Bunny

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.

A puck hit the glass in front of you hard enough to make you jolt, and when you looked up, Garrett was skating by with an apology that did not look very apologetic. He circled back with his stick loose in one hand, face flushed from practice and hair damp under his helmet, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who had nearly shaved five years off your life.

“Sorry,” he called through the glass. “Didn’t see you there.”

“You absolutely saw me there.”

His grin widened, which was answer enough.

Since he was already hovering, you lifted your phone and started recording. “Rapid fire, Graham. Favorite pregame song?”

Garrett stopped on the other side of the glass and seemed to consider it for half a second before giving you the least helpful answer possible. “Depends on the game.”

You gave him a look over the top of your phone. “Boring answer. Favorite snack?”

“Also depends.”

“Try harder.”

His laugh carried through the glass, warm and easy, and he finally gave in. “Fine. That granola bar thing you had last week.”

You lowered the phone a little without meaning to. “You made fun of me for eating that.”

“I noticed it, didn’t I?”

That was the problem with Garrett. He could say something simple and make it feel like there was more tucked underneath it, especially when he was watching your reaction like he cared more about making you smile than getting through the question.

Behind him, Logan skated past and let out a dramatic cough that sounded suspiciously fake. Garrett did not even turn around. He only lifted one gloved hand in Logan’s direction, dismissing him without taking his attention off you.

You raised the phone again and tried to get back on track. “Favorite part of game day?”

This time, Garrett actually answered. He said something about the crowd, the energy, and the way the locker room felt right before the team stepped out onto the ice. It was a good answer, the kind you could actually use, and you were already thinking about where to cut the clip when his gaze slipped from the phone to your face.

“And the account’s gotten better this year,” he added.

You kept the phone up, though your thumb twitched near the stop button. “That wasn’t the question.”

Garrett’s mouth curved. “Still true.”

You stopped recording before your expression could betray you too clearly. He must have known exactly what he had done, because his smile softened, but instead of pushing it, he tapped his stick against the boards and skated backward.

“Make sure you get my good side, admin.”

By the time you posted the clip that afternoon, you had cut it down to the safest version. Garrett talking about game day, Garrett laughing when Logan nearly crashed into him in the background, Garrett saying the account had gotten better in a tone you convinced yourself sounded normal enough to leave in.

It took exactly eight minutes for the comments to become insufferable.

@ briarhockeyfan: he looked at admin more than the camera btw @ campuscrushwatch: no because why did his voice get softer at the end @ grahamcracker88: this account is now a slow burn and i support it @ briarupdates: admin please blink twice if garrett graham is flirting with you @ briarstudentsection: he said “still true” and i folded from my dorm room

You stared at the screen with your thumb hovering over the comment section, your face warm enough that you turned the brightness down as if that would somehow make it less obvious.

People online exaggerated everything. You knew that. They could turn a five-second clip into a full conspiracy board if they were bored enough between classes. Garrett was charming with everyone. He smiled at professors, dining hall workers, fans in the stands, and random students who stopped him on campus. He could probably get a vending machine to apologize after stealing his dollar.

That was just Garrett, you told yourself.

You repeated it later in the week when he showed up beside you before an early practice with two coffees in his hands.

The rink was still half-empty, the air cold enough that your fingers ached around your phone. You had arrived before most of the team to film quiet shots of the arena, the kind of soft, cinematic clips that made game day posts feel more polished. You were crouched near the bench, trying to get a clean shot of the logo at center ice, when a coffee appeared in front of you.

Garrett stood there in sweats and a Briar hoodie, one strap of his bag slung over his shoulder, his hair still messy like he had barely made it out of bed.

“You said the café line was crazy before eight,” he said.

You took the cup and stared at the label, realizing he had somehow gotten your order right. “I said that two weeks ago.”

“I have a decent memory.”

“You remembered my coffee order?”

“I did.” A sly smile spread across his face.

“Thank you,” you said, quieter than you meant to.

He nodded toward your phone. “You filming this morning?”

“B-roll.”

“Sounds fancy.”

“It’s literally just empty rink footage.”

“Still fancy when you say it.”

Dean’s voice carried from down the hall before he could say anything else, loud enough to make Garrett glance over his shoulder. Before he left, he nodded toward the far end of the rink where the doors always let in a brutal draft.

“You should film from this side today. Better lighting.”

You knew very well that lighting had nothing to do with it, but you looked toward the warmer side of the rink anyway. “Better lighting?”

“Definitely.”

He left you with the coffee and a smile you thought about for the rest of practice, which was embarrassing because the coffee was good, the lighting was not noticeably better, and Garrett had still somehow gotten exactly what he wanted.

The worst part was that it did not stop there.

When the rink air left your fingers stiff around your phone, Garrett started steering interviews closer to the tunnel instead of making you chase the guys along the boards, and he acted like it was only because the sound was better there. When you stayed late after a game to pack away the small tripod and mic equipment, he always seemed to come out of the locker room slowly enough to walk toward the exit at the same time. When you asked the team who was most likely to survive on a deserted island, Garrett gave your name because you “looked like you could organize everybody into staying alive,” and Dean immediately yelled from off camera that Garrett was not on the island, he was just trying to get invited.

That clip performed disgustingly well.

The comments were worse than ever.

@ briarbluecrew: dean is us and we are dean @ rinksidebabe: garrett saying admin’s name like that. okay. okay!!!! @ briarhockeyofficialfan: can someone make a compilation of him forgetting this is a team account @ hockeyhousegossip: he is down horrendous @ deansburner: admin cutting the camera every time she laughs is my favorite genre

You should have ignored it, and you really tried, but the more people commented, the more aware you became of every little thing. Garrett leaned closer when you asked him a question. Garrett found you before you found him. Garrett smiled at your laugh like he had been waiting for it. The guys snickered whenever he volunteered for segments he used to pretend were beneath him.

At first, it was funny. Sweet, even. Then one night, while editing a mic’d up practice video in the media office, you found a clip that made your chest go tight.

Garrett had been standing near Logan at the bench, helmet pushed back, mic still live on his shoulder. You were in the background of the shot, reviewing footage on your phone, unaware the camera had caught any of it.

Logan’s voice came through the audio first, amused and far too pleased with himself as he pointed out that Garrett was not exactly subtle. Garrett shoved him without looking away from where you stood, and Logan kept going, saying he could always ask you out like a normal person. Garrett told him to mind his business, but there was a laugh under it, quieter than the one he used for the camera. Then he looked down, tapped his stick once against the floor, and admitted he was working on it.

You sat very still in the glow of the computer screen.

The clip was only seven seconds long, but it would have made the internet lose its mind. You could already picture the comments, the edits, the captions, the flood of people acting like your almost-something with Garrett was public property just because it had happened near a camera. After watching it one more time, you cut it from the video and posted the final version without it, keeping that small, private moment out of everyone else’s hands.

No one knew the difference, except maybe Garrett.

The next day, he watched the edited version while sitting on the boards after practice, phone in his hand and brows lifted just enough for you to notice. You were filming a few players taking shots at an empty net when he came over, quieter than usual.

