Bunny

You clock into the reality, realizing the dig he made at your “boy.”

“Yeah, she didn't wanna come, I kinda dragged her here. I was like, ‘babe, it may just be a light concussion but you're a nurse, not a doctor’ so, like, thanks, doc. We needed the big guns,” proudly speaks Noah standing against the wall, checking time on his phone for the 5th time since you've been in this room.

Jack's jaw tightens and he shoots him a look so dirty, Noah actually takes a step back.

“Watch it, kid, if it wasn't for nurses, American healthcare would be even fuckin’ worse.”

Abbot looks back at you, and raises an eyebrow as if to say “really? him?”

You should speak up in your boyfriend's defense, something — anything — to wipe that perceptive look on Jack's face, the smugness he isn't trying hard enough to hide. You might as well be in your birthday suit right now, for how bare you feel. How bare you always feel in his presence.

God knows how much you'd actually like to be — no, you have a boyfriend. A perfectly handsome, competent, and a caring one.

Handsome. Not rugged.

Competent. Doubtful.

Caring. Well, caring enough.

“Doctor Abbot…” you begin, voice stripped raw, breath coming uneasy, when his index brushes right over your thrumming pulse.

“Focus on the examination. Tsk, thought we taught you better here. Well, I at least did. Don't you agree, nurse?” 

The air leaves your mouth in a little puff, leaving your throat dry, your lips soon following. You need a glass of —

“Need some water? You've been here a while,” Jack asks, tone becoming gravelly and intimate, eyebrows drawing closer seeing how pale you look.

He immediately turns to Noah — hands leaving your neck — without waiting for a response from you. His voice takes on its normal cadence. “Hey, son, grab her a bottle, would you? Vending machine is at the end of the corridor. Thanks.”

His ‘Thanks’ comes out in a slow drawl that makes you squirm in your seat. 

Your attending has not even fully turned back to you yet, when your partner speaks up, “Uh, bottle of what?”

“A Pinot Noir, perhaps. Which one do you prefer?” His eyes find yours again, brows raising in deep amusement. Is he getting a kick out of humiliating your boyfriend — and by extension, you?

“Uh…” noah looks utterly confused. You feel almost bad for him. Almost. 

“Water, son. Get your girl a bottle.” Noah makes a move to leave, complying immediately to the doctor. Has he ever even listened to you so quickly? God, men are such dicksuckers for each-other.

“A chapstick while you're at it, maybe,” Jack mutters, trying to keep the humour out of his voice. Noah stops in his tracks again, clearly deaf to the sarcasm.

Jack huffs. “Just go.”

You honestly don't understand why he dislikes Noah so much. You've only been dating him for 3 weeks.

Well.

Noah did try to make a “romantic” gesture by coming to pick you up from your shift. Except, he arrived an hour early as a “surprise” and cribbed because you couldn't leave early. And he did just undervalue your job as a nurse. And…of course, an hour ago, he accidentally hit you your head with a football while he was showing attempting a trick.

As Noah leaves, Jack lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Don't worry, I'll get you a chapstick,” he says, staring shamelessly at your trembling bottom-lip before making a slow way up again.

“Penlight. Incoming.”

You've barely had time to react when a sudden light shone in your eyes. Your face instinctively tries to move back, only to be stopped by a feather-light touch on your jaw. Jack's finger retracts as soon as it comes, leaving you starved for more. More than just the pad of his index.

You hold still for him, letting him sway the torch alternatively between your eyes. When the light is kept back with a soft clink, there are no more distractions as he stands up straight again.

The creases in his scrubs only increase when he folds his arms over his chest.

Don't objectify him. Don't objectify him. Don't objectify him.

Fuck it. Too late for that. 

“So…” the man begins.

“So.” You mutter, your gaze trying to find something interesting on the floor.

“Nick seems like a good guy.”

“Noah.”

“Right. We should thank Nick for bringing you here right on time. Wouldn't wanna lose one of our best nurses.”

You scoff at his words. Your feet are moving in a slow back and forth rhythm, your eyes fixated on them.

“Let's not say things we don't mean for good staff satisfaction scores.”

“If you're trying to insult me by implying I care about that shit, good job. I'm slightly more offended than the time you implied I am too old for karaoke." He's slightly rocking himself back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“Didn't imply, actually. I think I was pretty direct.”

A huff of laughter leaves his lips. You don't want huffs or sarcastic laughs. You want his full belly-laugh. His happy laugh that you've only seen Robby drag out of him.

“I don't care about staff satisfaction scores,” he lightly shakes his head for a moment.

“Yes, you just sai —”

“Only care about yours.”

That makes you look up at him again with widened eyes and parted lips. Little shit, off-handedly throwing around words that gives you butterflies.

Dead butterflies, of course, just like your affections on him. Former crush. Yes.

You quickly regain your senses to retort.

“Satisfaction with your services? If so, thank you for checking me for a concussion.” The formality in your words completely betray the flush creeping up your cheeks.

“Of course, what else?” You hate the way he says your last name. The way it rolls off his tongue. The way it reeks of intent, and not casualty.

The sharp noise of metal rings dragging across a rod brings you out of your trance. Nic — Noah emerges from behind the privacy curtain, a bottle of water clutched in his right hand, and a simmering cup of black coffee in left. “Got you choices, babe.”

You smile thankfully at him, perhaps more grateful for the distraction. You extend your hand, your pointer gesturing at the water. You don't feel the same electricity when Noah's fingers brush against yours in the hand-off.

Jack takes a step back. He nods at you. “Rest. Hydrate. You know it.”

"Mhm, no big brain activity, limited screen time, don't avoid if symptoms worsen."

"Impressive. How does a civvie like you know the drill?" he asks, eyes widening in mock-surprise.

"Oh, I'm very smart. Could've easily been a nurse at your hospital," you can't help but smile.

"Shame. I'm sure you would've been terrific."

He nods at your boyfriend next, “Nick.”

“Uh, it's actually Noa —” but Jack's right hand has already caught the edge of the curtain, swiftly pulling it out of his way, and disappearing shortly after. 

“She prefers lattes, by the way.”

2

Bzzzzzzz 

“Doctor Ellis, I didn't know you allowed your staff to bring phones in a trauma bay. I would've brought mine to play some music while we inserted a chest tube inside this man.”

Ellis only grunts, too focused on work at hand.

Your cheeks heat at Doctor Garcia's comment, feeling the loud buzz against your thigh for the nth time today. 

“I'm sorry — ” you had only just begun when Dr. Abbot's voice cut in, deadpan and dry.

“Yolanda, you listen to music?”

“Doesn't everyone?”

“Yeah, well, normal people do. Why?”

Garcia's sharp glare to the attending does nothing to his demeanor. His hands — controlled, precise, and so fucking practiced — don't stop for even a fraction of a second. 

“Not everyone can have eccentric hobbies like nude yoga, Dr. Rabbit.”

Nude yoga? Nude? You force your mind to not conjure up an image of that. Especially not with your attending — who you have used to have a schoolgirl crush on — as the main character. Or, you'll be the one on the operation table instead of observing, breaking out in hives.

“I'm sorry, Dr. Garcia,” you complete.

“Apologise to the man on the table; It's not my life on line. No matter how much I wish whenever I work with you boy scouts.” You always cringe at the bluntness in her tone, but it's worse when directly aimed at you.

“Easy, Garcia,” Jack commanded, tone instantly gaining its authority, pausing a moment to shoot her a look. Yolanda doesn't deter, and two of your most-respected, highly-competent seniors seem to engage in a silent eye-conversation. It ends with a twitch of Garcia's lips as she glances at you, and your attending muttering, “shut it.”

Huh, Strange. 

***

The biohazard bin shuts with a snap, and you rub your clammy hands, trying to get the feel of rubber gloves off them. Trauma bays are always stress-inducing, no matter —

Bzzzzzzzzz.

You're about to kill someone tonight. It's gonna be your boyfriend. And you're gonna enjoy it. And you're gonna go online, talk about it, and watch a number of supportive women tell you, “I support your rights, but also your wrongs. You go, bitch.”

The constant vibration against your thigh, the baby crying in pedes, and looking like a fool in a trauma bay…you heave a sigh. Has the ED always been so bright? It's like the lights are directly in your eyes.

You hate loud. So much.

You un-pocket your phone, letting it unlock before you start typing furiously, your mouth instinctively murmuring everything you're typing. Your feet carry you forward, muscle memory taking you to a quiet corner, where you can peacefully argue. And bang your head against the wall, if you're lucky. But you're not sure if there's a staff discount at The Pitt. And frankly, you're already struggling with rent and groceries.

Look at you being fiscally responsible. 

“Fuck, sorry,” leaves your mouth as soon as you accidentally collide with someone. A single calloused palm settles on your hip, steadying you. 

Your lips part to say something, but no words come out. It seems the entirety of blood in your body has rushed towards your hip to greet Dr. Abbot's hand, before it retracts.

“Been apologising a lot today. Forgot your training or have you rejoined pre-school?” His body moves to your front, effectively blocking the view of rapid-paced staff, and people in wheelchairs and gurneys. 

“Just…one rookie mistake after another.” Your body sags sideways, taking support of the wall. As if on instinct, his posture mirrors yours, his entire side leaning against the wall as well. You deposit your phone back in your pocket.

“For what it's worth, you started out not too long ago. You are, technically, still a rookie,” he speaks. 

In this slow corner, the lights seem dimmer and noise quieter. Your shoulders drop just a bit. You're not sure if it's the location or him. Your bet is on location.

You wonder how you must look to the others, a junior nurse and the person with the most seniority on this floor, tucked away in a hushed hallway. What would they think of you? Certainly not co-workers.

Your lips curl in a tired, soft smile. “Trying to make me feel better again, sir?”

“Trying to tell you trauma surgeons have a permanent stick up their ass. Shen and I have bets on whether she lives in an ice castle or a secluded cave.”

Your smile grows bigger, and his eyes crinkle. “It's not just her. In fact, I admire women with a mean mouth.”

“Only women?”

“Men already are. I can't think of any situations where they'd need to be more mean.”

“I can think of a few,” his voice dips even lower, rocks coated in honey. Your eyes find the fluttering pulse on his throat, and travel up his face, to find his gaze fixated on your lips. He looks up again. Slowly. Not in a rush. 

In this low-lit corner and his head tilted down to adjust to your height, his curls — salt and pepper and presumably soft — brushed his forehead, creating shadows across his face. 

