading of the dough, makes your wrists ache. Your movements slow slightly as you wipe a bead of sweat from your brow.

As Jungkook continues piping, he glances at your figure a few times, as if it's second nature, and tracks the sudden lag in your rhythm. His eyes soften, the playful posture shifting into something much more attentive, which goes unnoticed by you. He steps up right beside you, his hand sliding over yours on the handle of the wooden spoon. His palm is warm, broad, and calloused from sword training.

"Hey," he says softly, his shoulder bumping into yours. "Go check on the hearth. I think I smell burning."

"What? No, it's not, I just put it-"

"Just go check, stubborn," he cuts you off, smoothly applying just enough pressure to slide the bowl away from you.

Before you can protest further, he completely takes over, his muscular forearm flexing beneath his rolled-up sleeves as he beats the heavy dough with absolute, effortless ease. It's only when you reach the hearth, and you find your cake, in fact, not burning, that you realise he invented such a thing so you could rest your tired wrist.

You cross your arms with a small smile, and you lean against the counter, watching him work. "Look at you. Future monarch doing manual labour in a village kitchen. Oh, if the King could see you now, he'd strip you of your title."

"Let him," Jungkook grunts with a grin, not missing a beat as he whips the dough into a perfect, uniform consistency. "I'd make a fantastic baker's assistant. I'm strong, I learn fast, and I look great in an apron."

"You don't even have an apron on," you point out, laughing.

"An oversight you can easily fix," he shoots back, flashing a brilliant bunny-toothed smile that makes your heart do a ridiculous little flip. He stops mixing, sliding the perfect dough toward you. "There. Perfect. What's next, pretty lady?"

You roll your eyes at the name. "We need to pour this batter into the tins," you say, dragging a heavy ceramic bowl of vanilla batter and two circular metal tins toward the centre of the table.

"I've got it," Jungkook volunteers eagerly. He lifts the heavy ceramic bowl, and you try not to pay attention to the way his biceps strain slightly against the linen shirt. He tips it over the first tin, carefully pouring the thick, pale-yellow ribbon of batter into the centre until it fills it perfectly. He moves to the second tin, pouring the remainder.

Once the bowl is mostly empty, he sets it down and picks up a long spatula. He meticulously scrapes the remaining thick batter from the inside walls of the bowl, gathering a massive, delicious glob of it onto the edge of the spatula. He brings it up toward his face, his eyes lighting up as he prepares to lick it clean.

"Ah-ah-ah," you say quickly, swatting his wrist away. "No way. I did all the measuring for that batter. That's mine."

You grab the end of the spatula handle. Jungkook blinks, then a surprised, but competitive spark instantly ignites his doe eyes. He tightens his grip, tugging it back towards himself. "I did the pouring! And the scraping! Royal decree dictates that the scraper gets the reward."

"There is no such royal decree," you laugh, pulling the spatula towards your side. "You're abusing your power, Your Highness!"

"I am a prince, I can make up whatever laws I want to," he gasps dramatically, pulling back.

You step closer, using your leverage to yank on the handle. For a second, you are pulled completely into his space, your hands tangled together on the thin piece of wood, faces inches apart. You can see the faint amber flecks in his eyes and the absolute amusement radiating from him.

Jungkook looks down at your determined face, his gaze dropping to your lips before a wicked, triumphant grin splits across his face.

Suddenly, he completely lets go of the spatula.

Because you were pulling so hard, you stumbled backwards a step, clutching the spatula victoriously to your chest. "Ha! I win!"

"Do you?" Jungkook asks, his voice dripping with amusement.

Before you can answer, he reaches down and grabs the massive, heavy ceramic mixing bowl that still has a generous coating of thick batter stuck to the bottom and sides. He lifts it, completely sticking his face inside the wide rim, using his finger to swipe a massive glob of batter and popping it into his mouth.

"Fine, keep the tiny spatula," he mutters happily from inside the bowl, his voice echoing. "I have the motherlode."

"Jungkook!" You burst out laughing, completely scandalised. "You are a literal child! Get your face out of my bowl!"

He pulls his head out, a tiny dollop of yellow batter sitting right on the tip of his nose. He looks incredibly ridiculous and remarkably cute all at once. He steps closer to you, his eyes locking onto yours with an unbearable amount of playful intensity.

"You have something right..." you start, pointing at your own nose.

"Where? Here?" he asks, deliberately wiping his cheek instead, smearing it further.

"No, you idiot, let me-"

You step in, reaching up with your thumb to gently wipe the batter off the tip of his nose. The moment your skin touches his, Jungkook freezes. The childish playfulness drops away in an instant, replaced by a sudden, heavy stillness. His gaze drops, heavy and unblinking, tracking the movement of your fingers, then the curve of your jaw, and finally resting on your eyes.

The kitchen goes entirely silent. The only sound is the low, rhythmic crackle of the hearth fire. His breath is warm against your skin. You feel your own breath hitch, your thumb lingering against his nose for a second too long.

A slow, devastatingly tender smile stretches across his lips. He reaches up, his large hand gently wrapping around your wrist, his thumb rubbing a slow, comforting circle into your pulse point.

"You know, you're very bossy for a regular citizen," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a raspy, late-night register that makes your heart beat erratically against your ribs.

"And you're very compliant for a future king," you whisper back, trying to maintain your defences, though the proximity is making it impossible to think straight.

"Only for you," he says softly, his thumb continuing to trace your wrist. "I don't let anyone else order me around like this. I think I like it."

You clear your throat, gently pulling your wrist from his grip to hide the bright blush creeping up your neck. You turn away to hide your burning cheeks, reaching for a small plate hidden under a glass dome on the back shelf. "Shut up and try this. I've been working on it all afternoon. Consider it payment for your... impeccable assistant work."

On the plate sits a pastry you’ve been experimenting with: dozens of microscopically thin, crispy layers of golden dough, stacked high with rich, velvety custard and fresh cream sandwiched between them, dusted lightly with powdered sugar.

"What is it?" he asks, leaning over your shoulder, his chest practically pressed against your back again, completely erasing the distance you just tried to create.

"Just shut up and try it," you say, handing him a small fork.

He takes a bite. The audible, delicate crunch of the layers echoes in the quiet room, followed by the smoothness of the cream. Jungkook freezes completely. His eyes widen to twice their size. Without saying a word, he devours the rest of the pastry in two massive bites, nearly groaning out loud.

"Marry me," he says flatly. "I'm serious. Name the day. We can live right here in this kitchen. I will waive the royal dowry, I will fight the council, I don't care. I will do nothing but eat this and look at you for the rest of my days."

You laugh loudly, shoving his shoulder hard to create some space. "So dramatic." You reply back.

"So in love."

"So in need of therapy." You mutter back, turning to grab a handful of loose flour to dust the wooden surface, the fine white powder settling like mist.

The frantic energy of the kitchen slows down, settling into a comfortable, quiet rhythm that has secretly become your favourite part of the day. Jungkook works right beside you, his initial royal clumsiness giving way to a quiet focus as he tries to correct his piping technique, finishing the cupcakes, his tongue poking out slightly between his teeth in pure concentration.

Then, the kitchen goes entirely silent. The only sound left is the low, rhythmic crackle of the hearth fire and the heavy, rhythmic thud of your palms against the dough.

You feel a sudden weight on you, a gaze so intense it feels tangible against your skin. You glance up, a stray lock of hair falling into your eyes, and catch him.

Jungkook isn't looking at the cupcakes anymore. He is leaning his chin in his hand, his elbow propped on the wooden counter, his eyes fixed entirely on you. His gaze is heavy, unblinking, tracking the curve of your jaw, the sweat dampening the nape of your neck, the fierce determination on your brow. There is no trace of the boyish prankster in his expression right now; his eyes are dark, deep, and filled with an intense, quiet gravity that makes your breath hitch completely.

"What?" you ask, your voice dropping to a breathless whisper. You try to sound annoyed, but the slight tremor in your voice betrays you. "Is there flour on my face again?"

Jungkook doesn't blink. A smile stretches across his lips, his voice drops again, sending a shiver straight down your spine. "Nope. Just looking at something beautiful."

You feel the heat rush from your chest all the way to your hairline. You look down at your rough, flour-dusted hands, and a sudden, heavy wave of insecurity twists in your stomach. It’s a reminder that always haunts the back of your mind. He is the Crown Prince. You know his face, you know his title, and you know the vast, impossible chasm that lies between your worlds.

"You are a terrifyingly smooth talker, Your Highness," you say, your voice turning a little hollow as you force yourself to look back up at him. "I suppose this is the exact same poetry you feed to the high-born noble ladies at the palace court."

Jungkook’s smile falters slightly, his doe eyes tracking the subtle drop in your shoulders, his sharp instincts picking up on the sudden shift in your mood. "Noble ladies? Trust me, they don't care about poetry. Just titles and crown jewels."

"I'm serious, Jungkook," you say, huffing a breath but still kneading the dough on the counter. "Why do you even come here? You have an entire court of perfect, beautiful women at your feet. You should be spending your time there with them, not in a drab bakery."

You pause. The next words come out in a whisper you hope he doesn't hear. "You could be with women who actually know how to dance, with titles, who wear silk and velvet instead of aprons caked in dried dough. They don't smell like yeast and sweat."

But he does, and the playful demeanour completely evaporates from Jungkook's face. The silence returns, heavier this time, but thick with an undeniable warmth.

He stands up straight, stepping around the workstation table to face you. He moves with a quiet, deliberate grace. You keep your eyes down, focusing on the dough. Press. Then push. Then fold. Then turn. And repeat. Don't look up.