“You left out Logan being annoying.”

“Logan is annoying in every video. I have to ration it.”

Garrett studied you for a moment, and something in his expression changed into something warmer than humor. “Thanks.”

You shrugged, trying to make it casual. “It wasn’t really hockey content.”

“No,” he agreed, his voice softer around the edges. “It wasn’t.”

The way he said it made your stomach flip.

After that, you started filming him less. Not obviously, at least you hoped it was not obvious, because you still included him in team videos. Leaving Garrett Graham out of Briar hockey content would have been ridiculous, and everyone would have noticed immediately. Still, you stopped seeking him out first. You asked Tucker for more answers. You filmed Logan goofing off with Dean. You captured wide shots, team huddles, game day skates, and anything that made the account feel like the account again, not a weekly episode of everyone waiting for Garrett to finally do something.

He noticed by Thursday.

Practice had just ended, and you were packing your bag near the tunnel when his skates stopped beside you. You did not look up right away, mostly because you already knew it was him. Garrett had a way of taking up space even when he was silent.

“Did I do something?” he asked.

That made you look at him. He had changed out of his gear but not into his usual post-practice ease. His hair was still damp, his hoodie half-zipped, and there was a slight crease between his brows that made your chest squeeze.

“No,” you said quickly. “No, you didn’t do anything.”

He nodded once, but he did not look convinced. “You’ve barely pointed the camera at me all week.”

“I’ve pointed it at you.”

“For work, yeah.” He paused, glancing toward the rink, then back at you. “You stopped teasing me.”

You tightened your hand around the strap of your bag and looked past him, where a few of the guys were still lingering near the bench. They were far enough not to hear, but close enough to remind you why you had been trying to be smart about this.

“The comments were getting weird,” you admitted, and when his expression shifted, you hurried to explain before he could take it the wrong way. “Not bad weird. Just a lot. People notice everything, and I don’t want it to look like I’m making the account about you, or like I’m unprofessional, or like I’m using the team account to flirt with you.”

Saying it out loud felt worse than thinking it.

Garrett was quiet long enough that you had to look back at him.

“You’re not,” he said.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He stepped a little closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough that his voice could stay between the two of you. “You’re good at what you do. Everybody knows that. The account is better because of you, not because I occasionally make an idiot out of myself on camera.”

You tried not to smile. “Occasionally?”

His mouth curved, but he did not take the bait. “If I made you uncomfortable, I’ll stop.”

That softened something in you immediately.

“You didn’t.”

“Good.” He looked relieved for half a second before he added, “I like making you laugh. The camera just happens to be there half the time.”

Your breath caught a little, and Garrett noticed. You could tell by the way his eyes dropped for one brief, devastating second before he looked away like he was trying not to push too much at once.

From down the hall, Dean shouted something about Garrett moving before the bus left without him. Garrett ignored him for another moment, his attention still on you.

“Film me tomorrow,” he said. “For real. I’ll answer the questions properly and everything.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “That sounds fake.”

“It probably is,” he admitted, and there he was again, warm and teasing and Garrett. “But I’ll try.”

You smiled despite yourself, and his face did something unfair in response, something bright and pleased that made you want to hide behind your phone even though you were not recording.

“See?” he said. “Worth it.”

Friday night was the big game, and the arena felt alive long before warmups started.

You moved through the familiar chaos with your phone in hand, capturing laces being tied, sticks being taped, jerseys pulled over pads, and the blur of the student section filling in beyond the glass. The team was loud in the way they always were before a game, all restless energy and shouted jokes and rituals they pretended not to take seriously.

Your segment for the night was simple. Good luck charms.

Tucker showed you the same tape job he swore he did not care about but recreated exactly every game. Logan claimed he did not need luck because he had talent, which immediately got him shoved by two teammates. Dean gave a deeply dramatic explanation about his lucky socks that you knew you would have to cut down before posting.

Then you found Garrett near the tunnel.

He was leaning against the wall with his stick in one hand and his helmet tucked under his arm, looking calmer than he had any right to be. When he saw you coming, his face changed in that familiar way that made the comments feel a little less ridiculous every time.

You lifted the phone. “Good luck charm?”

Garrett glanced at the camera, then at you. “Are you posting this?”

“That depends on whether you say something usable.”

A few weeks ago, he would have made a joke immediately, something big and easy for everyone around him to hear. Instead, he took a second, and the pause felt different enough that your grip tightened around the phone.

His eyes stayed on you.

Then his mouth curved softly, like he had decided against whatever answer had first come to mind.

“Routine,” he said. “Same tape, same warmup, same playlist. Nothing exciting.”

You knew there was more. He knew you knew.

Still, you nodded and kept your voice steady. “Very inspiring.”

“I do what I can.”

You stopped recording, and the noise of the hallway rushed back in around you. For a second, neither of you moved. Garrett shifted his stick to his other hand and leaned a little closer, his voice dropping beneath the sounds of the team behind him.

“Ask me again after the game.”

Your heart stumbled. Before you could answer, someone called his name from the locker room, and Garrett backed away with one last look at you before disappearing through the door.

You posted the pregame clip a few minutes later, and the comments started before puck drop.

@briarhockeyfan: he almost said admin. i know he almost said admin.

@studentsectionbabe: “are you posting this?” SIR WHAT WERE YOU ABOUT TO SAY

@grahamcracker88: the tension has escaped containment

@campuscrushwatch: this is my stanley cup

@briarupdates: admin cutting the clip there is criminal behavior

You did not check them again until after the game.

Briar won by two.

The last five minutes were loud enough to rattle the glass. You filmed the student section losing their minds, the team spilling over the boards, the flash of helmets and gloves, and Garrett getting tackled into a hug by Logan hard enough that both of them nearly went down.

By the time the players made it back toward the tunnel, your cheeks hurt from smiling.

You caught Garrett just outside the locker room, still breathless from the game, hair damp and face flushed, looking like he belonged to every bright, roaring part of the night.

You lifted your phone. “Three words for the win?”

For once, Garrett looked directly at the camera.

“Worth the work,” he said.

It was a good answer. Clean, simple, easy to post.

You lowered the phone with a laugh. “Who are you and what have you done with Garrett Graham?”

He smiled, softer than usual. “Told you I’d try.”

Around you, the hallway was crowded for another minute, players pushing past, coaches talking, someone yelling about food from inside the locker room. Garrett waited until the noise shifted away from you, until no one was close enough to turn the moment into a performance.

Then he nodded at your phone. “Still recording?”

You checked the screen even though you knew you had stopped it. “No.”

“Good.”

Your pulse jumped.

Garrett took one step closer, just enough to make the rest of the hallway fade into something distant. “Then I’m asking without the account, without the comments, and without Logan making faces behind me,” he said. “Let me take you out.”

For all the time you had spent wondering, all the comments you had pretended not to reread, all the coffee cups and little looks you had tried to explain away, the words still managed to knock the air from your lungs.