You clear your throat, trying to erase some of the tension. “It's Noah. You met him the other day, if you haven't forgotten."

“Oh, I tried.” 

You click your jaw, “He's a nice guy, sir.”

“Uh-huh. Is he blowing up your phone? What's wrong?” His brows furrow in concern, and you find his worry comforting. You're about to open your mouth to explain —

“Did he forget his Roblox password?”

You slightly shake your head, looking down at his shoes. “You…Dr. Abbot,” you trail off, looking up at him again to see the corner of his mouth twitching, eyes wide as if he's seriously expecting an answer.

“How do you even know what that is? And no, that's not it. He…sprained his ankle, hewasdoingaparkourjump,” you mumble the last part as quickly as you can, cheeks heating and eyes wandering.

Jack pauses, expression caught somewhere between humour and exasperation, “Wow, didn't know your boy was still in middle school. Tell me, were you trying to find a boyfriend or a son?”

You throw your head back, a light groan escaping your mouth. While you rub your eyes, you feel your attending move. After a second, he has a bottle of water in his hand.

You give him a look of gratitude and hold your fingers out. But before passing it to you, he twists off the cap with ease. For a moment, you let yourself enjoy the sight of his biceps straining against his scrub top.

You empty almost half the bottle, throat working the liquid down, flushed under the heavy gaze of the man standing in front of you who is currently shamelessly oggling your neck. He's quick to take the bottle off your hands once you're done.

You mutter a quiet “Thanks.” He holds out his free hand forward. You shoot him a confused look, your fingers come up, hovering centimeters away from his palm.

Does he want you to hold…?

“Your phone, nurse.”

Your eyes blink, realisation creeping with a smudge of cringe, “Oh, that makes more sense. Yeah.” But the embarrassment is quick to vanish when you think about what he said.

“What? No. I feel naked without my phone on me.”

His eyes drop to your chest the moment the word “naked” leaves your mouth. You're not sure you've stopped blushing in the last 2 minutes.

“You're not a teenager.”

“Well, I love my phone like one,” you defensively say, standing up straighter. Your right hand moves towards your pocket to protect your mobile.

Abbot rumbles your last name like a warning, his husky voice settling low in your belly, and your traitorous hand is fishing the phone out without a conscious thought.

Before you can even hand it to him, he slightly bends, prying it out of your fingers.

“Now, I feel like a teenager,” you pout.

He uses her corner of your phone to tap against your nose, “Then don't make me go all authoritative on you again, kid.”

With that, he pockets your phone and walks away. You watch him twist the cap off the bottle again and drink directly from the mouth of it. The mouth you just had your own lips wrapped around.

Kid. 

You need a chair. 

3

“Okay, instead of using this job as an excuse for a sad dating life, how about you guys just admit…y'all got no game,” Mateo knocks back the last sip of his drink, making this very, very bold claim.

“First of all, nobody was talking about dating life. We were talking about sex. Forget dates, when was the last time any of you got laid?” Ellis asks, using her glass to gesture vaguely around the table, a few droplets falling on the wood.

Your shift was hell. Well, everyone's was. Really, every shift is hell, so this one was no different. The only thing was that today, everyone decided to grab a drink. Not in the nearest park, no. Instead, they're all here, the nearest bar that's open at a time when a person should be doing a morning walk, not shots.

You're tucked between Mateo on your left and Jack on your right, in a worn-out brown leather booth, with Shen and Ellis across the table.

“I don't feel comfortable talking about the personal details of my married life with my colleagues,” replied Shen, sadly nodding his head.

Jack's voice, raspy from his whiskey, cuts in, “Oh, shut it, Shen.”

“I'd say 6 weeks since we slept together,” Shen gave up quickly. A series of sympathetic groans and nods went around the table.

Mateo juts his chin towards Ellis, raising his brows. “Hooked up with someone last week. Left before she woke up,” replied the woman.

“Didn't know you were a player, doc,” laughs your fellow nurse, before his head turns to you. “And you? Come on, we're the youngest and hottest, we gotta rub it in their faces. Besides, you have, uh, what's his name...”

You laugh nervously, tracing the rim of your glass with your index. While everyone’s lazy and heavy-lidded all around, you feel Abbot's fervent gaze burning a hole into the side of your head.

“Noah. And hate to disappoint, but it's been some while,” you admit. Not being able to hold back any longer, you finally turn your head to the right. Not taking his eyes off you, your attending takes a long sip of his whiskey.

“How much is a while?”

This is inappropriate. Your attending physician shouldn't be asking you this, you're sure of it. But nobody but you looks alarmed.

“I would say…none of your business, doc,” you softly murmur, the liquid courage making your tongue sharper.

“And what about you Dr. Abbot?” Mateo jumps in again.

It's your turn to look at Jack with the same intense gaze. He doesn't take his eyes off you, “been a while for me too,” he mutters so low, like he's only referring to you.

You lose. You lose the staring contest and let your eyes fall back to your glass. Thank god, you have some of your drink still left. 

“Why, is it…old man stuff?” Mateo asks, and your eyes widen at his question. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold back your laugh. Ellis's rich chuckle fills the quiet bar. You finally bring your cup to your lips.

“I'm an attending, Mateo. We're always at the very top of our performance. Here to serve well. In or out of trauma bays.”

Your drink goes down the wrong pipe, and you break out into a violent cough. Why would he say it like that? You're pretty sure you look like a tomato.

You feel a strong hand on your back, beginning to rub small circles through the thin fabric of your shirt. “Easy,” Jack whispers into your right ear. 

Is nobody watching this?

You look around to see Shen, Ellis, and Mateo have deeply engrossed themselves in a completely different conversation. You wonder for a second if it's intentional.

His heavy hand stops rubbing, instead patting the small of your back softly and rhythmically. Your coughs start dying down, and you wipe the underside of your watery eyes with your knuckle.

“Have trouble swallowing, kiddo?” His voice is right next to your ear, every breath rustling a tiny bit of your hair. 

Oh. Oh. OH.

“Think I need some air, sir,” you mutter, voice dried. You feel floaty, and it has nothing to do with alcohol.

Jack rises from his seat with a low grunt, “Think we're gonna step outside for a moment,” he announces.

You quickly follow suit and walk out after him before you can see anyone's expressions. You're pretty sure you hear Shen's giggle.

***

You welcome the morning chill that greets your face as soon as you step out, double doors falling shut behind you. You close your eyes, tilting your head upwards, and take a deep breath, easing the night's tension out of your body.

“Hot date yesterday?” You're quickly brought back to reality, turning sideways. Abbot has his hands in pocket and hair ruffled from the wind.

“Oh, uh, yes. How'd you guess?”

“You clocked in yesterday wearing something…different.” His eyes drop to your chest, before lingering on your lips, and then meeting your eyes again.

Your cheeks burn. You didn't realise he saw you in your fancy clothes. It was bad enough that you were running late, and worse that you didn't get to change before clocking in with your date outfit still on.

“Yeah. Noah took me to dinner. I just signed a new lease. I'm moving out of my current dumphole to another dumphole, but it's nearer to work. So.”

“Congratulations, glad to have you close.”

“Thanks, sir.”

A comfortable silence falls over for a minute before he speaks again, “was the place nice and quiet?”

“Hm?”

“Where he took you. Nick.”

“Ah. No. It's kinda trendy right now, so, super loud…” you trail off with a sigh. Jack keeps looking at you, as if wanting you to say more, as if finally expecting you to spill the truth out: Noah doesn't know you.

“Hm. Didn't peg you for a gold person, either.”

“What?”

He gestures with his chin towards your neck, where a sliver of chain is peeking out from under your shirt. A new one, gold colored, gifted by your boyfriend yesterday.

“I'm an anything person, really.”

Jack doesn't say anything, only waits. And this time, it works.

“Well, silver, if I had to pick. I like silver,” you speak, your voice bordering on a whisper.

Jack finally stops looking at you, and with that, you finally breathe. He casts his gaze towards the sky.

“I know.”

He says your name.

Your first name that he rarely says. Your heart stutters. Every bit of fresh air you inhaled seems to leave your lungs all at once. Instead, a family of butterflies — so fucking alive — have swarmed in there, rendering you speechless.

Please say my name again.

“I know, kid.”

“I'm not a kid, Jack.” For a second, you watch his eyes get darker. He takes a step closer to you. Then another. 

You crane your neck to look up at him. Suddenly, he turns his back to you. One of his hands peeks from his side, and tugs at the lower back of his shirt, pushing it down by an inch or two.

You stand confused, until you notice faint black ink — now visible — just below his neck. You suck in a sharp breath.

By the time Jack turns towards you again, you're barely holding yourself up. He leans forward, his nose only inches away from yours.

“I've got tattoos older than you,” he breathes, “kiddo.”

Your knees turn to jelly. A sharp heat travels straight into your belly, increasing the buzz between your legs. Your lips part, teeth sinking into your plush lower lip.

You can only numbly turn your body towards the door as he holds it open for you. There's not a hint of teasing or smugness in his expression. There is something else, though. 

Desperation.

You walk in through the gate, mind already trying to think of a reason to break up with Noah. Unfortunately, or fortunately, it finds plenty.

+1

“Oh, honey, just take this right now. The doctor has told your mom the rest. You're gonna be just fine!” You give your brightest smile to the 6 year-old girl, looking all sad and tiny on the gurney.

You stand up straight again, your back protesting. For someone still “young”, you definitely have an old-person back.

The mom gives you a thankful smile that still doesn't hide her tiredness, “Thank you so much.”

“She's gonna be alright, mom.” You flash one last smile and turn to pull the privacy curtain. When you step out, you see Lena, your charge nurse, and Jack in a conversation at the charge nurse station.

Lena calls out to you, “All done in there, hun?” You nod and give a thumbs-up. You expect your attending to say something, a joke, or even glance at you, but he doesn't.

Your heart sinks. After the morning at the bar, you went home and planned how to break-up with your boyfriend. On the other hand, Jack apparently went home and came up with, “10 ways on how I will ignore my co-worker who I occasionally flirt with on purpose.” 

For the past week, there have been no lingering looks, no cornering you to check in, and no making fun of you.

No point in dwelling. You start going on about your usual business, entering through another curtain, all while the back of your mind still calculates how to leave Noah.