But he doesn't let you hide. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently taking your wrists, halting your movements. His palms are warm and incredibly grounding.

"Look at me," he commands softly. You don't.

"Hey…" He trails off, voice unbelievably gentle, "Please?"

How can you say no to him?

When you finally look up into his eyes, you find them swimming with a fierce, profound sincerity.

"None of them." He pauses, "Are you." His voice is a low, intense whisper that rings clearly in the quiet kitchen. He squeezes your hands, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over your knuckles. "The court ladies are hollow, Y/N. They smile because they were trained to; they speak from rehearsed scripts; and they look at me like I'm a crown to be won, a stepping stone for their families. But you? This?"

He leans closer, head tilting down so your eyes are entirely locked. He wants you to feel how much he means every word.

"I'd rather be no place else. You're real. You're fierce, you're brilliant, and you look at me like I'm just a man. I don't want silk, and I don't care about their perfect poise. I want this. I want the smell of yeast and sugar, and I want to spend my evenings with the pretty little baker who threatens to throw rolling pins at my royal head."

Your heart hammers violently against your ribs, your lungs locking up under the sheer weight of his words. His eyes drop to your lips for a long, agonising second, and you think you might actually combust from the heat spreading through your veins.

Sensing the overwhelming tension and desperate to save your blushing face from melting, a familiar, wicked spark suddenly reignites in Jungkook’s eyes. He lets go of one of your hands and steps to the side.

Before you can even process the emotional whiplash, he blows a sharp puff of air across the workstation. A massive cloud of white flour erupts directly onto your face. You gasp, coughing, your eyelashes completely coated in white powder. Through the white haze, you see him throwing his head back, laughing loudly, looking immensely proud of his childish distraction.

"Oh, it is so on," you hiss.

You scoop up a massive, double handful of flour and throw it straight at his chest. It hits him with a satisfying, heavy thwack, turning his dark tunic completely white from collar to waist. Jungkook’s jaw drops in utter shock, his laughter cutting off. He retaliates by pinching more flour before sprinkling it over your head, coating your hair in white. You squirm, laughing as you grab another handful and go to move around the bench, but your shoes slip on the pile of flour that has accumulated on the floor, and you are sent plummeting to the ground. Jungkook is faster, though, of course, and he manages to hold onto you, one hand on your arm and the other firm against your waist as he manages to pull you back up.

"Falling for me already?" His lips upturn in a playful smirk.

You scoff, already pushing away from him, "You wish, rich boy."

You both laugh. And the next few hours continue like that. You love the back-and-forth; it calms you after a long day and prepares you for the next. You truly relish these moments, that is, until you gaze up and notice the sky outside, the dark midnight lighting slightly.

"You should get going, Jungkook, dawn's coming, and I should rest before prepping for the morning." You explain.

He whines, pouting his bottom lip in a way that makes him look like an oversized puppy, but he relents. He walks to the back door, pausing to look back at you, the playful smirk returning to his face as he pulls his hood back up over his dark hair. "See you tomorrow, my beautiful baker. Try not to miss your prince too much."

"Oh, that won't be difficult at all, Jungkook," you say, and he holds his chest, mocking a dagger struck through his heart, but you’re smiling wide as the door clicks shut, the quiet warmth of his presence lingering long after he’s gone.

The next morning brings a particularly bitter cold. The sun has barely crested the horizon when you set up the outdoor display rack, lining it with fresh, golden loaves of bread and warm rolls.

You return inside to tend to the ovens, glancing out the large front glass window. The village market is starting to wake up. The other store owners are sweeping outside their doors and beating the rugs. The stall owners are setting up their carts with small chatter amongst them, no doubt some high-class gossip they read in the papers this morning.

Through the glass, you also notice three small, shivering figures creeping toward your outdoor display. It’s the children who sleep under the alleyway awnings near the secondary square. They look emaciated, their ribs practically visible through their tattered rags, and your heart cracks slightly at the sight.

One of them, a little boy no older than six, reaches up and snatches a small loaf of bread. But before you can even open the door to tell them they can have it, even come inside for more, a harsh, booming voice echoes through the square.

"Thieves! Drop it!"

Two royal guards, clad in gleaming, heavy iron armour, march out from the shadows. They look bored, angry, and eager for a distraction. The children shriek, dropping the bread into the dirt as they try to scatter, but one guard lunges, grabbing the little boy by his scruff, lifting him completely off the ground. The child wails in terror.

The second guard unclips a heavy, thick leather lash from his belt, a sadistic grin spreading across his face. "A lesson needs to be taught. Stealing from the village market carries a heavy price, brat."

Your blood runs cold. You don't think. You throw the bakery door open, sprinting out into the freezing air.

"Stop! Stop, please!" you shout, throwing yourself into the scene.

The guard with the whip pauses, lowering his weapon slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Move aside, girl. These street rats are breaking the law. They require consequence."

"It's my bread!" you say breathlessly, your heart hammering against your ribs. "It’s my shop! I don't mind. I was giving it to them. They didn't steal anything, I swear."

The guard holding the boy sneers, dropping the child to the dirt, where he scurries behind your skirts, clinging on to them for dear life. "Do not lie to the Crown's authority, baker. We saw them take it. If you harbour thieves, you share their guilt. Now step away before we make an example out of you, too."

These guards are notorious. They are brutes, drunk on the microscopic amount of power the crown grants them over the poor villagers. You look down at the crying child holding onto you, burying his face in your skirts, and a stubborn wave of protectiveness washes over you.

"They are starving children," you say, your voice trembling but resolute. "If you must strike someone to satisfy your pathetic need for power... strike me. Leave them alone."

The guard with the whip cuts a dark, ugly glare toward you. "You want to take the punishment for a bunch of gutter rats? Fine by me. The law demands blood for theft. Now kneel."

You look around the square. A few villagers have stopped to watch, but they immediately look away, hurrying along, terrified of getting involved.

No one is going to help you. You don't expect them to.

You swallow hard, your knees hitting the cold, unforgiving cobblestones. You pull your hair to the side, exposing the back of your thin cotton chemise. You brace yourself, gripping your knees tightly.

Crack.

The first strike tears through the air and slices directly across your upper back.

A choked, agonising shriek tears from your throat. It feels like a line of liquid fire has been seared into your flesh. The sheer force of the blow knocks you forward, your palms slamming into the dirt. Tears sting your eyes instantly, blurring your vision.

"That's for the first brat," the guard grunts.

Crack.

The second strike hits, the leather biting into the exact same raw skin. You gasp, your lungs seizing.

"That's for the second."

Crack.

The third blow tears your chemise open at the side, the fabric ripping away as the leather draws blood. You press your forehead against the freezing ground, sobbing silently as you pray for it to end.

"And that's for the third," the guard sneers. He pauses, looking down at your trembling, broken form, but his eyes only gleam with a deeper cruelty. "But you opened your mouth to the Crown's authority, didn't you, girl? You think you can talk back to us?"

Crack.

The fourth strike is harder, delivered with the full weight of his arm. A ragged scream escapes your lips, your vision flashing white. The pain is blinding, radiating across your entire torso.

"And this one..." The guard chuckles, raising the whip one last time just to satisfy his own twisted amusement. "...just because I feel like it." He says low, only for your ears to hear.

Crack.

The fifth strike shatters whatever strength you have left. You collapse entirely onto the cold cobblestones, your chest heaving as deep, agonising tremors wrack your body.

They leave you there, laughing as they walk away. Slowly, agonisingly, you push yourself up. Your vision swims. You stagger back into the bakery, your hands shaking so violently you can barely turn the lock. You flip the sign on the door to CLOSED, then wince as you draw the thick curtains shut.

You stumble up the narrow wooden stairs to your small apartment on the second floor. In the tiny bathroom, you try to peer into the cracked mirror, but you can’t see the damage properly. Reaching behind yourself with a wet cloth, you touch the wounds, and a fresh wave of sobbing breaks out. It hurts too much. You can't reach it properly to clean it. Blindly, you wrap a clean strip of linen around your torso, pinning it clumsily, though you know it's too loose.

Exhausted, broken, and throbbing with a relentless, burning agony, you crawl onto your bed, burying your face in the pillow, letting the tears ruin the sheets.

Hours pass. Eventually, the sheer restlessness of the pain forces you out of bed. You can’t lie down comfortably, and you can’t sit up straight. You're exhausted. But you drag yourself back downstairs into the darkened kitchen. You decide not to open the shop today, you can't bear the thought of standing at the counter, but you need a distraction. You begin mindlessly wiping down the clean surfaces, moving like a ghost in your own home.

Jungkook is practically skipping through the crowded, muddy alleyways of the lower village, keeping the heavy fabric of his dark wool cloak pulled tightly around his face. Thankfully, his royal duties ended earlier today, allowing him more time with you. He did have to dodge three separate royal attendants, lie straight to his personal guard, and scale a crumbling section of the northern citadel wall just to sneak out today, but he didn't care. He would gladly scale the highest mountain in the land if it meant reaching your doorstep a second earlier than usual.

The only thing occupying his mind for the last twelve long, agonising hours has been you.

He is down bad. Mortifyingly, hopelessly, helplessly down bad.

Every time he closes his eyes during council meetings or listens to his father drone on about trade routes, he doesn't see crowns or maps. He sees the way your eyes crinkle into perfect, breathtaking crescents when you laugh at his ridiculous antics. He sees the faint, light dust of white flour that always seems to settle on the bridge of your nose. He wants to taste that layered cream pastry again, sure, but more than that, he just wants to hear the melodic cadence of your voice.