Garrett Graham, who could handle pressure in front of a packed arena without blinking, looked nervous. Not dramatically, not in a way anyone else would notice from down the hall, but you could see it because you had spent too much time watching him through a lens and not enough time admitting you knew his face by now.

“You want to take me out?” you asked, softer than you meant to.

His smile tugged at one corner. “I’ve wanted to take you out for a while.”

“How long is a while?”

“Long enough that Logan has become emotionally invested.”

You laughed, and the relief that crossed Garrett’s face made your chest feel too full.

“Yes,” you said. “You can take me out.”

Garrett’s grin broke wide, bright and boyish in a way that made him look less like the captain everyone yelled for from the stands and more like the guy who remembered your coffee order because you had complained once before eight in the morning.

“I had a better speech planned,” he admitted, looking down for a second with a smile he could not quite hide.

You smiled too, because the idea of Garrett Graham planning anything to say to you felt almost too sweet to handle. He had spent weeks turning every camera pointed at him into an excuse to look at you, and now that he finally had your full attention with no phone between you, he seemed a little less sure of what to do with it.

“I don’t think you needed one,” you said.

Garrett looked back at you then, his expression softening in a way that made the noise from the locker room fade behind him. The win was still happening all around you, in the shouts from down the hall and the dull thud of doors opening and closing, but he was standing close enough that the rest of it felt distant.

“Good,” he said, voice quieter now. “Because I’m pretty sure I forgot half of it.”

You laughed, and that seemed to settle whatever nerves he had left. His hand lifted slowly, giving you time to move away if you wanted to, but you stayed exactly where you were as his fingers brushed lightly against your cheek.

When he leaned in, the kiss was soft. Sweet enough that it caught you off guard, even though you had spent weeks pretending you had not thought about it. His hand settled at your waist, gentle and warm, and you smiled against him before you could help it.

Garrett pulled back just enough to see your face, but not enough to let go.

“That was better than the speech,” he murmured.

You felt your smile grow. “Definitely better than the speech.”

He laughed under his breath, and this time, when he kissed you again, it was quicker, lighter, like he could not quite resist doing it once more now that he knew he was allowed.

you were standing in the fluorescent-lit purgatory of the 24/7 convenience store, a basket hanging from your elbow with an xl pack of condoms already inside.

“what else, what else…”

the air conditioning was too cold, raising goosebumps on your arms, brushing over the sprinkle of scales already adorning your skin. the cool air was combatting the warmth from the outside, but there was a deeper heat slowly coiling low in your belly, pulsing harder and harder, overtaking your very being quietly — a heat that couldn’t be tamed by the artificiality of the cooling device.

you’ve been feeling it for hours. the telltale thrum, the hypersensitivity of your skin, the way your gums ache faintly where your fangs wanted to push through.

ebb day is tomorrow. officially.

you still have a few hours to prepare.

your phone unexpectedly buzzed against your skin, a frantic, continuous tremor that has you fumbling for it. rafayel’s name light up the screen, a silly picture of him trembling together with the vibrations.

you swiped to answer, a teasing remark already on your lips.

“if you’re calling to back out–”

“please.” his voice cut you off, and it sounded wrong. it was not the smooth, sultry baritone he usually wielded like a weapon, articulating witty remarks at your expense. it was breathless, strained, cracking at the edges. “please, come over.”

you froze between aisles, your hand tightening on the phone. “rafayel?”

“i need you.” a low, fractured whine escaped him, and the needy sound went straight to your core, igniting the latent heat into a sudden, roaring blaze. “it’s… it’s early. it’s so early. i thought i had more time but it’s… i need you now.”

you could picture him too clearly.

at his seaside manor, in the vast, luxurious bedroom, with the curtains wide open, welcoming the full moon. rafayel, welcoming you, sprawled on his massive bed, his pale skin flushed and beaded with sweat, his hair a disheveled mess of purple.

you imagined him grasping his phone with a trembling hand, spotted with scales, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted in gasps.

fangs peeking through oh so beautifully.

“i’m at the store.” you said, your voice coming out rougher than you intended, your own state suddenly worsening due to rafayel’s intervention. “i’m getting the things. i’ll be there after checkout–”

“no.” he gasped immediately, and the desperation in his voice was loud, a hook that sunk into your chest and pulled you like a fish out of waters. “too long. ugh– i can’t– please. i can’t wait anymore. i feel like i’m burning up. we have everything here, so...”

“i need you. please, please, just ahhhh– come here.”

the plea was a whisper, broken and sweet, and that did it for you. you’ve always been weak for him. in this human form, in your true one, it didn’t matter; he had you wrapped around his pinky finger since you were children, even if he didn’t always know it.

“raf…”

you wanted to say something stubborn, to remind him that you were buying the very supplies he’ll be grateful for later, but another whimper came through the line, and your resolve crumbled to the ground.

“fine.” you heard yourself say, already turning and abandoning your basket on a shelf, condoms and all. “i’m coming right now. stay on the line.”

he let out a soft, relieved sound, and you could’ve sworn a sloshing noise accompanied his tune. “okay. f–fuck– okay.”

you left the store at a near-jog, the warm night air hitting your flushed cheeks.

the moon was almost up, a perfect, luminous circle in the sky, yet too bright, too full. it made your blood sing, your skin prickling with more and more clusters of scales.

you could still hear rafayel’s breathing on the other end of the line, quick and uneven, punctuated by tiny, swallowed sounds that he’s probably trying to hide.

that, and low, wet sounds — most likely his hand moving lazily up and down his stiff cock.

“tell me how you’re feeling.” you said as you slid into your car, your hand steady on the wheel even as everything inside you was starting to shake.

you have to keep your composure for just a little longer.

you also have to keep rafayel in check and make sure he doesn’t tip over.

“hot.” he breathed into the phone. “everything’s s–shit– too hot. my clothes… i took them off already. i’m just in the sheets. i nghnn– keep thinking about your hands.” his voice dropped, becoming that familiar, teasing cadence even through the haze of the heat.

“you have such nice hands. so soft– ngh– i keep thinking about them on ahh– me. groping me, pinning me down. do you think you can do that?”

your fingers tightened on the steering wheel, your knuckles whitening at his request. “rafayel.”

“i want you to.” he continued, his voice a low, needy murmur. the sticky sounds raised in intensity, no longer just background noise. “i need you so bad. i need you on top of me, baby.”

you pushed the accelerator harder, running a stop sign you didn’t even register. the streets blurred under your hazy vision, the city lights smearing into streaks of color. the heat inside you was building up with every word of his, with every little gasp and hitch of his breath.

rafayel was doing a phenomenal job at riling you up.

“what are you thinking about?” he asked all of a sudden, his voice a silken thread that woke you up. “are you thinking about me?”

“yes.” you admitted bluntly, the word torn from you without much effort.

“nhgh… t–tell me, baby.”