You had prepared your speech and your reasons. But then, Noah lost his job the same day you were planning to have the talk. And 2 days later, he was leaving to visit his parents in California. Shouldn't you just wait until after the trip? It will be so much easier. 

Yes, you're definitely delaying it because it makes sense, and not because you're scared that Noah will absolutely take it the wrong way. He's been miserable lately as is, and while you were trying to be sympathetic, you couldn't find it in yourself.

Noah had always been unobservant and insensitive to your needs, not doing anything till he's told. All while, he expected it all from you — emotional support, moral support, and now, financial support. You saw nothing wrong with being “needy” but didn't you deserve the same treatment from him?

As you leave another exam room, still conflicted, you see Lena waving you over, the telephone receiver pressed against her ear. You quickly walk over.

Lena brings down the handset, palming the mouthpiece so the other person can't hear. “Sweets, it's your boyfriend, he's all panicking over something. Do you wanna take this, or should I make an excuse?”

The color from your face drains. This is humiliating, Noah calling at your work because he can't take care of himself. You quickly un-pocket your phone, tapping the screen awake.

9 missed calls from Noah.

“Uh, I'll take it. Thank you, Lena. Sorry too.” She gives you a sympathetic smile and hands you the handset.

“Noah, you can't be calling me at work.” You whisper into the mouthpiece.

“Babe, did you think I wanted to? I called your phone like 3 times, but you didn't pick it up. It feels like you're ignoring me.”

“It's because I am ignoring you. I am at a fucking hospital, working the emergency department,” your voice is straining with the effort to keep it low.

“Oh, I knew you'd throw your job in my face because I'm unemployed. You're a nurse, not a doctor, babe. See, I remember things.”

You take a deep breath.

“What do you want?”

“I locked myself out of my house. The locksmith will come by in the morning. Can you swing by and drop your keys? You know, I lost my license recently, and my ankle is still not good enough to take the subway.”

“No.”

“Jesus, I'm stranded, just be a good girlfriend for once.”

That sends you over the edge. You put the telephone down with more than necessary force, cringing when a few people turn to look at you.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, tears of frustration welling up in your eyes.

“You okay, kid?” Lena asks sweetly, coming to stand closer to you. You're only able to nod at her. If you open your mouth, your voice will break. When your charge nurse finally steps away, you clear your throat, and blink back your tears. 

When you look up with clear eyes, there's Dr. Abbot standing about 20 feet away from you, in a conversation with a nurse that he's not listening to. Because he's looking directly at you.

You quickly move your head, “Lena, mind if I take 5?”

“Take 10, hun.” You flash her a grateful smile and start walking towards the supply closet.

You twist the doorknob and walk into what must be a 6×6 feet room, and close the door behind you. Your phone is still in your hand, clutched tightly enough to be used as a weapon. You open Noah's chat.

This isn't working out. When the locksmith figures out your door, pack my things in a box and leave them outside my door. Have fun folding your own bedsheets. I'm changing my Netflix password!

Your thumb hovers over the send button. Is the message too unkind? Too cruel for you? You drop the phone in your pocket, with the text still sitting there.

You force yourself to take deep breaths, pressing the heel of your hands against your eyes, turning around to face the organized racks.

“Fuck, fuck, fuc —”

The door slams open, and then shuts behind you, making you jump around, your hands falling to your chest.

“Jesus, Jack.”

“Did you forget your manners?” His voice comes out stern, low enough to drop the temperature of the room.

Your hands fall to your side. You're not in the mood for this. You don't want him in here, no matter how quickly your body is gaining color in his presence.

“What do you want, sir?” your question comes out breathless.

“You know, we pay you to work, not to hide in supply closets when you have fights with your childish boyfriend.”

“I asked Lena first, and I should be out in 5.”

“A patient can need you in 1,” he deadpans.

“Good thing there's Mateo and a bunch of fucking nurses already out there! I'm not the only one, sir,” you frantically wave your hands around, voice rising in pitch.

“Yeah, you're the only one yelling at your attending,” he leans back against the door, looking like he's enjoying a goddamn show. His calm pisses you off even more.

In your frazzled state, the true words spill out before you can filter them.

“Yes, my attending who has spent the last couple of days icing me out, keeping his distance, like I broke into his house and stole his leg.”

He's eyeing your motioning hands cutting through the air. You must look like the crazy one, while he stands there all frickin’ composed, his lips twitching.

“That's dark. And I'm your attending, nurse, as you mentioned. I'm not your boyfriend,” he shakes his head slowly like he's talking to a dog.

“I know that. Do you?”

“Oh, I know I'm not Nick,” he snickers.

“FOR THE LAST —” your voice booms throughout the small room before you stop yourself. You pinch your nose, chest heaving up and down.

Deep breaths. In and out. You're not the only two people in the hospital, no matter how much it feels like that.

Nurse, there's people that are dying.

“For the last time, his name is Noah,” you calmly say, voice shaking with the effort of controlling your pitch.

“Right, sorry. I just forgot because he forgot to fill his name out on your discharge papers when he brought you in. It's okay, children make mistakes like that all the time. Even when the forms are very easy to navigate, and the font size is very large,” Jack mocks, laughing sardonically. 

“Why do you care so much?” 

“Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I care about all my staff.”

Sweetheart.

“You're killing me.” 

“Trauma bay 1 is empty,” he deadpans, shrugging his shoulders. 

A humorless laugh escapes you. Oh, he thinks he's so funny.

“Staff. Is that what I am? Then why do you look at me differently than you look at others? Why do you catch me in the hallways? Why are you always seeking me out? Why have you not walked out of this —”

You flinch at the sudden motion, hand moving towards your temple where something just knocked against it. You look down, where a box maybe twice the size of your hand, lies on the ground.

The rack behind you is still vibrating from when your right arm collided with it 2 seconds ago. You shouldn't have been waving your arms around so much.

“Ow,” you mutter, the heel of your impacted hand rubbing your temple, and eyes downcasted at the box, looking at it like it personally wronged you. Which it did.

Jack quickly moves towards you, his left hand shooting up to take hold of your fingers that are kneading your head — same fingers that smashed against the rack — and brings your conjoined hands down.

“Careful. Are you hurt?” With only inches between you, he bends his head down to examine where you took the hit. His free palm brushes your hair back gently, and you shiver at the touch of his warm skin.

Trapped between your torsos, your hands are still joined, his thumb stroking against your knuckles to soothe any pain you felt on the impact.

“I asked you something, kid.” 

You've lost your voice. You look from your connected fingers to his eyes. 

And, oh.

His eyes have softened, looking at you with concern. This man sees lacerations, head traumas, hematomas, and fractures every single day. You've never seen him look this worried, and all for a pathetic clash that didn't even leave a bruise behind.

He switches positions with you, and suddenly, his back faces the shaky rack, his form protectively towering over yours. All of your body protests when he moves back, his hands dropping to his own sides.

“You can continue yelling at me now.”

In and out. Deep breath.

“Why have you not walked out of this room yet? And why have you kept me at an arm's distance?” you say but your voice is anything but loud, it's small and quiet, breaking at the end.

“As I said —”

“Stop, stop, stop. Stop, Dr. Abbot, and don't lie to me.” You instinctively take a step forward, closing all the distance again.

A pause.

“I really thought you were gonna break up with him. That morning, I thought you finally regained your senses, and were gonna cut off the dead weight,” he admits, running a hand through his hair.

“Jac —”

“Shut up and let me speak. I thought you were gonna end it with him, and you would come to the next shift looking happy and bright again. Just like you used to before you let that boy date you. You.”

His eyes are boring into yours, and he looks breathless and affected, so opposite to how he was just a minute ago.

“Me? What about me?”

He laughs humourlessly, “let's not fish for compliments. You know what you are. And if you don't, it makes me wonder what kind of limpdicks you have been with.”

You suck in a sharp breath, at a loss of words. Your cheeks burn, and your heart does a backflip. 

He thinks that?

Jack turns around, so his back is facing you. Both his hands brush his hair back, and you can see the expansion and contraction of his back as he takes deep breaths.

“What if I had broken up? Nothing would've changed. It's not like you would've done anything. You would've continued to eye-fuck me across gurneys, and flash a smile once a day,” you speak up, voice rising in pitch again.

He turns back sharply, walking even closer to you, his chest colliding with yours.

“Oh, you know it's more complicated than that,” he retorts, eyes narrowing.

“What? You're my senior, you're older —”

He says your name. Low. Authoritative. You feel a traitorous sensation between your thighs.

“I'm not just older, I am old. Period. And I know just how old I am, because I feel it everyday when I strap my leg, and wake up with a new pain every day."

You don't know how to respond. Your gaze falls to his lips, and before you know what you're doing, you're withdrawing your phone from your pocket.

You take a tiny step back to make space, and tap your screen awake. It directly opens to Noah's chat, your message still sitting there in the type box.

You turn your screen towards Jack. His eyes move back and forth, reading your draft. When his eyes meet you again, they're intense, frantic, and what do you know…excited.

“Why haven't you sent it?”

“Because he's already going through a lot. He doesn't have a job, or a car, or…okay, I get it.”

Jack's fingers come up to grab your chin, holding it up. He looks like he's just had a shot of espresso and topped it off with another 3.

“Do it. Do it right now, in front of me, or you'll chicken out. He lost his job, his car, the next thing he loses is you. The one that's worth the most.”

With his breathless voice, taking the edge of desperation as every second ticks, you know you've lost. You bite your bottom lip.

His thumb moves from your chin, to your lower lip, freeing it from your teeth, “don't worry yourself over him.”

Deep breath. In and out.

You slowly look down at your screen, your thumb hovering over the little arrow. 

Send. 

You put the mobile back in your pocket and look up at Jack with hope, like a kid waiting for approval. Jack flashes you the biggest smile you've ever seen on him. 

You did that. You.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” his thumb strokes your cheekbone, and you can't help but lean into his palm. You're high watching him smile, a similar one takes form on your lips.

He's so beautiful. He's the most beautiful man you've ever seen. He should be on TV, winning Emmy's for his grin.

But then you falter, “My…my minutes are up.”

“You can take another 5,” his face leans closer, and the tip of your nose kisses his.

“Patient might need me in 1,” you helplessly whisper, your breaths mingling.

“Well, consider me a patient, then. Your patient.”

You gulp. Your knees are growing weaker by the second and you can't stop staring at his soft lips. You let out a little pathetic whimper before lifting your chin, brushing your lips against his softly.