He wants to tease you until your stubborn pride flares up, just so he can witness that fierce, fiery spark in your eyes that makes him feel more alive than any royal decree ever could. He is a prince of the realm, surrounded by high-born court ladies who fawn over his status and offer plastic, practised smiles, but none of them holds a candle to the sharp-tongued, beautiful baker who looks right past his title and treats him like a normal man.

As he navigates the bustling market crowds, his inner monologue takes a heavier, more ache-filled turn. He is growing so tired of the midnight boundaries. He is tired of being the mysterious visitor who has to vanish before the sun crests the horizon. He wants more. He wants to be the one who wakes up next to you, watching the morning light catch your face. He wants to hold your hand in broad daylight, right in the middle of the crowded square, and dare anyone to say a word about it. He wants you to be his, entirely and completely, but he knows how fiercely independent you are, how hard you work for your little shop, and how you probably don't feel the same. So for now, he hoards these secret hours like a dragon guarding gold. And even if he has to keep this boundary with you for the rest of his life, be nothing more, he'll take that sacrifice if it means he gets to be in your presence, in your life, in whatever way you'll have him.

He turns the final corner into the main square, a boyish grin already splitting across his face, his heart does an eager little flip against his ribs. But the moment his eyes land on the bakery, his steps instantly slow to a halt.

The outdoor display racks are completely empty. The heavy linen curtains are drawn tightly across the front windows, blocking out the daylight. The wooden sign dangling from the brass chain reads CLOSED.

Jungkook frowns, a sharp, cold knot of unease tightening in the pit of his stomach. It’s mid-afternoon. The sun is at its peak. You never close the shop at this hour. Even when you were burning up with a fever last winter, you stubbornly dragged yourself down to the counter to sell bread, refusing to lose a single coin.

He hurries up to the heavy front door, his hand trembling slightly as he knocks loudly against the wood. "Y/N? Love? Are you in there? It's me."

Silence. The square carries on around him, completely indifferent to the sudden spike of adrenaline flooding his veins.

Panicking now, his breath catching in his throat, he rushes down the narrow, shadowed side alley toward the back entrance. He grabs the brass handle and turns it, fully expecting it to be locked, but to his surprise, it clicks open. He's going to have a few words with you about that. He slips inside instantly, shutting the heavy door quietly behind him to keep his presence hidden.

The kitchen is cast in deep shadows, completely devoid of the usual roaring hearth fire and bustling energy. The only light comes from a single, lonely candle burning on the centre island.

Then, he spots you.

You are standing by the deep stone sink, your back completely turned to him. Your shoulders are hunched forward, your movements incredibly slow as you mindlessly wipe a copper pot with a rag.

"Hey," he says softly, exhaling a long, ragged breath of relief as he drops his hood. "You scared the absolute hell out of me. Why are the front doors locked? Did you actually sleep in for once?"

You flinch violently at the sound of his voice, your entire body spasming as you drop the rag into the water with a dull splash. You don't turn around to face him. You remain entirely still, staring down into the basin. "Jungkook. What are you doing here? You shouldn't have come. The shop is closed today."

Your voice sounds completely wrong. It is hollow, strained, and entirely stripped of the vibrant, feisty warmth that usually greets him.

Jungkook's playful smile vanishes in an instant, his large doe eyes narrowing with deep, immediate concern. He takes a slow step closer, his boots clicking quietly against the floorboards. "Yeah, I noticed. Are you okay? You sound tired." He tries to inject a tiny bit of his usual playfulness into his tone, trying to coax a smile out of you as he steps up directly behind your frame. "Did you miss me so much this morning that you couldn't even focus on baking today?"

"Not now, Jungkook," you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. Your shoulders hunch even further forward, your head bowing.

You slowly reach up with both hands, attempting to place a copper pot on the drying shelf slightly above your head. The exact moment your arms extend upward, your breath catches violently in your throat. A sharp, ragged, agonising wince escapes your lips, and your entire body shudders as you quickly drop your arms back down, your hands flying to clutch tightly at your own side to brace yourself.

Jungkook's protective instincts flare to a blinding degree. The sight of you in discomfort hits him like a physical blow to the chest. He reaches his hand out, his palm hovering just a millimetre above your trembling shoulder, desperate to touch you but terrified of hurting you. "What's wrong? Y/N, what happened?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, your tone sharp, laced with a desperate, stubborn defensiveness.

You finally force yourself to turn around and face him, but you immediately take two deliberate steps backwards, keeping a wide distance between your bodies. You force a terrible, completely strained smile onto your pale lips, though your lower lip is trembling. "I just... I was moving the heavy wooden grain table earlier, and I bumped into the corner. Hit my side pretty hard. It's just a nasty bruise, Jungkook. I'm fine. Really."

Jungkook doesn't buy it for a single second.

He steps right back into your space, his gaze sweeping over you like a hawk, analysing every single detail of your appearance. His heart aches at the sight of you. You look terribly pale, the healthy flush entirely gone from your skin. Your eyes are heavily red-rimmed and puffy, surrounded by dark circles, making it glaringly obvious that you’ve been crying for hours. And your posture is completely wrong: you are leaning slightly forward, your spine stiff as a board, breathing in tiny, shallow, calculated gasps as if expanding your lungs fully is a luxury you can't afford right now.

Seeing you in this state genuinely, physically hurts him. It feels like a cold blade is turning in his own chest; his stomach drops, and a suffocating wave of anxiety threatens to choke him. He hates seeing you vulnerable, hates the fact that something has stolen your bright energy.

He tries to keep his composure, forcing his voice to remain calm so he doesn't spook you, until you turn slightly to the side, attempting to step away from his intense scrutiny to grab a towel.

That's when he sees it.

Through the torn fabric of your shirt, along the side of your figure, he sees the clumsy linen bandage you had tried to wrap around your own torso, which has slipped completely out of place. A small, dark red stain of fresh, wet blood is seeping heavily through the white cloth, stark and horrifying against your skin.

Jungkook’s breath hitches violently in his throat. His blood runs cold.

"Y/N," he says, his voice dropping into a dangerously low, gravelly register, entirely stripped of all playfulness. "Why is there blood on your back?"

You freeze in your tracks, your hands tightening against the fabric of your apron until your knuckles turn white. You try to let out a casual laugh, but it comes out as a pathetic, broken sob that tears right through his chest. "Blood? Oh, don't be ridiculous. It's probably just cherry jam from the tarts. I am a baker, after all, I'm always covered in-"

"Don't lie to me," he commands. The tone is quiet, but it carries the heavy, unyielding authority of a prince who will not be denied.

Before you can utter another word of deflection, he steps directly into your personal space, erasing the distance between you. His large, warm hand moves around to your back, his fingers hovering just a fraction of a millimetre above the blood-soaked bandage. He barely, infinitesimally brushes the very edge of the cloth to see what lies beneath.

The slight, feather-light pressure is a catalyst for pure agony.

A choked, absolutely agonising groan tears from your throat. Your eyes roll back for a fraction of a second as a white-hot wave of pain flares anew across your nerve endings. Your knees completely buckle beneath you, your strength vanishing instantly as your legs give out entirely.

"Whoa- hey, look at me, I've got you, I've got you!" Jungkook panics, his heart leaping straight into his throat.

His arms shoot out in a blind reflex, catching you securely before your body can slam into the hard floorboards. He pulls you tightly against his chest, cradling you against his solid frame, his large doe eyes widening to twice their size with pure, unadulterated terror. He is hyper-aware of how fragile, how small you feel in his arms right now, your entire body trembling violently against him.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I've got you," he frantically whispers, his voice shaking as he holds you up. "Talk to me, please. You have to tell me what happened. You're bleeding."

You clutch desperately at the fabric of his faded tunic, your fingernails burying into the cloth as if it's the only anchor keeping you tethered to reality. The blinding pain, the hours of lonely exhaustion, and the sudden, overwhelming comfort of his warm, safe presence break the stubborn dam holding your emotions back.

You snap completely. You bury your face into the solid crook of his neck and break down, sobbing hysterically. Deep, painful, racking wails tear from your chest, echoing loudly in the empty kitchen.

"It hurts," you cry out, your voice breaking entirely into a raw shriek. "Kook, it hurts so bad, please... I can't bear it..."

Hearing you cry like this, hearing the absolute agony in your voice, completely breaks something fundamental inside Jungkook. A wave of sheer fury crashes over his soul. He sees bright, blinding red. He is the Prince of this kingdom, and someone in his village, under his family's rule, had dared to lay their hands on you. Someone had inflicted this kind of barbaric, sickening pain on the sweetest, most selfless person he knew.

He locks that rage away into a dark corner of his mind, storing it for later, because right now, your tears are the only thing that matters.

"Let me see it," he murmurs, his voice shifting into a soothing, incredibly soft contrast to the storm raging in his chest. "Let me help you, sweetheart."

"No, it's fine, just leave it, please go away," you sob, your stubbornness flaring up one last time through the tears. You weakly try to push his chest away, hiding your face from him. "You shouldn't be here. You're a prince, Jungkook. You shouldn't be seeing me like this... it's messy, it's fine..."

"Y/N," he says, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument, though it is dripping with an unbearable amount of love and panic. He gently but firmly cups your face with both hands, forcing you to look up at him. His own eyes are shiny with unshed tears, wide and desperate as he uses his thumb to wipe a stray tear from your wet cheek. "Look at me. Look into my eyes. I am not going to hurt you. I don't care about being a prince right now. I care about you. Let me see it. Please, don't do this to me. Don't push me away when I know you're hurt."