“the way you look when you’re between my thighs.” your voice was steady, booming from the speakers of his phone, but your hands were shuddering now. fingernails threatening to elongate into monstrously sharp claws. “the way you eat me out so good.”

he groaned, a breathless, shattered sound, and his hand sped up. the wetness staining his cock was palpable, the sound harsh yet delicate. “f–fuck yeah, i wanna taste your cunt so bad.”

a pause, then his voice murmured a confession once more. “i need to bury my face in you. i need to smell you. ahhhh– bet you’re drenched already, can almost s–sniff it from here.”

he was right. since the beginning of your conversation, the flimsy material of your panties was nothing but sticky. each and every request of his, delving into his nastiest wishes, generated more gooey arousal, effectively coating your panties in a generous amount of slick.

it also did not help that you were a lemurian, normally producing more slick than a mere human.

thankfully, you were pulling through the gates of his estate, the tires of your car crunching on the gravel driveway. you didn’t even bother parking properly — just killed the engine and eft the car where it stopped.

“i’m here.” you said into the phone, your legs carrying you up the front steps without waiting for another invite.

you swung the door open without a second thought.

rafayel was standing at the end of the hallway, and the sight of him made your clit throb.

he was fully naked, his skin gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat, his hair plastered to his temples. his chest was heaving, his pupils so dilated that his irises were reduced to thin rings of purple. but it was the scales that caught your attention — a scattering of iridescent, pearl-white scales along his cheekbones, down his neck, across his shoulders.

painting his skin, lower and lower.

going beyond the base of his aching cock.

the scales shimmered in the moonlight, catching the light like tiny mirrors.

“baby!” his eyes found yours, and he smiled — a beautiful, unhinged grin, all sharp teeth and raw need. “you came.” he breathed, relieved, taking wobbly steps towards you.

he was deeply affected by the rising full moon, hands jumping away from his sides and searching for support onto the walls.

you were soon to be deeply affected as well as your nostrils inhaled the pheromones dominating the entire mansion: the smell was terrifically strong, a pungent odor that lulled you towards primal desires. you almost stumbled backward from the powerful aroma, palm shooting up and covering the bottom half of your face in an attempt to protect your senses.

“f–fuck, the smell…”

you needed to remain levelheaded.

you needed to remain the rational one, since rafayel was clearly indulging fully in the effects of the moon.

but it was hard. you could already feel your fans poking through your gums, could already sense the tremble in your body as rafayel caught up to you.

your entire being was calling for him, just like his own called for you.

his quivering hands clawed at your dress, pulling you fully inside, the door slamming shut behind you two and effectively trapping you in his den. taking advantage of the defensive stance you took, he manhandled you against the closest wall, caging you perfectly, his body a line of burning heat against yours.

“ah, ah, ah, you…” his face instantly found your neck, burying itself in the seductive dip between your throat and shoulder. and, with a loud whiff, rafayel inhaled your own tumbling pheromones. “ahhh– smell so fucking good.”

he did not stop at that, nuzzling further into your skin, dragging the tip of his nose up towards your pulse point, punctuating the spot right behind your ear. with that, he managed to caress a patch of sensitive scales, eliciting a moan out of your hidden lips, forcing your palm to abandon its post to tangle in his messy locks.

“baby, please, pull ugh– my hair, please.” he started to beg as he felt your fingers latch onto the roots of his hair, body curving into yours more and more.

his legs snuck their way between your own, parting your thighs and allowing his knee to dip into the material of your dress and make contact with your clothed pussy. his arms flew away too, finally taking hold of your torso and putting you into a needy embrace.

“raf, i–”

your voice echoed in his ears, blessing him with the delicious shudder of your tone. but something was wrong, he slowly realized between his hazy thoughts — you have yet to make your move, you have yet to show the same neediness he has been carrying for hours.

“i–is something wrong? no, please, baby…”

he removed his face from your neck, abandoning his mission to devour your scent gland in favor of discovering what was holding you back. a strong feeling of anxiety shook his entire body, and memories of abandonment flashed between his obscene fantasies.

changing the atmosphere entirely.

“go on, raf, it’s okay–”

“n–no.”

you couldn’t resist him, especially not now.

he decided to perch his head on your chest, entire body slouched over your own, and look up at you with his lust-filled orbits. the pout on his lips was dangerous, accessorized by his long and sharp fangs. his legs were now practically glued to yours… and you could feel his heavy cock pressing against your thigh.

“do you not want me, baby?”

oh, he was gonna be the death of you.

“raf, someone h–ngh–as to be rational, i can’t give into pleas–”

“we will be careful, like always…” he cut you off enthusiastically, tightening his hold on your midriff to block any kind of escape. worse, he dipped his face lower into your chest, pressing right against your exposed sternum… and sticking his tongue out to taste your sweaty skin.

“rafayel.” you warned through gritted teeth, gripping the base of his scalp and pulling his head back. but he was ready for such an action, simply letting out more length of his monstrous tongue and continuing his perverse ministration across the peaks of your breasts.

“i k–know what will help!” he chirped between licks, and the sensation of his rough, elongated tongue tracing the delicate flesh of your chest made your resolve shake.

you tried to hold firm, to remember the reasons why someone needed to stay level-headed, but he was a master of persuasion: his hands, which had been so needy and clammy, slid down your hips with a slow, teasing pace. and he stopped when he reached the fabric of your short skirt, fingers twitching at the hem.

“just a taste.” he whispered, long tongue retracting from your skin to wet his lips. “i ugh– to taste your pussy, baby. please.”

his voice was a raspy, desperate plea, and the sight of his body — the way he pressed himself against you, precum wetting the ends of your dress — broke something in you. you were supposed to be the rational one, but the pheromones were a thick haze in your lungs, intoxicating your very being.

your own body betrayed you, the ache between your thighs becoming a pulsing, insistent throb. your firm grip on his hair lessened, hand guiding his head unconsciously down your body, moving him in line with your center.

“ah– j–just a bit...” you breathed, your voice shaking now. “but then we m–”

move to the bedroom — he didn’t let you finish.

a submissive, relieved groan escaped him, and he was already sliding down your body. his bare knees hit the floor with a sharp thud, but he didn’t flinch. you tried to steady yourself, but rafayel had other plans — hiking your right leg up his shoulder, spreading you wide open for him. and you were taken by surprise, fingers curling and pushing his head around from the sudden movement.

“f–fuck yeah.”

he let out a sharp, encouraging moan against your exposed thigh, and you felt his lips press a wet kiss on the newly exposed patch of skin of your knee.

his hands shoot up, scattering the hem of your dress. he pushed the material up around your waist, silently prompting you to hold it down and away from him. the cool air of the hallway licked at your exposed thighs, prickling at your scale-scattered skin.

his gaze dropped, and he stared at the sight before him, cock twitching between his bent legs. the wet spot on your panties was dark and obscene, the cotton perfectly clinging to the shape of your pussy. you were absolutely soaked through, arousal escaping the comfort of your underwear in order to stain your inner thighs.

the rims around his blown-out pupils turned a bright blue, and a devouring hunger flashed across his features.