Fuck.

Your heart tries to escape your ribcage, palm operating with a brain of its own and landing right over his heart. His fluttering, excited, nervous heartbeat greets you, and your lips curve upwards.

Just as you try to move your lips against his —

“Not like this,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You let out an entirely pathetic whine, forehead crashing against his neck with a soft thunk. Your affectionate graze on his sternum turns into a punch — also, pathetic — and it makes him chuckle. 

“How, then?” your mutter into his neck.

His arm comes around your waist, holding you up for him so you can let your weight go. His arm tightens as soon as he feels you melt. 

“When I'll get you all the silver jewelry in the world,” he breathily replies in your ear.

“That's a lot.”

“What can I say? I like paying for things.”

His free fingers travel to the back of your neck, deftly working the hook of your golden chain with a single hand. You catch as the necklace falls down your chest, reluctantly taking your face out from his neck.

Note to self: Ask him what perfume he uses later. 

“One hand, wow.” 

“A lot of things I can unhook with one hand.”

He captures your wrist that you've held against his chest — index hatefully scratching, trying to harm him for not kissing you — and brings it to his lips.

He doesn't break eye-contact when he kisses the inside of your wrist. Then the middle of your palms, and finally the tips of your fingers.

You're grateful for his arm around your middle, otherwise you'd be on the floor, shrieking and screaming.

“Don't want to see that on you again,” he points with his chin towards your fist with the necklace inside it.

“Yes, doctor.”

He nods, heat swimming in his gaze. He finally extracts his arm from around your midriff, using it to pull out your phone from your pants and swiftly slipping it in his. 

“No more worrying, hm? In return…” He empties his other pocket, taking out a set of keys. He brings your palm down from his face and puts them in it.

“Sit in my car at the end of the shift. You know which one. Turn the heating on, and wait for me,” he raises his eyebrows, awaiting confirmation.

“Yes, okay,” you gulp, closing your other fist as well. One holds your past, another, your future. Or, so you hope.

“Yes, what?” he asks, already side-stepping you and moving towards the door.

“Yes, doctor”

“Good girl,” he shoots you a wink, the door falling shut behind him.

Look at that, your 10 minutes are up.

You are humming quietly to yourself while kneading dough near the fire, your youngest sitting nearby with a collection of wooden animals Kwei carved over the years. Your eldest is helping his father repair a spear shaft, though “helping” mostly consists of asking far too many questions.

Kwei is patient. More patient than the younger version of himself ever could have imagined.

“…Father?”

“Hm.”

“What is Mother’s favourite animal?”

Kwei glances toward you. Without looking up from your work, you smile.

“You are asking him?”

The boy nods enthusiastically.

“I want to know.”

Kwei answers before you can.

“The snow fox.”

“How do you know?”

“You stop to watch them every winter.”

You finally look up. A surprised smile spreads across your face.

“You noticed?”

He simply looks back at you. Of course he noticed. He notices everything about you.

The way you always sleep facing the fire. The herbs you reach for when your head aches. The songs you hum without realising it. The way your eyes brighten whenever the first snow begins to fall. These things matter because they belong to you.

That evening, after the children have fallen asleep, you sit together near the fire. Your head rests comfortably against Kwei’s shoulder while he continues carving a small piece of wood. The only sounds are the gentle scrape of his knife and the crackling fire.

“Kwei?”

“Hm.”

“Can I tell you about something we celebrated on Earth?”

“You may.”

“It was called a birthday. We celebrated every year after someone was born.”

“…Why?”

“Because we were happy they existed.”

“You already exist.” He tilts his head.

“I know.”

“So why celebrate again?”

“Because another year has passed.”

“…Humans celebrate surviving?”

“I suppose that is one way to look at it.”

He considers this very seriously.

“It seems inefficient.”

You grin.

“It probably does.”

He resumes carving.

“I celebrate you every day.”

The words are so simple that they nearly steal your breath.

“I know.”

“So why would one day be different?”

You reach for his hand, brushing your thumb across his knuckles.

“It isn’t about being different. It is about reminding the people you love how grateful you are that they were born.”

His eyes stay on yours for a long moment, hen he nods once.

“I understand.”

But judging by his expression… You are fairly certain he does not.

Months pass. Winter gives way to spring. Spring becomes summer. Life continues exactly as it always does.

Hunts.

Meals.

Children running through the house. Quiet evenings together. The conversation about birthdays disappears from your mind. Kwei, however… Remembers everything.

A few weeks before autumn arrives, he quietly begins disappearing after his hunts. Not for long. Just enough that you notice. When you ask, he answers.

“I had something to finish.”

You do not question him.

Then, your birthday arrives. You have not mentioned it. You never expected to celebrate it. It has been years since anyone did. You are preparing breakfast when Kwei enters the house carrying something wrapped carefully in soft leather. You look up.

“You are back early.”

“I am.”

“Good hunt?” You smile.

“It was.” He walks directly toward you. Stopping close enough that you can see a hint of nervousness in his posture.

It is so unusual that you almost laugh. He holds the wrapped bundle out toward you.

“This is yours.”

“For me?”

“Yes.”

You carefully unwrap the leather. Inside rests the most beautiful carving you have ever seen. It is a snow fox. Its fur has been carved so carefully that every strand seems almost real. Its eyes are gentle. Its tail curls around its body exactly the way you once described seeing them sleep.

You stare, unable to speak. Your fingers trace carefully across the smooth wood.

“Kwei…”

“It is your birthday.”

“You remembered?” You look up so quickly your eyes sting.

“You told me.”

“I only mentioned it once.”

“You mentioned it.”

As if that alone explains everything. Your vision begins to blur.

“Oh…” The first tear escapes before you can stop it. Kwei immediately stiffens. His mandibles lower.

“You are crying.”

“I know.” You laugh through another tear. His expression changes instantly. Concern replaces everything else.

“Did I carve it incorrectly?”

“No.”

“Do you dislike it?”

“No.”

“Is the fox inaccurate?”

“It is perfect.” You shake your head, laughing even harder now. He still looks uncertain.

“You are crying.”

You set the carving down carefully before stepping forward and wrapping your arms tightly around his waist. He freezes for only a heartbeat before embracing you just as tightly.

“I love it.” Your voice is muffled against his chest.

“I have never received something so thoughtful.”

He relaxes slightly.

“You are not unhappy?”

“No.”

“So… these are happy tears?”

You nod.

“Humans are strange.”

“We are.” You smile against him. He is quiet for a long moment before speaking again.

“I wished to remind you.”

“Of what?” You pull back slightly. His hand comes up to gently cup your face.

“That I am grateful you were born. Because if you had not…” He glances toward the room where your sons are still sleeping peacefully. “…I would not have this home.” His thumb brushes softly across your cheek, wiping away another tear. “I would not have our sons.” Then he looks back at you. “And I would not have you.”

You reach up, resting your hand over his.

“I think… you understand birthdays now.”

Kwei thinks for a moment. Then nods.

“It is not about celebrating another year.”

“No?”

“It is about thanking fate.”

“For what?”

“For bringing you into mine.”

You laugh softly before standing on your toes and pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. Behind you, a sleepy little voice suddenly breaks the quiet.

“…Mother?”

You both turn. Your eldest stands in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Can I have a birthday too?”

You burst into laughter, Kwei looks at him very seriously.

“Yes.”

The little boy grins.

“Will Father carve me something?”

Kwei looks back at you for just a moment before answering.

“I believe… that has become a tradition.”

And from that year onward, every birthday in your home was greeted not with grand celebrations or loud gatherings, but with something far more meaningful. 

A hand-carved gift made with patience, thought, and love. 

One unique carving for each member of the family, each telling a story that only Kwei could carve, and only the person receiving it could truly understand. 

Years later, those little wooden figures would line the shelves of your home, each one a quiet reminder that love was not measured by the size of the gift, but by the care with which it had been made.

He only smirked at you, his hand daring to your cheek. The contrast of his dark skin against yours sent a new wave of shivers down your spine. It was so intense, and you felt so needy all of sudden. You wanted him more than you had wanted anything in your life.

And he delivered.

Your clothes flew over his shoulder, and so did your inhibitions. You touched him everywhere, pulling at his clothes until they were ripped at the seams and you could touch his skin. You kissed and nipped at every part of him you could while he grunted against you, whispering nonsensical dirty words. Your brain felt too dizzy on desire to even care about what he said. And when he finally pushed his dick inside of you, you saw mother earth and all the goddesses chanting behind you, telling you how good it was, how perfect and right.

The sex was earth-shattering and frantic, his hips moving at the tempo of your wings fluttering behind you. Fast, too fast, faster. You couldn’t get enough of him, and he couldn’t get enough of you. You flew together through the air while he fucked you with all his magic and intent until fireworks were exploding behind your eyelids and you were too tired to keep flying. He landed you safely, his hips stuttering before coming deep inside of you.

you walked away from the point where you had left a small handful of treats for mrs. norris, a trick you had learnt long ago, and towards the dungeons, the air growing cooler and increasingly intimidating with each step. at this hour, it felt like eyes were on you from all angles, and you fastened your pace despite feeling silly.

you rounded a corner and there stood that familar stone door with faded, cryptic markings of snakes and other sorts. the whispered password left your lips, sounding entirely too loud in the echoed silence of the halls, and you watched as a stone snake slithered up from floor and around the door, opening with a hiss.

you pushed the door open further with a soft nudge, creeping inside before shutting it behind you as softly as possible. the common room was barren except for one or two bleary-eyed stragglers, but you hadn’t expected tom to be there anyways. no, you knew he’d be in his dorm, lost in his studies as he so frequently was, unaware to anything else— even to his own thirst or hunger, at times.

nobody paid you any mind as you steered through the common room and up to the prefect dormitories, settling at the top of the stairs with clammy hands. you paused for a beat, persuading yourself to knock on the door. it’s not that you thought tom would greet you with disdain, never. but tom was… well, tom. intimidating and powerful and seemingly so far out of your reach at times, especially when you got into your own head.

you were being foolish, you knew you were, so you steeled yourself, raised your fist to the aged walnut, and rapped softly against the wood in succession, breath caught in your lungs. nothing. nothing for a moment long enough to convince yourself that this was a terrible idea and that you should turn around and leave at once, but just as you were about to, a voice spoke from the other side.