You look into his frantic, pleading eyes, seeing the genuine agony in his own expression caused purely by your pain, and your stubborn defences finally melt away. You nod weakly, letting your head fall against his chest.

"Let's go upstairs," he whispers against your hair.

He slides one arm securely under your knees and the other firmly behind your shoulders, lifting your body effortlessly into his arms. He carries you up the narrow, creaking wooden stairs as if you weigh absolutely nothing, his movements smooth and careful, ensuring your back never brushes against a single wall or doorframe.

He carries you into your small bedroom, gently setting you down on the very edge of your bed.

The bedroom upstairs is quiet, shadowed by the late afternoon light filtering through the linen curtains. You sit on the very edge of the mattress, your knees pulled slightly toward your chest, your fingers twisting and burying into the worn bedsheets. Every shallow breath you take feels like glass slicing through your skin. Behind you, the quiet rustle of fabric and the soft clink of a ceramic basin tell you that Jungkook is preparing to face whatever horror is hidden beneath your clothes.

"I'm going to pull the fabric down. Is that okay?" Jungkook’s voice is a low, trembling whisper. The playful, cocky boy from last night is completely gone, replaced by a man carrying a heavy gravity.

You nod miserably, dropping your head down.

You feel his large hands settle on the collar of your dress. His touch is so light it’s almost non-existent, his fingers shake slightly as he carefully guides the torn, ruined cotton down your arms. He doesn't pull; he coaxes the fabric away, millimetre by millimetre, ensuring the rough material doesn't catch on the open wounds. As the cloth falls away, exposing your bare back to the cool air of the room, you hear him let out a sharp, ragged intake of breath.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Five jagged, angry lines of destroyed flesh cross your skin. They are swollen, with a deep, bruising purple at the edges, and fresh blood has oozed out where your movement has reopened them. The clumsy linen wrap you had tried to apply is tangled and soaked through with red.

"Who did this to you?" he asks.

The question is delivered in a voice so quiet, so entirely devoid of warmth, that it makes you freeze. If you were to turn around, you would see the menacing glare of a monarch in his eyes. His jaw is clenched so hard the muscles flare against his skin, his knuckles white as he grips a clean cloth.

"The patrol guards," you whisper into the empty room, a fresh tear tracking through the flour dust on your cheek. "In the square this morning. Some of the alley kids... they took a loaf of bread from the display. The guards… they caught them. They pulled out the lash for them. They're just babies, Jungkook. They were hungry. They wouldn't have survived it. I couldn't just watch."

You take a trembling breath, crying out slightly as the movement pulls at your skin. "I told the guards I'd take it instead. Three for each child... one for talking back... and a fifth... because he felt like it."

A suffocating silence fills the room. For a long, agonising moment, he doesn't say a single word. You brace yourself, expecting him to call you foolish, to tell you that a simple villager should never interfere with the Crown's enforcers. Instead, you feel the soft, slow dip of the mattress as he sits down directly behind you, closing the distance between your bodies.

"You are far too good for this world," he murmurs, his voice thick and strained with an emotion so intense it sounds like it’s tearing his throat apart.

Then, you feel the cool, wet cloth touch the very edge of the highest welt.

You flinch violently, a sharp, broken gasp escaping your lips as your hands lock onto the bedsheets. But before you can pull away, Jungkook’s free hand comes around to rest gently on your uninjured hip, holding you steady with an iron-firm but incredibly soft pressure. He rubs gently at the bare skin on your hip.

"Shh, I know, love, I'm sorry. I've got you. I'm being as gentle as I can. Just breathe through it. Focus on my hand," he murmurs, his lips so close to your bare shoulder that his warm breath fans across your skin, offering a fleeting contrast to the stinging cold of the water.

His movements are agonisingly slow but deliberate, focused. He cleans away the dried blood, his fingertips occasionally brushing against your uninjured skin. The sheer intimacy of the act makes your heart hammer in a completely different way. He treats your body like it is made of the rarest, most fragile porcelain, his touch lingering over the curves of your shoulders as if he wishes he could absorb the pain into his own skin.

He reaches into the wooden cabinet on your wall and pulls out a jar of thick, green herbal salve. He rubs a generous amount between his palms, warming it up before he speaks. "This is going to sting at first, Y/N. But it will help the fire go out. Let me know if it's too much."

When his fingers make contact with the raw wounds, a whimper tears from your throat, and without thinking, you lean to the side, your head resting against his solid shoulder. Jungkook doesn't move. He accepts your weight fully, his chest pressing lightly against your side as he leans to the side to get a better angle. His fingertips are unbelievably soft as they smooth the thick ointment over the angry welts, working with a reverent, quiet rhythm.

Every time your body shudders with a sob, he pauses completely. He leans forward, pressing his lips in a soft, comforting breath against the uninjured skin of your neck, whispering broken apologies into your skin until the tremors slow down. It feels intensely, overwhelmingly private, a sanctuary built out of raw pain and an undercurrent of heavy, undeniable devotion.

Finally, he takes a fresh roll of clean white linen bandage. To wrap it around your torso, he has to slide both of his arms completely around your waist. He leans in close, his chest flushing against your uninjured skin, effectively enveloping you in a tight embrace. You can feel the heavy beat of his heart against your shoulder blade as he pulls the cloth snug, securing it with small pins.

"There," he whispers against your ear, his hands lingering on your waist, his thumbs rubbing small circles into your sides before he reluctantly pulls away. "All clean. The fire should start to fade now."

You slowly turn your head, looking at him over your shoulder. His doe eyes are dark, swimming with a profound, aching yearning that terrifies you in their intensity. He looks at you not like a friend, and not like a vagabond, but like a man who has just watched his entire world bleed.

"Lie down," he commands softly, his voice thick, pulling the heavy wool blankets back. "Don't sleep on your back, lie on your stomach. I'm going to go brew some tea for you, okay? Don't move an inch."

You are too exhausted, too thoroughly drained of strength to argue. You crawl into the centre of the bed, resting your cheek against the pillow, and he pulls the blanket over you before leaving.

Within minutes, Jungkook returns, holding a steaming ceramic mug. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his large hand gently lifting your chin to help you take a few sips of the warm, sweet liquid.

The warmth of the tea and the cooling effect of the salve make your eyelids incredibly heavy. Jungkook sets the mug on the nightstand and reaches out, his thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face, his touch agonisingly tender.

"Thank you, Jungkook," you slurry, your eyes fluttering shut as darkness tugs at the edges of your mind. "For staying."

He leans down, his lips pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. He lingers there before pulling away and resting a hand over yours on the pillow beside you. "I will always stay," he whispers against your skin, his voice sounding far away. "Sleep now, my beautiful baker."

He stays with you, one hand stroking the back of your head, fingers toying with the strands of your hair, and occasionally massaging your scalp, his other hand firm on top of your own until you drift off. The moment your breathing evens out into a deep, heavy slumber, the lingering softness completely evaporates from Jungkook’s face.

He stands up from the edge of the mattress, his frame expanding to its full, imposing height as his expression hardens into pure, unadulterated ice. The boyish warmth that usually fills his dark eyes is gone, replaced by a vacant stillness. He looks down at you one last time, your pale face resting against the pillow, and leans over to press another gentle, feather-light kiss to your temple.

He quietly moves around the room, his boots making absolutely no sound against the wooden floorboards. He sets a fresh glass of water on your nightstand, along with a small plate of dried fruits and crackers he salvaged from your pantry. Beside it, he leaves a small piece of parchment, scrawling a quick note in his elegant, fluent script.

He writes in his usual playful tone, desperate to lighten your mood when you wake up, even if his own chest feels like it is caving in from pure malice:

Eat all of this. If I come back tonight and find out you haven't eaten, I'm going to steal every single pastry in the kitchen as punishment. Rest up, my pretty girl. I'll be back to cause more trouble soon~

He slips out of the bedroom, guides himself down the narrow stairs, and exits the bakery, locking the back door securely behind him.

The walk back to the palace is a blur of blinding, volcanic rage. He doesn't care about staying hidden anymore; he doesn't slip through the shadows or wait for patrols to pass. He cuts through the upper village like a wraith, his eyes fixed on the towering stone citadel ahead. People stare as he passes them, a path being made before him as people flock to the side, no doubt whispering about the stern look on his face.

He storms through the heavy iron servant entrances, slamming doors on their hinges, tearing off the faded linen tunic and throwing it to the stone floor like trash. Attendants and low-ranking guards rush to him, bowing in absolute terror at the sheer aura of lethal fury radiating from the young prince. They have never seen him like this.

"Get me my royal uniform," Jungkook barks, his voice ringing through the high stone corridors like a crack of thunder. "Now."

Minutes later, he is clad in the official armour of the high crest: a dark, structured jacket lined with heavy gold trim, epaulettes resting on his broad shoulders, heavy leather combat boots, and the royal insignia pinned sharply over his chest. He looks every bit the future ruler he was born to be.

He strides down the western corridor toward the main guard barracks. The heavy oak doors, reinforced with iron bands, don't just open; they slam against the stone walls with a violent, echoing crash as he kicks them through.

Dozens of off-duty guards and captains instantly freeze, dropping their dice and flagons of ale, snapping to absolute attention. The room goes dead silent.

"Who patrolled the main market square in the lower village this morning?" Jungkook demands. His voice isn't loud, but it is dangerously low, vibrating with a lethal, quiet edge that makes the hair on the back of everyone's necks stand up.

Near the back of the room, two guards exchange a nervous, sweating glance. Slowly, their armour clanking in the heavy silence, they step forward and bow deeply.