“oh, my baby.” he breathed, the words almost a whimper. “you’re s–so wet for me. i bet it h–hurts so much.”

he didn’t wait for an actual answer as he leaned forward to thoroughly inspect you. his nose pressed into the damp fabric, and he inhaled deeply, a tremble running through his body as he feasted on your scent. he nuzzled against the soaked cotton, his sharp fangs grazing your sensitive flesh through the thin barrier, and your knees nearly buckled.

your hand forced his head deeper instead of pulling it away, a silent surrender to the powers of the moon.

he took the signal with a groan of satisfaction. his tongue snaked out, long and monstrous, and he dragged the wide, flat of it across the dark spot. he licked slowly, savoring you through the fabric, his eyes rolling back from the aroma.

“you ahh– s’ good.” he mumbled against the fabric, his voice muffled by the fabric and his groans.

but he needed more than just soaked panties. so, with a swipe of his tongue, he wrapped the length twice around the gusset of your panties, tugging the material downwards. you felt the wet cotton drag along your sensitive flesh as it was removed, exposing your cunt entirely to his burning gaze.

“r–raf, please.”

he saw everything: your wet, swollen flesh glistened in the dim light, your clit engorged and peeking out from its hood. a fresh glob of your arousal slid down your inner thigh, and his adam’s apple bobbed at the bodily reaction.

“babyyy…” his breathing hitched, and he slowed down, his entire being focused on the sight and scent of you. “look at you.” he muttered, his voice heavy by lust. “so beautiful, so mesmerizing.”

and before you could form a response, he dived in. his lips glued onto you, and his tongue — still a long, monstruous muscle — latched onto your entire cunt. he licked a wide, flat stroke from your oozing entrance to your pulsing clit, and the feeling of his wet mouth against your slick flesh made you whine.

he did it again, and again, building a rhythm that was ruining you from the inside out. he was starved, licking and sucking and slurping you like an intoxicated man who knew no other flavour.

“rafayel, r–fa–yel!”

you threw your head back, the wall cold against your skull, as you fought for composure. but it was a losing battle: his mouth was too skilled, too curious to discover your pussy. he found every sensitive nerve with the tip of his tongue, swirling around your clit until you were seeing stars, then dropping down to probe at your entrance.

licking up the streams of your juices like they were the only source of water in the world.

you made the mistake of looking down at him. he was on his knees before you, his body trembling with the effort of restraint and desire. his eyes were heavy-lidded, focused solely on his task, and his gills —delicate, slit-like openings on his neck — fluttered slightly as he breathed through them, allowing him to remain glued to you without a pause for air.

he was relentless, dedicated.

he needed you to tip over into your animalistic side.

“i– oh, fuck–”

your voice cracked and morphed into a high, unhinged moan as he circled his tongue around your clit, wrapping it tightly with its length while he sucked the bundle of nerves with his lips. the tip of his tongue dipped lower treacherously, pushing against your greedy hole and effectively overflowing your mushy brain with pleasure.  

your hips jerked forward of their own accord, and you felt your fingers drag through his hair, pulling him even tighter against you, demanding more even as you were overwhelmed.

“hmhmm– ngh–” he moaned into you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your pelvis.

his hands slid up your thighs, thumbs spreading your lips wider, giving him unrestricted access to every inch of your center. he worked on you with a desperate, submissive fervor, eating you out as if his existence depended on your pleasure.

and it was working. the feeling built and built in your tummy, a coil of heat tightened and tightened with every flick of his tongue.

“al’st.” he gasped, pulling away just enough to see the defeat in your eyes. his lips and chin were shining with your wetness, his sharp teeth shimmering as he smiled at you. “cum in my mouth, please.”

your resolve had shattered the moment his mouth had made contact. so you just nodded frantically, a sobbing whine escaping your lips, and he leaped at the signal. his mouth descended again with renewed vigor, long tongue focusing on your engorged bud. he sucked hard, creating a devastating pressure, while he simultaneously probed the back of his tongue against your entrance, massaging the contracting muscles.

“ah, i’m–”

you came with a cry that echoed down the empty hallway, your body arching off the wall as wave after wave of pleasure rippled through you. your hand forced his face deeper into you, and he drank everything, his moans of ecstasy vibrating against your sensitive flesh as he swallowed your release.

and he didn’t stop. he kept licking, easing you through the shaking aftermath, his eyes locked on your trembling form with a satisfied, devouring gleam.

“ah, a–ah, ah.”

when you finally opened your eyes, you had a good look at his needy, disheveled face, still resting between your thighs. his lips and chin were slick with you, his long tongue still lazily licking at your flesh as if he couldn’t bear to lose the taste. his gills fluttered rapidly, and he smiled up at you — temporary satiated by your pussy.

… or so you thought.

“g–go again?” he pleaded, his voice high-pitched and weak. “please, please, please, ple–”

and you knew why he was begging so arduously: gazing downwards at the floor, you soon realized that he also spilled his release, most likely pushed over the edge by your own orgasm. the floorboards were covered in a thick layer of cum, white and sticky substance staining his thigh and your own resting foot.

 “please, baby, one more time– i love your pussy, i–”

you were still trembling from your own climax, chest heaving, gills fluttering on the sides of your neck. but something in his desperate, submissive tone made you sit up straighter, an ounce of rationality still guiding you. yeah, you felt the wetness between your thighs, the echo of his tongue still a pulsing memory, but you knew that you were far from satiated.

the moon’s pull was still in your bones, and his pheromones were a thick haze in the air.

you reached down, took a handful of his wet hair, and pulled his face away from your cunt. the slick was thick, mixed with his saliva, and it created a strong, sticky bridge between his lips and your nether ones.

“m–move…” you commanded, your voice coming out fragmented, tainted by your orgasm and the heat. “bedroom, now.”

his eyes flashed with relief, and he nodded so quickly that his locks flipped against his temples. “yes– yes, baby, anything.” with obedient, trembling hands, he pushed himself up from his knees, his muscular thighs quivering as he rose. he was still weeping, his cock stiff and red, the tip glistening with his own release.

but he made no move to wipe it away, fixated on obtaining you.

before you could step forward, he enveloped you in his arms, both hands sliding under your knees and lifting you as if you were made of feathers. your legs latched around his hips on instinct, your dress riding up to your waist, your naked slick pussy pressing against his abs. he took off with long, hurried steps, his legs no longer staggering.

“c’mere.”

his mouth was on yours before you could process his words.

“so ngh– good t’ me.” he mumbled against your lips, his tongue sharing your aroma. “so beautiful, so perfect– i’m ugh– not deserving.” he kissed you with a wide, open mouth, his sharp fangs grazing your lower lip as he pushed your dress higher with each push.

his words were a stream of subservient praises — celebrating your benevolence in assisting him with his heat — as he carried you through the living room and into the wide, disheveled bedroom. and his mouth never stopped; he fully slurped at your lips, devouring your mouth with the same fervor he ate your pussy.

he loved to caress your fangs with his tongue, grunting between lick as you were finally showing signs of turning.