“come.”

the command was deep and muffled from the hardwood separating you, but compelling nonetheless. your fingers met the cool grain of the handle, and before you could even twist, the door was opening. you stepped in and heard the soft click of the door shutting behind you, locking on its own. there tom was, sat at his desk, posture perfectly straight, quill in hand writing a variety of things you probably couldn’t comprehend, especially this late at night.

“i wondered how long you’d stand there before announcing yourself.” tom stated, not looking up, and you flushed at the realization he knew you were there the whole time, arguing with yourself inanely. you tightened your grip on the plastic container and took a step forwards, heart racing. only then did tom look at you, eyes cold and calculating but softening nearly indecipherably at the image of you, stood there anxiously in a sweater much too big for your frame.

“i, uhm.. i brought you something.” you winced at the way your voice came out, pitchy and teetering on the verge of shakiness. his eyes traced your face and followed your movements as you delicately held out the sweets to him. his brows furrowed together, and in this lighting, you could make out the veiled exhaustion hiding in the planes of his face, shown in the almost unnoticeable discolored circles under his eyes and in the way his cheekbones had slightly sunken.

you could see the confusion lining his features as his hand reached out, slowly— as if the tupperware would bite him— and grasped around the container, taking it gently from your grip. he looked down at the item, and then up at you, and then down again, before finally unclasping the top and placing it to the side with focused precision. the aroma of baked sugar, butter, and cinnamon immediately jumped around the room, almost startling in its haste of seeping into your senses. tom, too, look startled, finally seeming to realize that you had brought him, tom marvolo riddle, cookies at 12:00 in the morning.

“you made these.” it wasn’t a question so much as an asserted recognition, laced with perplexity and practiced aloofness. you answered anyways, a ‘yes’ so quiet it could be swept away by an oncoming breeze. tom hesitated briefly before picking up one of the snickerdoodles, examining it with care as if it was a ancient relic to be studied rather than a sweet you baked with flour coated fingers.

after a thorough inspection, he finally brought it to his lips and took a small, careful bite, his eyes on yours— or rather, on the way your fist tightened on the hem of your sleeve in a restraint to not pick at your nails, a jittery habit you knew tom despised. it was true, he did despise the way speckles of blood appeared in your nails wake, staining your skin in the most unpleasant shade. it looked wrong there, and it stood out much too loudly, so much so that it distracted tom. why, he couldn’t quite comprehend, but he loathed it, and so you made an effort to stop.

your white-knuckled grip on that striped sweater led tom to the fascinating epiphany that you were worried. worried that he wouldn’t like the baked good that you had clearly put effort into, and to his great surprise, you were wrong. tom was never much of a fan of sugar, but the mix of flavors settling on his tongue was actually… good. perhaps it was the subtle tanginess that snickerdoodle was known for combatting the sweetness, or perhaps it was because it was you who had made it, but tom found himself taking another bite unprompted.

at his carefully detached visage, you made a move to explain yourself. “i knew that you’d still be up because of that essay you mentioned yesterday, and you weren’t at dinner, so i thought that maybe you were.. hungry? you don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it, though!” you maundered quickly, jumbled and concerned.

his throat worked as he swallowed, only now recognizing the faint pangs of hunger reverberating through his abdomen. his eyes locked onto yours, dark and captivating, practically holding you hostage in his gaze.

“thank you.”

the sincerity in the syllables startled even tom, who frowned as he reached for another cookie, as if his hand itself was betraying him. you blinked, eyes wide, before you felt your shoulders begin to drop and your limbs begin to relax. a smile crept across your face, slow and soft, and you found your cheeks heating.

“you’re welcome, tom.”

he paused for a moment, as if his name on your lips had rendered him wordless, and then…

“stay.”

it wasn’t a request, but he made it sound like one, gentling his tone in an attempt to assuage you. your mouth opened. closed. opened again.

“i don’t…” you started aimlessly.

“please.” it was a word tom disliked very much, but for you? it had came out almost naturally. he hated that. he hated the thought of you leaving even more.

your lip found its way in between your teeth, getting gnawed on unpleasantly as your eyes darted around, surveying. you looked at tom, wholly focused on you, and sighed, releasing your trapped lip. you nodded.

“okay.”

it was a quiet agreement, whispered like a soft defeat in the quiet of the night. tom nodded as well, satisfied.

“okay.”

yet as he made room for you to curl up in his arms as he worked, he felt better than okay. he felt a word he dare not name.

Michaels utterly mesmerized, your tits bouncing up and down as you grind on his cock. Your hips moving in hypnotizing circles, your nails digging into his chest, and a custom six figure crown resting on your head.

“Mihya–haah” You moaned on top of him, “Mmm-I’m getting tired,” You whined, your legs burning from hopping up and down on his dick for so long.

If it were anyone else, he would’ve called them weak, but you’re his perfect Empress, and he makes sure to treat you like it.

“My poor Schatzi…” He spoke as he flipped you over in an instant.

Before you knew it you were on your back, the crown fallen onto the pillows underneath you, and Michael kissing your ankle as you got adjusted to the new position.

Michael picked up the crown and placed it lopsided on your head. He stared at you for a moment, taking in the sight of you laying under him, on his silk sheets. He leaned in to kiss you and slowly began thrusting again.

“Was my Empress getting tired?” He asked, genuine concern lacing his voice as he began thrusting into you harder, as he kissed your jaw and then down to your neck.

You reached your arms around him and dug your nails into his back, nodding weakly. He looked into your watery eyes, you biting your lip, all from the pleasure he was giving you. It drove him mad.

“Scheiße,” He groaned, “Don’t look at me like that Schatz, you know what it does to me,” He moaned on top of you, his thrusts getting faster and faster.

You did know what it did to him, that was the point. You loved seeing him go crazy for you, fall apart for you, because no one else got to see him like this.

Michael would rather die than show any weakness or vulnerability, but for you? He’s whimpered, kneeled on the ground, and kissed your feet. It satiated something in you, knowing only you could get him like that.

Super models, actresses, and fangirls threw themselves at him everyday, but only you could get him like this. Only you could make Michael Kaiser fall apart on top of you just by batting your eyelashes.

“Schatz-haah” He moaned into your ear, hiding his face in the crook of your neck.

Your right hand moved to his head, fingers entwining in his hair, “Mihyaa-go de-deeper, Mihya” You whined beneath him, your legs wrapping around his waist, back arching, and toes curling, because the pleasure was just too much.

He listened without complaints, your were the only person able to boss him around, of course. Michael began rutting into you, hitting that spongey spot inside you that made you see stars.

You cried out, your nails clawing at his back, definitely leaving marks deep enough to scar.

Michael groaned on top of you, you could feel him getting closer by the way his dick was pulsing inside you. Instinctively your pussy squeezed around him, pulling him in deeper to you.

He let out a whimper, a fucking whimper.

“Schatz–I-I’m close,” He moaned out breathily, his hands clutching you, the sheets, anything to ground him as your pretty pussy ruined him.

“Come inside Mihya” You cooed, your hand grabbing his jaw to pull him into a kiss.

Michael threw one hand into your hair, gripping onto you for dear life, and pushed down on your stomach with the other.

Both of you rolled your eyes back immediately, moaning obscenely into each others mouths. Him, because feeling how deep his cock was inside of you completely overtook all his senses, and you because it made his cock hit an angle inside you, you didn’t even know existed.

Michael pressed down harder as his thrusts began to become sloppy and desperate, his lips moving against yours obscenely, as you both bit and chased each other with spit circling your lips.

Your pussy clenched around his thick cock once, and it was all it took to send you two over the edge. He came inside you with a guttural groan the neighbors definitely heard as he spilled his seed inside you. Your pussy clamped down on him hard, as your walls spasmed and you came all over his dick, your juices coating his thick cock.

Michael kept rocking into you gently, getting you both through your highs. His abdomen flaunting your shared arousal, his cum dripping down out your pussy and onto his expensive silk sheets.

He kissed you then, breathing heavily and still sheathed inside you, not moving anymore. He moaned obscenely against your lips, his hand clutching to your hair, some of his fingers entertained with your messy strands, and some of them gripping the crown on your head. Almost as if he was making sure this was real, like you were real, hoping that joe that you were here, you’d stay. And of course, you would.

Michael Kaiser had finally found his fairytale ending. He an Emperor, with his Empress under him, adorned in her Emperors crown and his markings along her body, as they lay entangled.

Did i cook?!

Pls tell me i did. plsplsplspls

Not proofread, pls spare me, i wrote this in the middle of the night

Bunny, Sae, and more Michael and Vivian coming soon….Let me know if there’s anyone you wanna specifically see!

New York City - Wednesday at noon

The rooftop garden had been transformed so beautifully you wouldn't have believed you were in the middle of the city if it weren't for the surrounding buildings, there were stacks of hay, barrels, wood fixtures, hats, cow print all around and little horses decorating the entire place. Dean's mom had gone all out and spared no expenses for her grandchild's first birthday, she'd insisted on throwing the party and had made sure to include you in every step of the planning.

Now, Sebastian is toddling around dresses in an adorable cowboy outfit completed with the tiniest cowboy boots gifted to him by his uncle Tuck.

"He looks like he's enjoying himself" Dean stands by your side and you both look out at Sebastian laughing as he plays on the ball pit.

"Yeah he does" You sigh "The boys here yet?"

"Logan just texted, they're on their way from the airport right now"

"Think Tuck will show up in full cowboy get up?" You joke.

He laughs "One hundred percent"

Tucker does show up in a full cowboy outfit complemented with the hat and buckle belt and all of Dean's mom's friends go crazy for the young handsome cowboy and treat him as if he were the entertainment.

When it is time to cut up the cake you all stand around the table with Sebastian in Dean's arms and sing Happy Birthday to him, you had been scared that he wouldn't like it, but once again, he proves he is his father's son and loves the attention he's getting, you let him have his own smash cake that he demolishes completely and laugh when he gives you the biggest frost covered smile ever.

You're trying to clean him when Garrett finally approaches, as usual it takes him a bit to warm up to the baby, and he's still awkward around him a year after, Seb doesn't care about his uncle's clear unsure attitude towards him though because he reaches for him every time he can and today is not the exeption.

His hands are covered in frosting still but he makes grabby motions at Garrett who freezes "He's not an explosive you know?" You chuckle at his reaction.

"I know, but I don't want to… break him" You almost choke at his words.

"I'm sorry what?"