So these are the brutes who had stood over you on the cobblestones.

"We did, Your Highness," the lead guard stammers, keeping his eyes glued to the floor. "Is there an issue with the sector?"

Jungkook doesn't answer immediately. He walks up to them with a slow, agonisingly measured pace. The air in the barracks becomes completely suffocating, the temperature practically dropping as the prince circles them. He stops directly in front of the guard, who has a heavy leather whip strapped to his belt.

"An issue?" Jungkook echoes, a terrifying, dark smile tilting the left corner of his lips, though his eyes remain dead and vacant. He peers down at the guard, who is half a head shorter than him. He folds his hands behind his back, leaning in slightly. "Tell me about your morning patrol. I want to hear about how efficiently you enforce the King's law."

The lead guard swallows hard, his throat bobbing nervously. "It was... a routine patrol, sir. We apprehended a group of street rats attempting to steal from the market stalls. We administered the standard physical deterrent to ensure compliance with crown regulations."

"A physical deterrent," Jungkook repeats, his tone almost conversational, entirely too calm. "And tell me... did these so-called street rats take the lashes?"

The guard shifts his weight, his iron greaves clanking with the movement. "No, Your Highness. A local villager stepped in. A peasant girl from the bakery. She obstructed our duty and offered to take the penalty in their stead. We accommodated her request to maintain the crown's authority in the square."

"You accommodated her," Jungkook whispers. His jaw clenches so hard the muscles flare violently against his skin. His fingers curl into tight, white-knuckled fists behind his back. "Five lashes. Is that correct?"

The second guard, thinking the prince is merely verifying protocol, chimes in, "Yes, sir. Three for the stolen goods, one for her insolence and talking back to the guard, and... one extra, just to ensure she remembers her place beneath the law."

The mention of the fifth lash, the one delivered purely out of sadistic amusement, shatters the final thread of Jungkook's restraint, leaving behind a monster driven by pure, protective devastation.

Without a single syllable of warning, Jungkook’s right fist shoots forward.

Crack.

His knuckles connect squarely with the lead guard's jaw with an inhuman amount of force. The sheer momentum of the blow rips the heavily armoured man off his feet, sending him flying backwards. His body crashes into a heavy oak table, splintering the thick wood into raw kindling before his armour skids across the stone floor, a spray of dark blood erupting from his shattered mouth.

The second guard gasps in pure shock, his eyes widening in horror as his hand flies to the hilt of his sword in a blind, conditioned reflex.

"Touch that steel," Jungkook roars, stepping into his space instantly, "and I will take your hand off your wrist."

Before the guard can even process the threat, Jungkook's royal combat training takes over. He intercepts the man's arm, his grip clamping down on the wrist like an iron vice. With a brutal, fluid twist of his upper body, he snaps the guard's wrist backwards. The bone pops with a sickening, wet crunch, forcing a loud, piercing shriek of agony from the man's throat.

Jungkook doesn't stop. He drives his knee directly into the guard's stomach, crushing the wind out of his lungs, followed by a heavy kick straight to his chest plate. The metal dents inward with a loud clang, and the guard goes sailing through the air, crashing hard onto the stone floor, coughing up strings of bright blood as he rolls onto his side, clutching his broken arm.

The rest of the barracks stands paralysed. No one moves. No one breathes. To strike a royal guard is treason, but when the attacker is the future King, and a man who can kill with his bare hands, the law belongs entirely to him.

Jungkook turns his gaze back to the first guard, who is desperately scrambling backwards on his hands and knees like a terrified, wounded animal, leaving a trail of blood on the floor.

Jungkook walks over to him, his heavy leather boots thudding rhythmically. He stands over the grovelling man, then reaches down, grabbing the guard by the throat and the collar of his iron breastplate. With a guttural growl of pure, unadulterated rage, Jungkook rips the man completely off the ground, slamming his back against a massive stone pillar.

"Who do you think you are?" Jungkook hoarsely whispers, his face inches from the guard's bleeding, trembling features. He tightens his grip on the man's throat, cutting off his air until the guard's face begins to turn purple. "You wear my family's crest. You carry weapons funded by my treasury. You eat food provided by my citizens. And you use that power to strike an innocent, defenceless woman in the streets?"

"Your Highness- p-please-mercy…" the guard chokes out, tears of genuine, paralysing fright mixing with the dark blood pouring down his chin. "We didn't... we didn't know she was... we didn't know..."

"You didn't know what?" Jungkook roars, slamming him against the stone pillar a second time, cracking the mortar behind his head. "That she has a name? That she feels pain? That her life is worth infinitely more than your pathetic, miserable existences?"

He weakens his grip just enough to let the man gasp for air, only to drive a brutal left hook directly into the guard's ribs. The sound of fracturing bone echoes clearly in the silent room. The guard lets out a strangled sob, his head slumping forward.

Jungkook grabs him by his hair, forcing his head back up so he has to look into his eyes, eyes that are currently completely devoid of mercy, cold and dark as a winter grave.

"Listen to me very carefully," Jungkook whispers, his voice dropping into that lethal, quiet promise that chills everyone in the room to the bone. "If I ever see either of you set foot in the lower village market again... if I ever hear that you so much as look in the direction of that bakery... I will ensure you are stripped of your titles, thrown into the deepest dungeon beneath this palace, and I will personally pick up the leather lash and show you what five strikes feel like when delivered by someone who actually knows how to use it. Do you understand me?"

"Yes... Yes, Your Highness... Forgive us... Forgive us..." the guard weeps, his spirit completely broken, pressed flat against the cold stone.

Jungkook shoves the guard away in utter disgust, letting his limp, groaning body slide down the base of the pillar into a pathetic heap.

The prince stands up straight, slowly adjusting the cuffs of his dark royal jacket, his chest heaving with heavy, deliberate breaths as he reins in his wild adrenaline. The fury still burns hot in his veins, but his composure returns like a heavy curtain falling over a stage. He looks around the barracks at the rest of the silent soldiers who are still locked at attention, none of them daring to even blink.

"Clean this pathetic mess up," Jungkook barks coldly, casting one final, disgusted look at the two broken men on the floor. "And remember exactly whose crest you wear. If any of you forget your duty to protect our people, I will personally remind you."

He turns on his polished leather heel, his golden cape snapping behind him, and storms out of the barracks, his mind already racing out of the palace gates and straight back to your quiet, shadowed bedroom.

The bright, warm rays of the morning sun pierce through your thin linen curtains, casting long, golden bars across your bedroom.

You slowly blink your eyes open, your body instantly tensing as you brace yourself for the white-hot, agonising fire that had consumed your back yesterday. You hold your breath, carefully shifting your weight to test the movement, but to your absolute surprise, the blinding agony has receded into a dull, thoroughly manageable ache. The throbbing is heavy, a reminder of the guards' cruelty, but it no longer cuts your breath short. The cooling herbal salve Jungkook applied worked absolute wonders overnight.

You slowly press your palms into the mattress, pushing yourself up into a sitting position, your eyes immediately darting around the quiet room.

Jungkook.

He is gone. The space beside your bed feels entirely empty, the cool morning air still carrying the faintest, lingering hint of his crisp, rich scent.

A heavy wave of emotion hits you as you sit there in the morning silence, the blankets pooled around your waist. Your mind drifts back to the blurry memories of yesterday. You remember the sheer terror in Jungkook's eyes when your knees had buckled in the kitchen, the way his strong arms had snapped around you before you could even hit the floor. He had held you so tightly against his chest, as if you were something incredibly precious he couldn't bear to see broken.

The memory of his touch makes your skin tingle beneath your bandages. He is the Crown Prince of the realm, a man born to be served, and yet he spent his hours kneeling on your floor, on your bed, cleaning your wounds with trembling hands, and whispering soft, broken apologies against your skin every time you whimpered in pain. The sheer, intoxicating intimacy of him wrapping the linen around your waist, pulling you flush against his solid chest, plays on a loop in your head. It sends a strange, dizzying heat curling deep into your stomach, a mixture of profound gratitude and a budding, terrifyingly deep affection.

You turn your head towards the nightstand. There sits a fresh glass of clear water, a small plate neatly stacked with dried fruits and crackers, and a folded piece of parchment. You reach out, your fingers tracing the crisp edges of the paper before unfolding it. Reading his messy, hurried handwriting, a genuine, breathless laugh bubbles up in your chest.

The ridiculous boyishness of his threat instantly cuts through the lingering shadows of yesterday's trauma. Even when he is trying to be authoritative, he can’t help but be the same teasing menace who steals your cake batter. You smile, dutifully eating every single cracker and dried fruit on the plate, feeling the energy slowly returning to your limbs, before drinking the water down to the very last drop.

Exhaling a long, steady breath, you carefully slide off the bed. You find a loose, lightweight, clean dress in your wardrobe and slip it over your head with meticulous care so the fabric doesn't rub harshly against the fresh dressings. You feel remarkably better; the deep, uninterrupted rest has done wonders for your body and mind.

Marching down the staircase, you are determined to open the bakery today. You refuse to let those guards steal your livelihood or intimidate you out of your own shop, and you certainly can't let your regular village customers down two days in a row.

The kitchen downstairs is dead quiet, smelling faintly of the chamomile tea Jungkook had brewed for you. You walk straight to the front door, unlocking the heavy brass deadbolt, and pull the thick curtains back to let the brilliant morning light flood the room. Bracing yourself, you push the front door open and step onto the threshold to set up the outdoor display.

The moment your boots clear the frame, you freeze completely in your tracks.