“ah, ah…”

when he reached the giant bed, he turned and sat down on it, his back leaning against the headboard with a soft thud. he kept you on his lap, your knees straddling his hips, your soaked cunt hovering just above his twitching, dripping cock. his hands were instantly on your body tugging away at the dress, removing it from your body and letting your scale-splotched skin to bask in the full moon.

his sharp digits took a hold of your full hips, nails digging into the soft flesh as he tried to lower your body onto his.

“please, baby.” he breathed, his hips rolling upwards on instinct, his bare cock sliding against your wet slit. “i need to feel you around me– please, i fuck–”

you reached around, your hand finding the nightstand and its drawer, your fingers closing around a square packet. as you were retrieving it, his hands worked all over you, groping your waist, your tits, your thighs with a restless, ravenous need. his cock was jumping against your thigh with each squish of your body, impatient to ease into you.

“let m–me help.” he whispered as he saw you struggle. but you shook your head, at last ripping the packet open with your fangs.

the image made him groan — he loved when you used those fangs.

he wished you’d use them on him.

as you rolled the condom down his length with steady hand, your palm gliding over the latex as you smoothed it down the veiny cock, he gasped, his head throwing back against the headboard, his hips pushing up into your fist.

“fuck– baby, your hand, it’s ngh– so good­, i’m gonna–” his words devolved into a strangled moan as you gave him a last, twisting stroke at the base, and he had to clench his jaw to keep from cumming right then.

his gills fluttered rapidly, and his hands clawed at the sheets, his white-knuckled grip the only thing keeping him grounded.

you left him hanging on the edge for a sweet moment, your eyes locked on his trembling stomach and the way his scales shimmered harder. then, with a slow movement, you raised yourself up on your knees, aligned the tip of his cock with your soaked entrance, and slowly began to sink down.

the sensation was electric. his length slid inside you in a smooth, velvety thrust, the latex making it easy but no less intense. you felt him stretch you, push past your greedy muscles that spasmed around him, and you gasped at the fullness. he moaned your name, vibrating against your chest as he pressed his forehead into your shoulder.

“so fucking tight– so wet–.”

“ah, raf, that’s mhm–”

you took a moment to adjust, to feel him settle deep inside you, to take in the way his tip was kissing your cervix. then you began to move — slow rolls of your hips, lifting and sinking, pulling him out until only the tip remained, then sliding back down to the hilt. your clit slapped deliciously against his muscles, and so did his heavy balls against your behind.

his hands flew to your hips again, guiding you, but he never tried to take control; he merely held you, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin of your hips with reverence.

“yes, that’s ngh– it, use me.” he implored, his voice breaking into high whinse as you picked up the pace. you rolled your hips in a figure eight, harshly grinding against him at the bottom, and his lips parted on a silent scream. “oh, oh fuck, right there, please, baby–”

you leaned forward, lips bitten, your palms braced against his chest, and you rode him with a ferocious need. every stroke was accompanied by his gasps, the sharp, slutty breaths strung together with your own traitorous ones into a rhythmic chant.

“so good, so good, i’m– please, please, let me cum inside, i beg you–”

his words were slurred, mind so thick with lust he forgot he had a condom on. but he was attentive to you, never taking his eyes off your bouncing body. when you sped up, your thighs burning with the effort, your clit brushing against his pubic bone with every downward thrust, his head lolled to the side in pleasure.

the sensation was heaven for you too: the way his cock hit that sweet spot inside you, vein pulsing just the right way against your walls, the way his hands trembled as they held you, the way his moans sounded like prayers…

“cum for me.” you allowed, your voice raspy and commanding, and that was all he needed.

with a broken whine, he threw his head back, his spine arching off the headboard as he spilled into the condom, his hips jerking up into you with ragged, uncontrollable spasms. his mouth opened in a silent shout and his hands clawed so hard into your hips you knew they would leave bruises.

the sight of him cumming, his face stretched in ecstasy, pushed you over the edge. you rode him through it all, your second climax building and building until it broke. your inner muscles clenching around him as you shuddered through your release.

he whimpered into the air like a mantra: “thank you, thank you, thank you–”.

after a few more seconds, you finally slowed down. with your gills working overtime, your body washed in sparkling sweat, you remained motionless, straddled over him. his aching cock was still inside you, spent once more that night.

but ebb day had just commenced, and a mere fuck was not the solution.

you were still trembling, his overstimulated cock still twitching inside you, when he shifted his hips upwards — a lazy, circular rock which sent a sharp spark through your oversensitive flesh. you whimpered, a needy tune that you hadn’t intended to let out; the sudden trust took you by surprise, hitting your walls in a way that made your whole being shiver.

he did it again, this time with a sharper thrust, his strong hands pushing you down into his cock, and your palms flattened against his chest in a vain attempt to put some distance between the two of you.

“raf– wait, slow d–ah–own a bit.” you gasped, your voice cracking, the overstimulation short circuiting your brain. “i need a second–”

his laugh was low and mean, a strong contrast to the high-pitched moans he freely let out a few minutes ago.

“slow down? why? you’re still aching for more.” his hands slid down your sides, gripping your thighs with a brutal firmness. his expression was no longer kind and pliant, the barely-there purple of his orbs changing into a blinding sapphire color.

he tutted at your scrunching face, digging his fingers harder into your skin and dragging you forth against his chest. “no, no, baby. i don’t like that.”

“raf?”

“you’re not gonna fight what you are. you’re a lemurian in heat, just like me… giving in is not a choice.”

before you could respond, he twisted out of you with a squelching, wet pop and shoved you forward onto the sheets. you tumbled onto the mattress, hands and knees catching you as he positioned you around like a puppet. his palm pressed the small of your back, forcing your spine into a beautiful arch, your face pressed into the pillows.

it happened in a blink of an eye, your body going pliant and obeying the desires of the man behind you. you could no longer see him, with your head buried in his cushions, but you could hear the shift of his weight as he knelt behind you, the heat of his body washing over your exposed skin.

shit, he was taking a dominant stance now — the predator inside him most likely no longer pleased by your ‘controlled’ approach to ebb day.

but you had to stay strong. you had to stop him from fulfilling the mating ritual since you were not his beloved. you had to–

“look at you.” he purred, his voice dripping with condescension, blue eyes taking in the sight before him: you, face down, ass up, supple flesh drenched and quivering with arousal. “so fucking wet… and you still have the nerve to tell me to slow down. pathetic.”

his fingers traced down your curved spine, pausing at the swell of your ass. then down to your used hole. with delicate fingers, he touched the gaping rim of the condom still lodged inside you, dragging it slightly out of you. you flinched, back arching even more, hips pushing into his touch unconsciously.

“a condom too… ruining all the fun.” he clicked his tongue, low and mean, but chose to abandon the rubber for now. he decided to reach around to find your clit, his skilled thumb pressing against it with just enough pressure to make you tremble into the sheets.

“you think you’re in charge, hm? you’re nothing but a slutty little whore who needs to be reminded of her place.”

he circled his thumb over your swollen bud, slow and torturous, while his other hand kept you pinned down. you whined, your hips pushing back instinctively, seeking more friction, but he was having none of it: he smacked your ass hard, the sharp slap echoing in the room as it landed on your flesh.