"I don't know how to hold a baby, I don't want to mess up and drop him or something"

"Garrett, he's pretty sturdy" You tell him "Plus he's sadly not a tiny baby anymore, he'll adjust himself until he feels safe and comfortable"

"Right"

Sebastian shrieks at Garrett not picking him up and then lets out a "GA!"

"He's calling for you Ga" You chuckle and hand him over.

Garret's face scrunches up in disgust when your son puts his hands on it "He's sticky"

"It's just frosting" You shrug and hand him a wet towel "Here"

You're getting a glass of lemonade when you notice Tucker's call for help, he's stuck in between a group of older women, Mrs. Di Laurentis' friends for sure. He smiles at them with the politeness that only Tucker can conjure and then when he notices you looking at him gives you a pleading look to get him out if there.

Laughing a little you approach them "Hello ladies, I have to steal our resident cowboy for a minute to get some pictures before the birthday boy gets the sugar crash"

"Oh okay, but you're returning him to us after!" One of them says.

You nod "Yes ma'am" And grab his arm pulling him away.

"You're my life saver, I could kiss you right now" He tells you.

"Let's not do that at our kid's first birthday huh bud?" Dean appears out of nowhere and stands in between the two of you.

You turn to him immediately at that "Dean, are you jealous?"

"No, I just think we should have some decorum and you two making out at a one year old's party is the right move" The blonde shrugs nonchalantly.

"Okay but what about a little peck?" You question, Tucker has a small smirk pulling on his face that he's trying to stop.

"Mmm no, still don't think you should do that"

"Damn, I was about to suggest you two did a couple pictures with Seb and one of the poses might have included a little peck between his parents" Jules materializes out of thin air like they have the whole day as the designated photographer "But if this is a kiss free zone then oh well…"

You know they are baiting him so you just bite down a laugh and say "What a shame, that sounded kinda cute actually"

"Well no, see, that would be different"

"How exactly?" Tucker asks crossing his arms.

"We're his parents!" Dean argues "We should have all the cute family pictures!"

"But you just said no kissing during a first birthday party, something about lacking decorum" Tucker reminds him.

"Between you two" The dad points out "Because you are not together so you'd be just kissing without a relationship and that's just…"

"Okay but we're not together either so…" You say, Jules nods beside you.

"But we're his parents and-"

He gets cut off by Garrett holding Seb away from him as if he were toxic "Right, so as his parents please take the kid, he kinda stinks"

Dean grabs the baby without fight "You're weak bro, he doesn't even smell that bad"

Tucker gets a step closer and gags making you all laugh "Holy fuck, he smells worse than the locker room"

"Who smells worse than the locker room?" Logan joins the group.

"Seb"

"He can't be that bad"

"Wanna check?"

"Nope"

New York City Apartment - Wednesday night

The apartment's living room looks like a toy store. Sebastian is asleep in his room worn out from all the excitement of the day, your friends are in the guest rooms and you and Dean are going through the photos Jules sent you on his laptop in the middle of the living room.

"We did good" Dean smiles looking at one picture where Seb looks to be having the time of his life while eating his cake.

"Yeah, we're doing a pretty good job" You agree and change the picture to one of you holding him "Look at how happy he looks"

"So pretty" You look up to find Dean looking at you now.

Your face softens "Dean"

"I know" He says "But… I mean what if? We never even tried"

"Dean, I adore you, you're the best dad I could've asked for for Seb, and you're a great guy all around but we can't risk this not working out when there's a whole other person who depends on us" You tell him and see him frown.

"But how do you know it's not going to work out? We do great together, we're a great team, today was clear proof of that"

"You don't want this, not really, at least not now. Today was great, but we're going back to school next week and things will change, you are not ready for the kind of commitment that comes with a relationship, let alone one with so much on the stake" You try to explain, he looks defleated.

"You don't get to speak for me" He doesn't raise his voice and that hurts more because you've never seen him look like this "Maybe I am ready for the commitment, you don't know that"

"You love sex, you love one night stands, you never hook up with the same girl twice unless you've deemed enough time has passed and you make a face every time one of your friends mentions anything relationship related" You point out.

"What face? I don't make a face" He argues "But that's besides the point, yes, I love sex but if we were together then we could have sex, so much sex, great sex, I remember, we're great together in that too"

"Stop saying sex please" You stop him "Just answer me this, if I hadn't come to you and tell you I was pregnant, would you have even considered calling me again?" He thinks about it "Exactly, we can't risk it Dean" You stand up leaving the laptop by his side "Goodnight Dean"

Off Campus apartment - Saturday morning

You haven't seen Dean that much in the past week, he was supposed to help you move but then had to help Summer with something last minute and had recruited the guys to help you instead, you know he was lying about it. The guys barely looked at you while helping you bring everything into your new apartment, not because they were mad at you for rejecting their friend but because every time they tried to say something it came out too awkward.

So now you're left to unpack everything by yourself, at least Tucker offered to babysit Seb for a few hours so you didn't have to worry about him for a bit, you have the suspicion he's actually taking your son back to the hockey house so Dean can see him because he's been weird about visiting too, he's seen Sebastian of course, he can't go more than a day without seeing him, but usually the guys would ask to take him or he'd pick him up for the day without saying much to you even though you were practically living together, yes, he also slept in his family's apartment instead of your shared one.

"Super important favor to ask" Hannah speaks into the phone when you pick up.

"Shoot" You're unpacking the kitchen.

"My bike seems to have gotten banged up on the trip back, any chance you know how to fix the uh… is it the chains? I think its the chains" She sounds like she's moving the bike around and it doesn't seem to sound too good.

"No idea, actually, I don't even think I know how to ride a bike" You admit "But I have someone who can probably fix it for cheap for you"

"Great! can I drop it off at yours? It's closer than the dorms and-" She stops herself "Wait, did you just say you don't know how to ride a bike?"

"Yeah?"

"You can't not know how to ride a bike. How old are you? Three?"

"I just never learned" You shrug not seeing the big deal "I have bad balance"

"You have a whole child, who's gonna teach your kid how to ride a bike if you don't know how to?" Hannah sounds personally offended by your lack of knowledge in riding a bike.

"His dad probably, he's the athletic one" You answer.

"Absolutely not, you're learning how to ride a bike this semester, mark my words, we're getting my bike fixed and then I'm teaching you"

"Why is this a semester activity? Don't kids learn in like a week?"

"Well yes, but I have like three jobs plus school and you have a kid and work and school so we'll probably not have that much time and therefore we'll take it slow whenever we can" She explains.

"Hannah, if it takes longer than a week for you to teach me how to ride a bike I'm giving up"

"Nooo"

"Yes"

"No"

"Yes"

She sighs "Fine, a week" And accepts "But it can't be this week cause I need to get my schedule set"

"Okay, just let me know"

"Cool, I'm going to be the best teacher ever, we're getting matching helmets and I'm getting you knee and elbow pads and-"

"Hey Han" You interrupt her she hums "Just bring your bike over so we can get it fixed hopefully before classes start on Monday"

"Right, be there in five"

Hockey house - Tuesday afternoon

"Dude, this is getting ridiculous" Logan passed Sebastian to his dad, you'd just dropped him off before your shift at Malone's "She gave me the baby, we said three words and she left, you're telling me you can't exchange three words with her?"

"Of course I can, I just needed to pee" Dean defended, Logan raised his eyebrows.

"And you couldn't hold it for like one minute?"

"No"

"Maybe I'll get you adult diapers for your next birthday then" The roommate scoffed and walked away.

"I do not need adult diapers" Dean mumbled "You have enough diapers for the both of us right bud?" Seb blinked at him.

"Dada!" He happily clapped his dad's cheeks between his little hands.

"You are too strong for your little body, you know that?" Dean winced at the hit "Maybe we'll start you on hockey early, or football, rugby maybe? A contact sport for sure dude"

Hockey house - Thursday morning

Something the four roommates had been blessed with this semester was their schedules lining up perfectly on Thursdays, well, not to the dot, but none of them had any lectures in the morning. Last night you'd dropped Sebastian off with them since you were planning on going for a job interview before your first class of the day and thought it better to let Sebastian sleep fully at his dad's rather than wake him up earlier than needed.

Dean woke up around nine and while still half asleep reached around his bed to find Sebastian who'd been sleeping next to him, he jumped up when he couldn't feel him."Seb? Buddy?" He was panicking leaving the room in just his briefs when he realized the baby wasn't there. His head was pounding as he sprinted down the stairs, probably from the way he jumped off his bed.

"Seb?" He repeats looking around "Sebastian Di Laurentis where the hell are you?"

"Dada?" His little head peaked over the couch, blonde strands of hair a mess and sleepy eyes.

"Oh my god, Seb what are you doing here?" Dean approaches the sofa and finds an image he never thought he'd see in his life.

Garret's sprawled over the surface of the couch fast asleep and Seb's lying on top of him. The tv is on showing some cartoon show and one of Garrett's arms secures the little boy so he doesn't fall off.

"Ga!"

"Yeah, you hanging out with Uncle Garrett?" Sebastian nods and snuggles back into Garrett who mumbles something in his sleep and tightens his hold "Oh I need like 20 pictures of this or no one will believe it's true"

Unfortunately for Garrett, all his friends wake up before he does and get to see just how cuddly and soft their captain can get for his nephew. At some point in the morning Dean decides that although this is something he hates to break up, Seb probably needs a new diaper, he already ate breakfast on top of Garret because he refused to move, but now the father needs to get his son.

"Maybe I'll lie on top of him when you take Seb away and he won't notice the difference" Logan offers.

"Let me just…" Dean stands in front of them, Seb's big eyes looking up at him with a sleepy smile that he's had all morning from how comfortable he's gotten "Okay bud, you need to come with daddy now okay? Promise I'll bring you right back"

Thankfully Sebastian doesn't hate the idea of his dad's arms and goes easily, Garrett however, is a complete different story. The hockey player mumbles angrily in his sleep and tightens his hold, when Dean pulls gently he tugs back.

"Why is he not letting go?" Tucker asks in disbelief "He can barely hold him when he's awake but asleep he's like velcroed to him"

"Garrett, dude" Dean sighs and pushes him "You have to let go, you can't steal my kid"

"Mmm no" Garrett turns away taking a giggling Sebastian with him.

"I'm waking him up" Logan says before leaning down and pinching his shoulder hard, Garrett jumps up and they bump heads "Aw fuck!"