Sitting proudly on the wooden bench right beside your shop entrance is an overflowing bouquet. It is massive, easily the size of your entire torso, completely taking over the small wooden bench. But as you take a slow, hesitant step closer, your brow furrows in sheer confusion.

The flowers aren't real.

You lean down, your breath catching completely in your throat as your eyes scan the arrangement. They are meticulously, beautifully handcrafted entirely out of soft, colourful yarn. Dozens upon dozens of intricately crocheted roses, delicate lilies, and bright daisies, amongst others, which are woven together with an unbelievable amount of patience, care, and precision. The bouquet bursts with vibrant, warm shades of pastel pink, sunny yellow, and rich cream, completely immune to the biting morning frost.

Tears instantly spring to your eyes, a sudden, heavy wave of emotion tightening in your chest until it's actually hard to breathe.

You are, unfortunately, severely allergic to real flowers; the pollen makes your eyes swell shut, and your lungs feel heavier within minutes. It is a small, trivial detail you had mentioned to Jungkook months ago, a passing, light-hearted remark made at two in the morning while you both sat on the kitchen floor giggling over a tray of accidentally burnt sugar cookies. You hadn't thought twice about it. You had assumed he forgot it the second the words left your mouth.

Yet here they are. Flowers that will never wither, flowers that can never trigger your allergies, flowers made with a level of dedication that a person can only give when they are entirely, irrevocably devoted to someone. Only a handful of people in the world know that secret about you, and your royal visitor remembered every single syllable.

Tucked precisely into the centre of the soft yarn roses is a small, heavy piece of parchment. You reach out, your fingers trembling violently as you pull the note free from the stitches and unfold it.

I heard real flowers make you sneeze. These will never wither, and they will never hurt you. I'll be there tonight. Don't lock the back door. - J. p.s. leave out some extra cookies, please <3

You press the heavy paper firmly against your chest, right over your thundering heart, staring out into the bustling village square. A silent tear slips down your cheek, cutting through the light dust of flour on your skin, but a bright, genuine smile graces your lips.

Yesterday, you felt completely alone, broken and humiliated on the cold cobblestones while the world looked away in fear. But today, clutching this note, you feel safer, more cherished, and more protected than you have ever felt in your entire life.

The porch light is on, illuminating the front steps and the black railing. It makes the house stand out against the darkness of the quiet neighborhood. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks, but then the world falls silent again.

Your hands are still clutching the steering wheel, your fingers wrapped around the black leather so tightly that your knuckles are cracking at the seams. Every now and then your grip loosens, only to tighten again when another memory surfaces. Your head hurts from crying, and your eyes are so bloodshot that your tears could easily be mistaken for pink eye. There’s a crumpled napkin in the cupholder from the gas station you stopped at on the way over, and it’s completely useless now after being used to wipe away tears for most of the drive.

You know you should get out of the car—it’s why you came here in the first place. But every time you reach for the door handle, your stomach lurches and you find yourself staring back at the porch light instead.

Garrett Graham isn’t your best friend. The two of you don’t talk every day. You don’t know his favorite movie or his biggest pet peeve. If someone asked you to list the most important people in your life, his name probably wouldn’t be one of the first few that came to mind.

But somehow, when everything fell apart tonight, this was where you ended up.

Maybe it’s because Garrett has always felt easy to be around. Not in the way Brooks did, where every conversation made your stomach flutter and every text had the ability to make your day better, but he is different. He’s steady and familiar, the kind of person who remembers that you have an exam coming up and asks how it went a week later. The kind of person who notices when you’re having a bad day and doesn’t make a big deal out of it. You met him in a foreign policy class spring semester of sophomore year and became friends almost by accident. One study session turned into another, and then coffee after class became normal. Those coffee hangouts were where you bonded over your birthdays being in the second half of the school year, so you guys wouldn’t turn 21 until spring semester junior year. It was where he teased you over being four days older than you. Somewhere along the way, he became someone you trusted without ever consciously deciding to.

Your eyes drift back to the porch light, and the sight of it makes your throat tighten all over again.

Because just over twelve hours ago, you were happy. The memory hits so suddenly that your grip tightens on the steering wheel.

You had told Brooks to meet you there. The entire drive over, however, you had gone back and forth on whether bringing him was a mistake. Part of you wanted to turn around and go home before he arrived, but the other part of you knew that if you left now, you would regret it.

The cemetery wasn’t a secret, but it wasn’t something you shared either. Most people knew your mother had passed away. You were nine, and had found her in the bathtub, submerged in water that was so red that your naive, youth-centered mind had thought it was Koolaid at first. You remember laughing and telling her that her skin would be all sticky from the sugar, but when she didn’t answer you after repeated calls of her name, you yelled for your dad so loudly the only way it could be described was maniacal.

Some people knew where she was buried, but nobody other than your dad had ever sat beside you there. That place belonged to the three of you.

It was where you went when you missed her, and where you ended up on birthdays and holidays. Because Briar was only thirty minutes from your hometown, it was where you came after bad exams, job interviews, and every other major moment of your life because some part of you still wanted to tell her about it. Even after eleven years, the cemetery remained one of the few places where grief felt honest. You never had to pretend you were okay there.

When Brooks’ Grand Cherokee finally pulled into the parking lot, your stomach twisted itself into knots.

You remember watching him climb out through the windshield, and then immediately noticing everything in his hands—a cardboard drink carrier, which he could barely handle without dropping due to the bouquet of flowers wrapped in brown paper—and the sight caught you so off guard that you actually laughed when you stepped out of your car.

“What’s all that?”

Brooks glanced down at what he was carrying as though he’d forgotten about it entirely, “I stopped at Malone’s on the way. Thought you could use something to warm you up.”

You remember reaching for one of the drinks first. The paper cup was warm against your cold hands. Massachusett’s in October wasn’t forgiving. The wind coming off the Atlantic had teeth that nipped so hard it felt like shark season, and the cold had settled deep into your bones before you’d even made it to the cemetery. The heat from the cup felt incredible against your frozen fingers.

The second you read Della’s messy handwriting your heart softened. It was hot chocolate.

Three weeks earlier, you’d mentioned during a late-night study session that coffee made you anxious whenever you were stressed. It had been a completely insignificant conversation, one of hundreds you’d had together since meeting freshmen year. At least, you thought it had been insignificant, but evidently, Brooks hadn’t.

“You got me hot chocolate?”

“You sound surprised,” he chuckled softly.

“I am surprised.”

Brooks flashed you a soft smile, and the slight coffee stain on his teeth complimented his blond hair more than you would have liked to admit, “It seemed better than coffee.”

You remember smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. It wasn’t because of the hot chocolate itself, but because he’d remembered. It was such a tiny detail, such a stupid little thing, but somehow it mattered to him.

Then your eyes landed on the second cup sitting in the carrier.

“What about that one?”

The expression on his face softened, “This one’s for your mom.”

Even now, sitting outside Garrett’s house at 1:30 in the morning with tears drying on your cheeks, that memory steals the air from your lungs.

For a second, you hadn’t known what to say, and had simply stared at him. Who thinks of that? Who remembers that your mom’s favorite coffee came from a tiny local diner you’d mentioned once over breakfast at that diner two months ago?

Apparently Brooks did. He walked into Malone’s after his last Friday class, remembered your mom’s order, bought the coffee, and brought it to the cemetery for someone he’d never met and someone he never would.

Your throat tightens. At the time, the gesture had felt so thoughtful that it was almost overwhelming, but in such a good way. Now it just feels unbearable, like the effects of coffee on you when you’re stressed.

The flowers had somehow been even worse.

You remember Brooks sitting down on her gravesite next to you, his hand tracing the carvings of her name and the epitaph on her gravestone: Goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere. Your dad chose the quote because Goodnight Moon had been the first book your mom had ever read to you. As Brooks did so, you finally noticed the bouquet tucked beneath his arm and immediately dissolved into laughter.

He looked completely offended, but you couldn’t stop laughing.

“What?”

“Brooks.”

“What?”

“Those are carnations.”

His eyebrows pulled together.

“My mom hated carnations.”

The look on his face had quickly become one of your favorite memories. He was struck with pure horror and confusion, and his expression was one of a man realizing he’d accidentally made a catastrophic mistake without having any idea how.

“How was I supposed to know that?”

“You weren’t.”

“Then why are you laughing at me?” Because your mom hated carnations. She hated them because they’d reminded her of funerals. Every time she saw them in a grocery store, she complained about how depressing they looked. She refused to buy them, refused to put them in the house, and refused to let anyone send them to her. There was one time her aunt had passed away and her college roommate had sent her a vase of them, and while she wrote a letter back to thank her, she had immediately thrown them into the trash.

Somehow Brooks had unknowingly shown up to a cemetery carrying the one flower she would have made fun of immediately. The irony was too much, but your laughter eventually settled into something softer. You took the bouquet from him and looked down at the flowers, “They’re perfect.”

Brooks blinked, “I thought she hated them.”

“She did.”

“Then how are they perfect?”

A smile tugged at your lips, because you knew your mom would have laughed. She would have teased him and would have spent the next twenty minutes giving him a hard time about funeral flowers in a cemetery.

But she would’ve loved him for trying.

“I think she’d think this is hilarious.”

The relief that crossed Brooks’ face made you laugh all over again. 

Looking back now, you think that was the moment everything changed. Somewhere between the hot chocolate and the carnations, the coffee and the stories of her, you stopped wondering whether you could trust him. You started believing that you already did.

Eventually, however, the cold won.