“don’t you dare act on your urges now. you’ll get what i give you, when i give it.” he warned as he increased the pressure on your clit, his movements forming teasing figure eights. you writhed against the sheets, tried to push back and speed him up, but his hand on your spine kept you arched and immobile.

“p–please.” you whined, your voice pitching high, now mirroring the state he was previously in— flushed face, dilated pupils, consumed by the urge to be used. “raf, i need–”

“you need to shut up and take what’s given.” he cut you off, his tone cold and superior. he removed his thumb without warning, and you whimpered in loss, eyes bubbling with tears from his cruelness. “see? that’s what you get for being impatient. now be a good girl and wait.”

wait?

for what?

he reached down, fingers curling around the rim of the condom still inside you. with a slow, torturous pull, he removed it. the sensation of the latex sliding out making you shiver, hole gaping in dissatisfaction. your cunt was practically begging for the rubber to return, for something to be inside it once more.

“greedy pussy.”

he pinched the tip of the condom, dangling it above your stinging flesh, and, with his thumb and index finger, he pressed and dragged out... letting the thick, white semen spill all across your ass. throwing the empty rubber away, he then smeared his cum over your cheeks with a rough, possessive stroke, making sure to dip his fingers over your asshole and the perineum.

the warm, sticky sensation made you cry out, and he laughed again.

“you like that, don’t you? being marked with my cum?” he rubbed the cum lower, into your slit, working it into your wet folds until you were dripping with a mixture of your arousal and his seed. “you were so dumb for putting on the condom.”

and with that vitriolic remark, he positioned himself behind you once more, the mushroom head of his engorged cock prodding at your slutty entrance. he rubbed it up and down, teasing the flesh without pushing in, controlling his urge to breed you for the sake of hearing you beg.

and you began to sob, pleas leaving your bitten lips with ease.

“p–please, raf, just fuck me, i need it so bad, please–”

“aww, look at you now — beg harder.” he purred, his tip still tracing slow circles over your hungry hole.

“please! please, rafayel, i beg you, just put it in, i’ll be good, just fuck me–”

“there it is.” he smirked, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “but oh, i’m sorry, baby– i think we’re out of condoms. what a shame.” his tone was condescending, and he rolled his hips just enough to press the head inside.

before pulling back. “i can’t–”

“i don’t care.” you babbled, your mind now a blur of heat and hunger. your previous carefulness was entirely wiped by your animalistic desire to be mounted and taken by rafayel. “j–just do it, fuck me raw! i need your ugh– cock inside me, please, raf–”

“finally.”

without other comments, he thrusted in one sharp, brutal motion. you screamed, but not in pain — the overwhelming sensation of being so completely filled without any barrier felt heavenly. his hard cock, littered with scales, plowed into your soaked cunt until his hips smacked against your ass, his balls swaying against your swollen clit.

“yes.” he groaned, his voice now raspy with his own need. “this is where you belong: spread open for me, taking my cock like the cockslut that you are.” he pulled out slowly, then slammed back in, the squelch of your juices and his cum making a loud, obscene sound.

“fuck, you’re so warm, so wet, so fucking good.”

he set a ferocious pace, his hips jutting into you with the starved intensity of an animal in rut. each thrust hit that spot inside you, making your spine curve into him more and more. and you were kept in that deep arch by his strong arms, your voice reduced to a stream of moans and whines as it got drowned out by the pillows.

“ngh– baby, your pussy is squeezing me so tight.” he grunted, his hand snaking forward to grab a fistful of your hair and yank your head back. “greedy girl, sucking me ah–  so hard.”

“tell me you’re mine. tell me this is what you wanted.”

“‘m y’rs.” you gasped, the words tumbling out in stutters as you squeezed around his rugged scales. “gods, yes, fuck me harder, please–”

he released your hair with a satisfied moan and doubled his efforts, his strokes becoming messy and unhinged. he was so deep inside you that you could feel his cock throbbing against your walls, the tip kissing your cervix with every slam. his length seemed to grow inside you, expanding and stretching your sensitive walls in all dimensions.

you were completely affected by ebb day now, your pleasure so strong you could no longer separate where your being ended and his began.

but the night has just begun, and so did rafayel.

you felt it before you saw it: a second pressure, a new sensation against the flesh of your ass. another cock, thicker and more brutal in its proportions, had emerged from the base of his first and sprung upwards, settling directly between the sweaty valley of your cheeks.

it was a monstrous thing, wet with its own pre-cum, rocking against your asshole in tune with his other cock.

“is that– ugh–”

with every slam of his hips into your soaked cunt, this second cock rubbed relentlessly against your tight, untouched asshole. the friction was addicting, a blunt force that glided over the twitching rim of your second hole with every forward push.

you could feel the ridges of it, the scales that dragged across your delicate skin, and it made your eyes roll back from the pleasure.

“you feel that, baby?” he grunted into your ear, his voice a condescending purr. “my other cock, itching to breed that pussy too. you’re so fucking soaked, i am sure it will ngh– slip right in.”

you couldn’t respond. you were beyond speech, your face buried in the sheets, your voice reduced to a high, siren-like whine that filled the room.

the way his second cock humped against your asshole, the way his first cock was still plunging into your cunt — it was a sensory overload that threatened to spill all over. you clenched around him, trying to drag him deeper, and he groaned, leaning over your arched body.

“can’t even fuckin’ answer me.” he snarled, his pace slowing for a moment as he leaned down, lowering his sweaty chest against your back.

his sharp mouth found the juncture of your neck and shoulder, your pulse point, and he opened his jaw wide. his fangs grazed your flesh, a heated, demanding pressure falling over your skin.

he was…

“you want this so badly, don’t you? you want me to claim every hole.”

going to bite. he was going to mark you as his mate.

panic lashed through the fog of your lust. you were not lovers: you had agreed to this arrangement solely to protect his future beloved from the primality of the lemurian heat. so your arm shot up before you could think it over, your forearm wedging itself between his lips and your neck just as his jaws clamped down.

“ah.”

his fangs sink into your flesh with a wet, ripping sound. the pain was sharp and immediate, a burning sensation that made you scream into the pillows. you felt the hot trickle of blood cascade down your arm, and he let out a surprised, muffled groan around your limb.

his cock slid out of you during the chaos, leaving you suddenly empty and weak.

“n–no!” you cried, your voice a shaky mess of pleasure and desperation. “not that! rafayel, we aren’t– we’re not lovers! you can’t mark me like this. you have to save yourself for your chosen one, you know that.”

he froze — he stayed still, his fangs still embedded in your forearm, his breath hot against the wound. then, slowly, he released you. his jaw unclamped, and he licked the blood from his lips with a slow, seductive swipe of his tongue. but his eyes had changed. the lust was still there, but now it was underlaid with something far more dangerous: a cold, rageful possessiveness.