"What the fuck!" Garrett exclaims holding his head in pain finally letting go of the baby who burts out laughing at his uncles being in pain, Dean takes him rolling his eyes.

"You're on babysitting duty next time I need someone to look after him by the way!" Dean shouts as he walks up the stairs back to his room for the diaper change. In the background he can hear Tucker dying of laughter and the other two idiots complaining about their hit

Off campus apartment - Thursday night.

Dean finally decides to start acting like an adult again, meaning he's actually dropping Sebastian off at your apartment instead of just sending one of the guys over to do it. "I can do this" He says to Seb, or himself, he doesn't really know "It's just mama, no need to be nervous right?"

You open the door right after he knocks and greet him with a simple hello before taking Sebastian and saying goodbye. Dean stands frozen but reacts last second and pushes his foot to wedge the door and keep it open.

"I'm sorry" You give him a confused look "I've been an asshole these past few days, I'm kinda proving your point and I don't want it to be like this for the next 17 years"

Your face softens "Now you understand me then?"

"Well no, I still think we could've given it a try" He says "But I'm not pressuring you into anything"

"Dean, I barely saw you this week even though Sebastian was with you every other day, I can't do that for however many years we have to, it's not fair to anyone. I want to have a good civil relationship with you for as long as we are taking care of Sebastian, whether that is for the next 17 years or until he's 30, but you deciding you're no longer talking to me for a week because I told you I didn't want to risk that with a relationship doesn't exactly make me want to change my mind about it"

"I hear you, I'm sorry" He looks down at his feet "I- yeah, I'm sorry, I'll try to go back to the way it was before, let me just process the double rejection" He jokes.

"Sure man, take your time, just please don't send the guys to come pick and drop Seb off anymore, my pantry is screaming from how empty it is, they always take the good snacks"

It's safe to say Dean makes the guys go to the store and get you all the snacks they took from you and more the next day threatening to ruin all their chances of scoring in their next game if they don't.

Garrett always said thank you like he meant it. Tucker stacked empty baskets at the end of the table without being asked. Dean tipped well enough to make you forgive almost anything, even when he flirted with half the bar out of boredom. And Logan—

Logan noticed things.

Not a problem, necessarily. Just an inconvenient one when you were trying to get through a shift without thinking too hard about the way his attention felt when it landed on you.

He was sitting near the middle of the long table tonight, shoulders relaxed, one arm hooked over the back of his chair while he listened to Garrett say something over the noise. The team was out celebrating the newest freshmen, which meant the table had the strange energy of older guys trying to be welcoming and younger guys trying way too hard to prove they belonged there.

You had already been warned by one of the bartenders.

“Rookies,” Maya had muttered as she slid a tray of draft beers toward you. “God gives them varsity jackets and suddenly they think they invented testosterone.”

You snorted, lifting the tray. “If I don’t come back, tell my mother I died doing what I hated.”

“Serving men?”

“Pretending not to hear them.”

Maya laughed, and you carried the drinks toward the back.

The table erupted when you arrived, not at you specifically, but in that loud, pack-like way guys did when someone put alcohol within reach. Garrett reached automatically to help pass the glasses down, and Tucker shifted a basket of fries away from the edge before you could knock into it. Dean was mid-story, grinning at someone across from him, but he still glanced up long enough to say, “You’re a saint.”

“I know,” you said, setting down the last beer. “Tell your friends. Saints get tipped twenty percent.”

A couple of the older guys laughed. Logan’s mouth curved around the rim of his glass, his eyes flicking up to yours before he took a sip.

You had known Logan as a Malone’s regular before anything else. He came in with the team, sometimes with Garrett and Dean, sometimes alone after a game with damp hair and tired eyes. He was never difficult. He never waved you over with two fingers or called you sweetheart in that way that made your skin crawl. He looked at you when you spoke, remembered when you said you hated carrying hot plates without warning, and once, when a man at the bar had snapped his fingers at you, Logan had gone completely still.

He had not even said anything that time. He had just stared until the guy lowered his hand.

Tonight, though, his attention kept drifting.

You told yourself it was because you were his waitress, and he was probably waiting on wings.

That was easier than admitting you liked it.

The first hour was normal. Loud, messy, manageable. The freshmen drank too quickly and laughed too hard at jokes that were not funny enough to deserve it. You refilled waters they were not going to touch, brought out a mountain of baskets, and dodged elbows while people made room for plates.

Then one of the freshmen at the far end knocked a basket of fries off the table.

Not bumped. Not clipped with his sleeve by accident.

Knocked.

You saw his hand move too deliberately for it to be anything else, saw the way his eyes flicked to the guy beside him before the basket hit the floor and fries scattered under the chairs.

“Oh, shit,” he said, far too loud. “My bad.”

The other freshman laughed under his breath.

You stared at the fries for half a second, then at him. He gave you a look full of fake innocence.

It was not the first time someone had treated you like the job made you part of the furniture. It would not be the last. Malone’s had taught you a lot of things, but mostly it had taught you how to swallow irritation in public, how to smile with your teeth, and how to decide which battles were worth your manager pulling you aside later.

This one, you decided, was not.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, voice flat enough that Garrett glanced over.

You went to get the broom.

By the time you came back, the freshmen had moved on, already laughing about something else. You swept the fries into a pile, trying not to focus on the heat creeping up your neck. Your uniform skirt suddenly felt shorter than it had ten minutes ago. Every bend of your knees, every shift of your weight, felt watched.

Most of the table had gone quieter.

Not silent, but aware.

Garrett’s expression had tightened, his eyes moving from you to the freshmen. Tucker had stopped eating. Dean’s grin was gone, replaced by a look that made him seem sharper around the edges.

And Logan was looking right at the freshman who had dropped the basket.

Not with anger, exactly.

With restraint.

You finished cleaning, dumped the fries, and told yourself that was the end of it.

Twenty minutes later, you returned with another round of drinks. The table had loosened again, but the freshmen were still buzzing with too much confidence and not enough sense. You set a beer in front of Logan, then moved toward the far end with two sodas and a basket of onion rings.

“Thanks,” Tucker said quietly as you passed him.

You gave him a small smile.

The freshman who had spilled the fries watched you set down the basket. His friend, sitting beside him, shifted in his chair and let his phone slide off his thigh. It landed near your shoe, face-down on the floor.

The timing was too perfect.

So was the grin he tried to hide.

“Oops,” he said. “Could you grab that?”

For one second, nobody moved.

You looked down at the phone, then back at him. He was waiting for you to bend. He wanted you to bend. He wanted his friends to laugh, wanted the moment to turn into a story he could tell later like you were not a person standing in front of him with aching feet and a tray burn on your wrist.

Your hand tightened around the empty tray.

Before you could decide whether losing your job would be worth it, Logan’s chair scraped back.

“Pick it up yourself.”

The freshman blinked, his smile faltering. “What?”

Logan did not raise his voice, which somehow made everyone listen harder. “Your phone. Pick it up yourself.”

The guy let out a nervous laugh and looked around, probably searching for backup from someone older, someone cooler, someone willing to turn this into a joke. He did not find it. Garrett had leaned forward with his forearms on the table, eyes cold. Tucker was staring down the other freshman like he was memorizing him for later. Dean sat back slowly, all traces of amusement gone from his face.

“It’s not a big deal,” the freshman said, but his voice had thinned.

Logan stepped out from behind his chair. “Then you should have no problem doing it.”

The freshman’s ears went red.

You could feel half the bar watching now, the conversation closest to the table fading as people caught the shift in the air. You hated scenes. You hated being in the middle of them more. But Logan was not looking at you like you were a problem to fix. He was looking at the freshmen like they had embarrassed themselves, and for some reason, that made it easier to breathe.

The freshman grabbed his phone with an awkward dip, then sat up too quickly.

Logan waited until he was seated before speaking again.

“You’re here because the guys wanted to welcome you to the team,” he said, still calm, still controlled. “That does not mean you get to treat the staff like they’re props in whatever little performance you’re putting on. She’s working. You’re sitting here eating food she brought you. Try being less pathetic about it.”

One of the freshmen opened his mouth.

Garrett cut him a look. “Don’t.”

Dean reached for his beer, eyes never leaving the far end of the table. “Bold choice, making enemies with the woman who controls whether we get fed.”

The comment eased the pressure just enough for a couple of guys to shift, but nobody laughed at the freshmen.

Tucker glanced at you, his expression apologetic in a way that made your chest pinch. He moved his chair a few inches, giving you space to get out from between the tables without having to squeeze past anyone.

You took it.

Your heartbeat was still too fast. Your face felt too warm. You wanted to say something clever, something that made it seem like you were fine and unaffected, but the words would not come. So you looked at Logan instead.

He was already looking at you.

His jaw was tense. His hand flexed once by his side, like he had more to say and was forcing himself not to make the moment bigger than it already was. The anger was still there, contained but obvious. Because he was genuinely furious on your behalf.

You swallowed, then mouthed, thank you.

Something in his face shifted.

Softened.

You turned before it could undo you completely and headed back toward the bar.

Maya caught your eye as soon as you rounded the corner. “I was two seconds from coming over with the soda gun.”

“You would’ve sprayed me by accident.”

“Collateral damage.” She looked past you toward the hockey table, then back again. “Logan?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out thin. “I hate when people notice.”

“I know,” she said, a little gentler. “But sometimes it’s nice when the right person does.”

You did not answer that, mostly because you were afraid your face would say too much.

The rest of the night went easier, at least on the surface. The freshmen behaved like someone had stapled manners to their foreheads. They said please. They said thank you. One of them even tried to stack plates before Garrett looked at him like he was not allowed to earn redemption that quickly.

Logan did not make another scene.

He did not hover, either.

He watched you in small, quiet ways. When you passed the table with a heavy tray, he shifted his chair before you had to ask. When someone from another table tried to flag you down while you were already carrying six drinks, he told them you had seen them and would get there when you could. When the freshmen left with the rest of the group, he stayed near the back, pulling on his jacket slower than everyone else.

You were wiping down the bar when the team finally cleared out. Garrett clapped Logan on the shoulder on his way out, saying something low enough that you could not hear. Dean tossed cash onto the table and added more when Garrett gave him a look, which made you roll your eyes despite yourself. Tucker was the last of the others to leave, carrying two empty baskets to the bar.

“Sorry about earlier,” he said, not making it a production. “They were being assholes.”

You took the baskets from him. “Appreciate it.”