Not all at once—neither of you looked at the time and decided it was time to leave. It happened gradually, the way most good afternoons do. The once steaming hot coffee Brooks had left beside your mother’s gravestone had gone completely cold, and the hot chocolate in your hands was barely warm anymore. Every time the wind picked up, you found yourself pulling his Red Sox sweatshirt tighter around your body. You don’t recall who stood up first, only looking up and realizing the sun had started to dip lower in the sky, “I think we’re freezing to death.”

“Good thing we’re in a cemetery, then,” Brooks shot back, a joking smile spread across his rosy cheeks.

You rolled your eyes so hard it made him laugh, which only made his smile widen. You looked back over at the headstone, where the carnations rested at the base beside the coffee cup. Looking at them made something warm settle in your chest again.

The thought makes your chest ache now.

You eventually brushed the grass off your dark wash jeans and climbed to your feet. Brooks stood a second later, immediately offering you a hand when you stumbled slightly because your legs had fallen asleep, half from sitting with them folded under the rest of your body and half because your feet were numb from the spine-tingling chill in the air.

When you finally reached your Civic, you leaned against the driver’s side door while Brooks stopped beside his Grand Cherokee. Although a few cars remained scattered throughout the parking lot, most people had gone home. For a moment, neither of you said anything, not because there was nothing left to say, but because neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave.

Then Brooks checked his phone, and a quiet curse slipped from beneath his breath before he shook his head and laughed.

“What?” you questioned, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

His eyes met yours, and let a quiet sigh out, “I told the guys I’d meet them tonight.”

It takes you a second to remember what he’s talking about, but then it registers, “Malone’s?”

He nodded. It had been the plan all week. The true reason you even knew about it was because your boyfriend had spent several days complaining about how impossible it was to get a group of college guys to agree on where they wanted to go. Brooks immediately asked if you’d go with him, and for a second, you were tempted, but then the wind cut through the parking lot again.

“I’m going home, taking a hot shower, and then burrowing under my blankets while watching Derry Girls,” you grinned before gesturing to his truck, “Go have fun with the guys.”

He nodded and began to make his way to the driver side door, but turned back towards you before hopping in, “Sorry about the carnations.”

You laughed, “They’re perfect. Breakfast tomorrow?”

“Sounds great. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Have fun tonight.”

With that, you guys waved goodbye to each other and both hopped into your cars. You immediately turned your Civic on and blasted the heat on high, trying your best to warm up your numb extremities as quickly as possible. As you held your fingers up to the vents, you never once questioned whether tomorrow would happen. You never once questioned him.

Maybe that’s why the memory hurts so much now.

By the time you got back to your dorm, the emotional exhaustion finally started catching up with you. 

You showered. You changed into an oversized t-shirt you’ve had since high school and a pair of Briar pajama pants with a hole near the right pocket. You spent ten minutes standing in front of the open refrigerator because you were hungry enough to want good but too tired to actually make any, so you eventually settled for doordashing some Taco Bell and eating whatever cake was left over from your roommate’s birthday earlier in the week. By the time you climbed into bed, your chest felt lighter than it had in weeks, even months, maybe. For the first time in a long time, you weren’t overthinking anything.

The realization would usually embarrass you, but your decision to curl up beneath your blankets and turn on Derry Girls stopped you before you could. Your roommate decided to go to Nashville to visit her sister for the weekend, so other than the occasional rumbling of a car engine outside of your window, the apartment was quiet around you. 

After a few episodes, you grabbed your phone. You scrolled through Instagram absentmindedly. A girl from one of your classes went to some indie concert in Boston, your cousin in Ohio posted pictures from a high school football game, and one of Garrett’s teammates posted something about an NHL trade that meant absolutely nothing to you, so you skipped past it without a second thought. 

Then Brooks’ story appeared, and when you spotted the picture of him kissing your cheek in the corner of your screen, you couldn't help but smile. 

You watched it without thinking. It was normal at first—flashing lights, the Briar pennant hanging from the wooden ceiling, a crowd of college kids with all kinds of beer and seltzers in their hands—but then you noticed the girl standing in front of your boyfriend.

At first, you weren’t concerned. Why should you have been? He was at Malone’s on a Friday night, and the place looked crowded enough that 75% of the diner was probably standing shoulder to shoulder. But then he reached for her, and your heart dropped to your stomach as your brain tried to comprehend what you were seeing. The video seemed to slow down as you witnessed what happened next.

Brooks leaned forward. The girl did too.

And then he kissed her.

You swiped out of the story and immediately opened Brook’s profile. It was gone.

The realization settled over you like a wave gripping you around your ankles. He deleted it, but not before you saw it. Your eyes burned, but the first thing you thought about wasn’t the girl. It was the cemetery.

Only a few hours before, you had brought him to the one place you’d never brought anyone else. You’d shared a piece of you that was so fragile and important, and he’d handled it so carefully that you sat at her grave thinking about how much you trusted him. In the same night, he brought coffee and flowers for your mom and kissed a random girl.

That’s how you’ve ended up in Garrett Graham’s driveway.

A mixture of the contradictions and amount of tears you’ve cried makes your head spin. You’ve spent the better part of the last hour replaying the day over and over again, trying to figure out where everything went wrong. Every time you think you’ve reached some kind of conclusion, another memory surfaces and erases all of your progress. So, eventually, you stop trying.

For a second, you just sit in the driver’s seat with your head pressed against the steering wheel. You can’t stop thinking about how ridiculous this is.

Garrett’s not your best friend. He’s just Garrett. The guy who sat next to you in foreign policy and stole your notes because his handwriting resembled that of a doctor’s. The guy who always remembered to wish you luck before your exams. The guy who would always tease you for being four days younger. The guy who you only talk to when you see him while walking to class now. 

He’s just Garrett, but he’s exactly who you want right now.

Your eyes drift back to the porch light again. You have been staring at it for almost the entire time you've been sitting in this driveway. Every time your thoughts spiral, your gaze finds that same warm yellow glow spilling across the front steps and black railing. The light itself isn't remarkable. It's just a porch light attached to a house you've seen plenty of times before. But tonight, after everything that's happened, it feels like the only steady thing in your field of vision. Brooks's story disappeared. Your plans for tomorrow disappeared. Your certainty about him disappeared. The porch light hasn't changed.

You let your head fall back against the seat and close your eyes for a second. The silence inside the car presses in around you, broken only by the soft rumble of the engine and the occasional hiss of the broken speaker. You've spent the last fifteen minutes trying to convince yourself to get out, then trying to convince yourself to leave, then trying to convince yourself to stop thinking about any of it. None of those things are working. Your chest still hurts. Your eyes still burn. The memory of Brooks leaning toward that girl still keeps flashing through your head no matter how hard you try to push it away.

When you open your eyes again, the porch light is still on.

That is what finally pushes you into motion.

Not because it suddenly feels easy, and not because you suddenly know what you're going to say. It doesn't feel easy. You have absolutely no idea what you're going to say. But the light means the house is awake. It means Garrett is inside. It means that if you walk up those steps and knock on the door, someone will answer.

The realization settles in your chest slowly. You don't need a perfect explanation right now. You don't need to know what happens tomorrow. You just need to stop sitting in this car pretending that staying here is somehow easier than going inside.

You reach for the keys and turn the engine off. The sudden quiet feels almost shocking after the constant growl beneath you. For a moment, you just sit there listening to your own breathing. Then you grab your phone from the passenger seat, shove it into the pocket of your sweatshirt, and push open the driver's side door.

The cold air hits your face immediately. You pull your sweatshirt tighter around yourself as you step out onto the driveway. The gravel crunches softly under your shoes while you make your way toward the house, and with every step your stomach twists a little tighter. Part of you still wants to turn around. Part of you still wants to get back in the car, drive home, and deal with all of this tomorrow. But another part of you knows that if you do that, you'll spend the entire night alone with the same thoughts that have been tearing through your head for hours.

By the time you reach the bottom of the porch steps, the light that had been keeping your attention all night is directly above you. The warmth of it spills across the porch and catches the edges of the railing, making the front door look almost inviting. You climb the steps one at a time, your heartbeat growing louder with each one. When you finally stop in front of the door, you hesitate for a second, suddenly aware of how absurd this is. It's one-thirty in the morning. You're standing on Garrett Graham's porch with swollen eyes and a broken heart, about to interrupt whatever he was doing because you couldn't bear to be alone.

The second your knuckles hit the door, regret settles heavily in your stomach.

Not because you don't want Garrett to answer. If that were true, you wouldn't be here. You wouldn't have driven across town in the middle of the night, crying so hard that you had to pull into a gas station just to get yourself under control before getting back on the road. But standing on the porch and actually hearing the sound of your knock echo through the house are two very different things. 

Suddenly, the reality of what you're doing catches up to you. You are standing on Garrett Graham's front porch at one-thirty in the morning because the guy you’ve been dating for two years cheated on you.

The thought sounds ridiculous when you put it that way.

For a second, you consider leaving, but then you hear movement inside the house, and your stomach immediately drops.

The footsteps are muffled, but they're getting closer. Every second that passes makes it harder to run. You stare at the door, then at the porch floor, then back at the door again, suddenly feeling stupid for coming. 

What exactly are you supposed to say? Hi, Garrett. Remember the guy I trusted enough to introduce to my dead mom today? Turns out he cheated on me six hours later. The thought is so absurd that under different circumstances it might actually be funny, but tonight it makes your throat tighten.

The lock clicks and the door opens. 

Garrett appears in the doorway wearing a white Briar t-shirt and gray sweatpants, looking exactly like someone who wasn't expecting company. His curls are a mess, flattened on one side and sticking up on the other, and his eyes still have that heavy, tired look of somebody who'd either been planning to go to bed or had already been in bed. 