“you dare...” he said, his voice dropping to a level of condescending fury that made you shiver. “you dare tell me who to save myself for? you dare speak of a ‘chosen one’ when you’re the only one who has ever made me feel this?”

before you could respond, he moved with unnatural speed. his hands gripped your hips and with a brutal twist, he flipped you over like you were no more than a rag doll. you landed on your back, the sheets cold and damp against your sweaty skin. he was on top of you in an instant, his legs knocking yours apart as he settled his weight between your thighs.

his first cock pressed against your soaked entrance, and his second one rested heavily against your clit, both of them drenched in bodily fluids.

“you foolish woman.” he snarled, leaning down so his face was inches from yours. his eyes were gleaming blue, his scales catching the light like the facets of a gem. “there is no other chosen one. there is only you. you’re the one i want. you’re the one my body and my soul demands.”

“r–raf?”

“and i will not be denied.”

he thrusted forward, sheathing his bottom cock inside you in one single, devastating move. you were so wet, so inviting; there was no resistance, only a lewd, obscene squelch as your fluids started to froth at the juncture between your bodies.

you whined out a broken approval, and he groaned in triumph above you.

“that’s right.” he confirmed, rolling his hips harder and harder to pick up his previous pace. “your body knows the truth, even if your mouth lies. you’re mine.” he began to pump into you, his strokes sharp and possessive as he, once more, descended closer to your face.

“you can beg all you want for a different fate, but you will never escape this. you will never escape me.”

and with that, he sealed his lips over yours.

your hands clawed at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he pounded you into the mattress. your legs wrapped around his waist, pushing him deeper, traitorously consenting to his declaration even as your mind spun with lust. he leaned forward more and more, trapping you under his massive frame, and he kissed you brutally, tangling his long tongue with your and forcing you to taste your own blood.

“say it out loud.” he demanded against your mouth, his pace never faltering, his mouth carefully traversing lower to your pulse point again. “say you’re mine. say it and i will fully take you, my mate.”

“i’m yours!” you wailed, the words torn from your very soul as his fangs scratched your skin in warning. “i’m yours, rafayel! please, just don’t stop, don’t you dare stop–”

a prideful, predatory grin spread across his features. he slowed his pace as his jaw opened once more, trying to time his movements to offer you the most intense pleasure. pulling out almost all the way, his tip snagging onto your hole, he stuck out his tongue to wet your skin as his hand lowered to his cocks… pressing his second length snug to his other and preparing it for penetration.

“ngh– raf– ah–”

as he plunged his fangs into your neck, finally marking you as his mate by drawing blood, he also rutted both cocks into your hungry cunt. the immense quantities of arousal lubed everything, allowing his two dicks to press deep into your without much difficulty.

and his timing was perfect, getting you to orgasm with a perfect o on your lips as he rocked your whole world.

“that’s right.” he purred, moving his head to nuzzle at the bloody bite on your skin, licking the wound with soft strokes of his tongue. “you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine.”

and as he spoke, he picked up his pace once more, the slap of his balls against your skin filling the room, his resolve renewed. you were cushioned beneath him, a trembling mess, a willing partner to desire, and as he watched you fall apart beneath him — your eyes rolling back, your moans a constant chant — he too was pushed over the edge once more.

unlike last time, his thrusts stumbled into a rhythm that was clumsy but deep, as if he refusing to let go of you. unlike last time, you felt a swelling at your entrance, the way his top cock, the one that had been pressing against your clit moments ago, now grew in thickness.

the sensation was overwhelming. your walls were stretched further, and you could feel his cocks throbbing deep inside, ready to spill.

“breed.” he groaned against your neck, lips bloody, voice raspy. “let me fill you. let me breed your sweet cunt.”

and he did.

his top cock began to inflate at the base, the tissue swelling into a something that locked him deep within you. you whimpered in pleasure as the first shiny, pearl-white ovoid passed through his urethra and into your hole —a smooth, rounded glob that stretched you to the fullest before it settled inside you.

then another, and another, and another. each one leaving a trail of warmth as it popped through his cock and deposited itself in deep inside you. his hands stopped flat against your stomach, to keep you from moving away, and he felt the bulge begin to rise.

the eggs were gathering together with his thick cum.

“yes, yes.” he murmured, his tone a mix of wonder and satisfaction, eyes glassy with lust. “so many eggs already. and there’s more for you.”

he kept pumping, each thrust squeezing another round egg into you, and with it came wave upon wave of thick, pearlescent cum that filled every remaining crevice. your tummy bulged more and more, the skin stretching tight until you could feel the weight of his eggs sinking low inside you. you were so full that you couldn’t tell what was cum and what was ovoid; you only knew that he was still pumping, still depositing, still claiming.

“r–rafayel, i w–will ugh– i can’t hold– nngh!”

your protests were swallowed by another orgasm as he rutted his final drops into you, the bottom cock twitching inside you as it added its own thick semen to the swelling pool. your tummy was now a pronounced curve, the skin taut and shiny, and you could feel each individual egg pressing against the walls of your tummy.

“yes.”

finally, he stilled, his body shaking with the last spasms of release. he remained inside you for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged and hot against your sweaty skin. then, with a small whine, he pulled out: first the bottom cock, then the top one, releasing the lock on your pussy. you felt a gush of warm cream follow him, and when you looked down, you saw the mess he had made of you.

your pussy was ruined, swollen, hole gaping as thick, white cum started to drool out in hefty treads, pooling on the sheets beneath you.

he moved down your body, his hands sliding over your blooming skin until they rested on your swollen belly. he pressed gently, and you felt the first egg pop out with an obscene sound. the smooth, pearly ovoid rolled out onto the sheet, shining with your combined juices. then another, and another, each one escaping as he pressed firmer, each one making you whine from overstimulation.

your tummy slowly deflated, but not all the eggs were out yet — you could still feel a few resting high inside, near your cervix.

“shh, i’ve got you.” he said, his voice suddenly soft and sweet, a stark contrast to the brutality from moments ago. he shifted his hand from your belly to your swollen clit, his fingers gliding through the wetness with good intent.

“you’re doing so well, baby. let me help the rest out.”

he began to rub circles around your hyper-sensitive bud, while his other hand pressed firmly on the top part of your pelvis. the overstimulation made you sob out, but his sweet expression (his soft, purple orbs, the blush on his face, the cute smile on his lips) kept you grounded.

“that’s it, sweet girl, let them out. you’re so brave for taking all of that. now just one more– yes, there it is.”

with a particularly deep press of his palm and a swirl of his thumb, the last egg got out with a sultry plop, rolling to join its siblings on the sheet. your body shuddered violently, another spasm of climax racing through you, but he never stopped the gentle ministrations of his hand.

he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your belly, his lips tracing your skin as you orgasm again into his palm.

“such a good girl.” he whispered against your skin, his tone full of adoration and gratitude. “you took everything so perfectly, my partner.” he lifted his head to look into your hazy eyes, and there was nothing but contentment in his gaze. “let’s rest for a bit.”

at last, he removed himself from between your legs, allowing you a moment of respite as he lounged next to you on the bed. cradling your spent form into a delicate side embrace, he guided your head onto his chest, petting your wet hair away from your face.

“my sweet baby.”

©pearlescenthoney 2026. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.