For a moment, he just stares at you from the doorway, his eyes moving across your face as if he’s trying to figure out what happened. You can practically see him trying to figure out why you're standing on his porch at one-thirty in the morning. Whatever he'd expected when he opened the door, it definitely wasn't this.

One thing you've always liked about Garrett is that he's terrible at pretending not to care. If something is bothering him, you know it. If he's worried about someone, you know that too. 

Right now, the concern on his face is impossible to miss, "Y/N?"

The way he says your name almost undoes you.

It's such a normal thing. He isn't dramatic about it. He just says your name the way anyone would when they're surprised to see somebody standing on their porch in the middle of the night.

“Hi, Garrett.” you whisper, doing your best to shoot him a small smile, but the attempt lasts two seconds before 

Garrett watches whatever expression you'd been trying to make disappear the second it reaches your face, and the concern in his eyes deepens. He looks exhausted, confused, and increasingly worried all at the same time, "Are you okay?" he asks.

The question is simple, but it completely destroys you. Your eyes immediately fill with tears. You try to answer him but the second you try to speak your throat closes up, and a strangled sound escapes instead. You look away, pressing your lips together as though that might somehow stop the tears from falling.

It doesn't.

Garrett's expression changes the second he realizes you can't answer him. The confusion disappears, replaced by something much closer to panic. He takes a small step forward onto the porch, his eyes moving over your face as though he's trying to find an explanation hidden somewhere there. For a second he just watches you struggle to pull yourself together, and then something seems to occur to him. You can practically see the thought cross his face.

"Y/N, hey. Did somebody touch you?" he asks.

The question catches you so off guard that you actually look up at him.

Garrett swallows hard. "Did somebody hurt you?"

The concern in his voice makes everything worse. You realize exactly where his mind has gone and why. As far as Garrett knows, one of his friends has shown up at his house in the middle of the night crying so hard she can't speak. He has no context or explanation. He has nothing except the sight of you standing on his porch looking completely wrecked.

Fresh tears spill over immediately.

"Y/N," Garrett mutters, dragging a hand through his already messy curls. His eyes never leave your face, "Y/N, talk to me."

You try, but the effort lasts all of two seconds before another sob catches in your throat. Garrett's entire expression tightens. One thing you've always known about him is that he cares loudly. He isn't good at pretending something doesn't bother him. If he's worried, everybody knows. If he's angry, everybody knows. Right now, every bit of concern he feels is written all over his face.

"You're scaring me," he admits quietly, "Seriously, Y/N, you're scaring me."

Something about hearing that finally breaks whatever fragile control you'd been holding onto for the last hour.

You suck in a shaky breath, "I took Brooks to meet my mom today."

The words come out so quickly they almost run together. Once they start, they don't stop, "I took him to the cemetery because I trusted him and I've never brought anybody there before and he brought flowers and coffee and sat there for hours listening to me talk about her and then he went out with his friends tonight and posted himself kissing another girl."

Garrett's shoulders drop just enough for you to realize where his mind had gone before this.

For the last several minutes, he'd clearly been imagining every possible scenario that could explain why you were standing on his porch crying so hard you couldn't speak. The relief that flashes across his face isn't relief that you're hurting. If anything, seeing how devastated you are seems to make him even more upset. It's relief that nobody touched you. Nobody assaulted you. Nobody put you in a hospital. The awful possibilities he'd been building in his head disappear, only to be replaced by a different kind of anger, “He cheated on you?”

You nod, and the movement feels embarrassingly small after everything you've just confessed.

For a moment, Garrett doesn't say anything. He just looks at you. The concern never leaves his face, but now it's tangled up with disbelief. You've spent months talking about Brooks—not constantly, but enough that Garrett knew who he was. You can practically see him trying to reconcile the guy you described with the story you just told.

Then he opens the door wider, “Please come inside.”

There isn't any hesitation in his voice. Garrett doesn't ask if you want to come in. He just takes one look at you and decides you're not standing on his porch crying in forty-degree weather any longer.

The warmth of the house hits you immediately when you step inside. It should feel ordinary. You've been here before. You've sat on this couch before. You've eaten pizza at that coffee table while listening to Garrett complain about professors and hockey and group projects in his other classes. But everything suddenly feels strangely distant, like you're observing it through glass. The strange thing is that you're grateful for it. You are so tired of thinking.

You sink into the couch cushions while Garrett disappears into the kitchen. You can faintly hear the sound of water running from the faucet and a glass tapping lightly against the counter. The normalcy of it almost makes you cry again.

When he comes back, he hands it to you gently before settling onto the couch next to you, but he doesn’t crowd you. Garrett has always had an oddly good instinct for when people need space and when they need company, and right now he seems to understand that you need both. 

For a few minutes, neither of you says much. You stare down into the water while Garrett watches you with the same worried expression he had on the porch. The TV is still playing some NHL highlights somewhere behind him, but neither of you are paying attention to it. Eventually, the silence becomes too heavy to ignore.

“I've never brought anybody there before,” the words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

Garrett's expression softens immediately.

You stare at the glass in your hands because looking at him suddenly feels impossible, “I've never brought friends. I've never brought a boyfriend. I've never brought anybody. I spent the entire drive there wondering if I was making a mistake, and then he showed up with flowers and coffee and remembered all these stories I'd told him. He sat there for hours listening to me talk about her, and I just…I thought I'd been right about him. I shouldn't have brought him, Garrett.”

Garrett's reaction is immediate, “No.”

You blink at him, confusion written on his face.

“No,” he repeats, gentler this time. “You don’t get to do that.”

The concern in his voice is almost worse than if he'd gotten angry.

“But if I hadn't—”

“If you hadn't brought him there, he still would've been the guy who cheats on his girlfriend.”

The words settle heavily between you. Garrett says them without harshness or frustration. He just sounds sad that you're even trying to carry this responsibility in the first place.

“You bringing him to the cemetery didn't make him do anything,” he continues. “You trusting him didn't make him do anything. The stories about your mom didn't make him do anything. All that happened is that you trusted somebody you cared about, and he turned out to be an idiot.”

Your eyes immediately fill with tears again.

Garrett notices (of course he does), but he doesn't backtrack, “You keep talking about the cemetery like that's the moment you messed up,” he says quietly. “It isn't. If you hadn't brought him there, he'd still be exactly who he is. You just would've found out later.”

The room falls silent again, and Garrett lets the silence sit for a few minutes before speaking again, "What was your mom like?"

The question catches you so off guard that you actually look up at him for what feels like the first time that night, “What?”

"Your mom,” his voice softens, “You've spent the last half an hour talking about Brooks and what he did. I want to hear about her.”

For a moment, you just stare at him. All night, every conversation in your head has revolved around Brooks. Every memory from the day had somehow become tangled together with the image of that Instagram story until you couldn't separate them anymore.

Now Garrett is sitting across from you asking about your mom, not because he's trying to distract you, but because he genuinely wants to know.

The answer comes out before you can overthink it, and a small smile pulls at your mouth just thinking of her, “She was funny. Really funny, actually.”

Garrett leans back slightly in the chair, the concern still written on his face but softer now, “Yeah?”

You laugh quietly, “She was one of those people who could make friends with anybody. It didn't matter where we were, but we'd leave twenty minutes after we were supposed to because she wanted to know somebody's life story. Half the time I’d be standing there wondering how she got into another conversation with a complete stranger.”

Garrett smiles, “That sounds exhausting.”

“It was.”

You spend a few minutes telling him about her obsession with French vanilla coffee and the way she'd sing along to songs despite never actually knowing the lyrics. Half the words were wrong, but she'd commit to them so confidently that nobody ever bothered correcting her. Garrett laughs at that, and before long you're laughing too.

Garrett grins, “That sounds familiar.”

You narrow your eyes, “Are you comparing yourself to my dead mother?”

“I'm saying confidence is a valuable skill.”

“That's not what you're saying.”

“It is absolutely what I'm saying.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. For a few seconds, the conversation settles into a comfortable silence. Then Garrett leans back in the chair, folding his arms across his chest, “My mom was kind of the opposite.”

“Yeah?”

He nods, and the fondness in his voice is immediate, “She wasn't shy or anything. She just didn't need to be the center of everything. My dad was always the loud one. My mom was usually the person sitting back watching everybody else.”

You'd heard Garrett mention his mom before, but not often. But you can’t help but note that a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth when talking about her, “When I was little, she'd sit through every practice and game. It didn't matter if it was six in the morning or three hours away. She was always there. Half the time I'd get off the ice and she'd already have hot chocolate waiting.”

Your chest tightens just enough to remind you why Garrett understands more than most people probably realize. 

And because of Garrett Graham, for the first time since you opened Instagram, you’re remembering your mom without immediately remembering Brooks too.

Next to you, Garrett knows that tomorrow morning you're going to wake up exhausted. Your eyes will be swollen from crying, you'll probably have a headache, and if he's being honest, you'll almost definitely pretend you're fine when you aren't. Garrett knows that because that's what you do.

His eyes drift toward the kitchen for a second.

He has no idea whether there's any French vanilla creamer in the house, but he knows that as soon as you fall asleep, he’s going to check.

Because every time you talk about your mom, the sadness is still there, but it isn't consuming you the way it was when you first showed up. The stories seem to pull you out of your own head for a little while, and with each one, you look a little more like the girl he met in his foreign policy class.

And if a cup of French vanilla coffee gets you talking about her again tomorrow morning, then he'll figure out a way to make sure there's one waiting for you.