His gaze flicked toward the door, where Logan stood with one hand on the frame, pretending not to wait. “He means it, you know.”

You looked at Tucker. “Means what?”

Tucker’s mouth twitched like he knew better than to answer fully. “All of it.”

Then he left.

By last call, Malone’s had emptied into a quieter version of itself. The kind with chairs flipped onto tables, damp floors, and the lingering smell of fried food that clung to your hair no matter how many times you washed it. Maya counted the drawer while the last bartender hauled trash out back. You were sweeping under the hockey table, finding fries in places fries had no right to be, when the front door opened again.

You looked up, ready to tell whoever it was that you were closed.

Logan stepped in, hands half-raised like he knew he was trespassing on sacred post-shift territory.

“Before you throw something at me,” he said, “I come in peace.”

Your grip eased on the broom. “That depends. Are you ordering food?”

“No.”

“Then your survival odds are better.”

He smiled a little, but it did not quite reach his eyes. He let the door fall shut behind him and glanced around the bar. “You still closing?”

“Usually what happens after closing.”

“Right.” He nodded once, looking down at his shoes before looking back at you. “That was a dumb question.”

“A little.”

He took it without flinching, which you liked more than you wanted to.

The room felt different with Logan in it now. Earlier, he had been part of the noise, one guy at a table full of them. Here, with the lights half-dimmed and the music low behind the bar, he was impossible to ignore, his hair messy from the cold and his jacket unzipped over his Briar hoodie.

“I wanted to apologize again,” he said.

You leaned the broom against the table. “You already did more than you had to.”

“That’s not the point.” His gaze flicked toward the spot where the fries had scattered earlier. “You shouldn’t have had to stand there and decide whether saying something was worth risking your shift. They were being gross. I should’ve shut it down the first time.”

You picked at the towel tucked into your apron. “I’m used to it.”

His expression shifted. “That makes me want to go back outside and yell better.”

A laugh slipped out before you could stop it, small but real.

Logan’s shoulders eased a little, and somehow that made you look away faster.

“You don’t have to hang around out of guilt,” you said, reaching for the broom again. “I’m okay.”

“I know you are.” His voice softened. “That’s not why I came back.”

You swept beneath the table, waiting, but he did not rush to fill the silence. He just stood there, close enough for you to notice the crease between his brows.

“I came back because I hated leaving you here thinking that was the only reason I noticed you tonight.”

Your hand stilled.

The bar hummed around you, all old refrigerators and low music and Maya pretending very hard not to look over from behind the counter.

“You noticed me tonight?” you asked.

His mouth curved, more nervous than teasing. “Yeah. Terrible habit. Been happening for a while.”

That landed low in your stomach.

You glanced toward the bar, where Maya suddenly became fascinated by clean glasses. Subtlety was apparently dead.

You looked back at Logan. “Is this the part where you tell me you’re secretly here all the time for the burgers?”

“The burgers are good.”

“Logan.”

“I’m here for the waitress who judges my wing orders,” he admitted, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets. “And because she remembers I hate celery but still brings it to me because she thinks it’s funny.”

“It is funny.”

“It’s bullying.”

He smiled, and some of the heaviness from earlier loosened between you.

“Mostly,” he said, “I’m here because of you.”

You hated how much you liked that. After a night of being looked at in a way that made your skin feel too tight, Logan’s attention felt completely different. It did not make you feel small. It made you feel seen.

You swallowed. “That was a really good apology.”

“I had time to work on it outside.”

“You waited outside?”

“For a bit.”

“In the cold?”

He winced. “Sounds worse when you say it like that.”

“That’s because it’s weird.”

“Probably,” he said. “I was trying not to make your night harder.”

“And then you came back into my closed bar.”

“Yeah, the plan had flaws.”

This time, your laugh came easier.

You still had closing to finish, so Logan helped without making a big deal out of it. He flipped chairs while you swept, quiet and steady, like making your night shorter mattered because it mattered to you. By the time Maya disappeared into the back with a look you chose to ignore, the bar was nearly done.

You untied your apron and set it behind the counter. “You really didn’t have to help.”

“I know.”

“And yet.”

“And yet,” he repeated, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I guess I’m trying to make a good impression.”

You looked over at him. “By doing unpaid labor?”

“By making your night a little less awful.”

That quieted you more than it should have.

Logan’s smile faded, but he didn’t look away. “I’ve wanted to ask you out for weeks,” he admitted. “Tonight just made me realize I was running out of excuses not to.”

You stared at him, your chest doing something soft.

“I don’t owe you anything,” you said.

“I know.”

“And you’re not getting a date because you yelled at a freshman.”

“Good,” he said immediately. “He doesn’t deserve that kind of power.”

A smile tugged at your mouth. “But I might give you one because you waited in the cold and admitted the wing thing was about me.”

“It was fully about you.”

You laughed, and the way he looked at you afterward was what got you. Not the protective part. Not even the apology. It was the quiet relief on his face, like making you laugh after the night you had was enough.

You grabbed your coat. “I’m done here.”

Logan walked you to your car, matching your pace through the cold. When you stopped beside the driver’s door, the silence stretched between you in a way that felt awkward only because it mattered.

“Can I take you out?” he asked. “Somewhere you don’t have to carry anyone’s food or pretend rude people are funny.”

Your throat went a little tight. “Yeah. You can.”

His smile came slowly, warm enough to make the cold feel less sharp.

Logan did not move in right away. He waited, giving you every chance to tell him goodnight. Instead, you reached for the front of his jacket and tugged lightly.

He stepped in, one hand settling against the car beside your shoulder while the other brushed your waist. His mouth met yours softly at first, almost asking, and when you kissed him back, the hesitation disappeared.

When he pulled away, he stayed close, his breath visible in the cold.

“I’m trying really hard not to say something stupid right now,” he murmured.

You smiled. “Save it for the date.”

When you finally got into your car, Logan waited until your headlights came on before stepping back.

“Logan?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” you said, this time out loud.

His expression softened under the parking lot light. “Anytime.”

Morning arrives not with the harsh rattle of an alarm, but with the slow warmth of a thumb tracing the curve of your cheek.

You stir against the covers, the crisp scent of his laundry detergent and his distinct, sun-warmed skin enveloping you. When you blink open your eyes, the world is a soft, blurry haze of amber morning light filtering through the sheer curtains, yet his face is in perfect, sharp focus. And, of course, he is already looking down at you. He has clearly been awake for a while; you can tell by the way his silken hair is messy but softly pushed back from his forehead, and by how his eyes are clear, dark, and utterly consumed by the sight of you.

"Morning," he murmurs. His voice is a low, raspy velvet, thick with sleep but entirely focused on your face. He doesn't just look at you; he anchors himself to you, as if waking up and verifying you are still here is the most critical part of his day. His warm hand slides from your cheek down to the nape of your neck, his long fingers tangling into your hair, gently guiding your face closer to press a soft, lingering kiss against your forehead. Then to your closed eyelid. Then to the very tip of your nose.

"Jungkook," you giggle, the sound muffled against his bare chest. You attempt to pull the thick duvet over your head, a desperate, instinctive shield against the glaring sunlight and the violent flusters you get from the sheer intensity of the man beside you.

But he simply laughs at your feeble attempt. It’s a low, rumbling vibration that echoes right against your ribs, and with an effortless flex of his arm, he pulls you right back against him. He holds you tightly, your front flushed against his chest, his strong arms locking around your waist with a firm but incredibly gentle grip: the possessive, protective hold you've grown entirely accustomed to over the past year and a half.

"Don't hide from me," he whispers into your hair, kissing the crown of your head, his breath warm and comforting. "Let me look at you. I haven't seen your face all night."

"I was sleeping right next to you the entire time," you point out, a small, sleepy smile tugging at your lips as you rest your chin on his chest, looking up at his sharp jawline.

"Doesn't count," he declares shamelessly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Your eyes were closed. You weren't talking or looking at me. And you were turned the other way. It was pure torture," He dramatically states before leaning down to capture your lips in a deeply sweet kiss. It’s a possessive sort of affection, the kind that makes your knees weak even whilst lying down, making you feel like you are the absolute centre of his universe, the axis upon which his entire life rotates. To Jungkook, you hang the moon, and he looks at you as if every piece of literature you study, every mundane, passing thought you voice, is absolute gospel.

He pulls away just an inch, his doe eyes searching yours. "Are you hungry? I made breakfast. Oatmeal with the berries you like, and I brewed the dark roast."

"You didn't have to do that," you say softly. He’s a fourth-year law student with a mock trial preparation checklist that could double as a legal encyclopaedia, and yet he spends his precious morning minutes curating your breakfast.

I must've been a saint in a past life to have him, you think. But right on the heels of that thought, a cold, heavy weight drops into your stomach. Or maybe I'm just living on borrowed time before the universe realises a mistake was made.

"I wanted to," he corrects easily, shifting his weight so he can pull you up into a sitting position against the headboard. He reaches over to the nightstand, lifting a perfectly presented bowl of oatmeal, steam still rising from it in lazy curls, alongside a heavy ceramic mug of coffee. He places it carefully on your lap, watching your face with an expectant, eager expression that reminds you of a golden retriever waiting for praise. "Eat up. You have that long seminar today, right? The automatic modernism one? You need energy."

"And you have IP at nine," you say, taking a slow, steady sip of the coffee. It’s perfect, the exact amount of milk, the perfect temperature. Of course it is. Jungkook doesn't do anything halfway. He doesn't know how to fail. "Did you finish revising your brief?"

"Finished it at two," he says casually, stretching his arms high over his head. He shrugs it off as if staying up until the early hours of the morning to master a legal brief while maintaining a perfect GPA and a leading role in the upcoming campus theatre production were simply light work. "It’s fine. I’m ahead of schedule. Tell me about your day instead. Are you going to finish your Pavlov draft?"

"I’m trying to," you murmur, your enthusiastic tone slipping away as you stare down at the dark blue berries in your bowl.

The sudden, suffocating weight of your own academic pressure settles heavily in your chest, instantly souring the sweet taste of the breakfast. Being a second-year Literature major, a field which is volatile, entirely subjective, and agonisingly hard to prove yourself, has had you drowning more times than you’d like to admit. Yet at the same time, Jungkook operates in a world of absolute, ruthless metrics, and he dominates every single one of them without breaking a sweat.

He reaches out, his thumb catching a stray crumb near your lip, his gaze softening into something so profoundly tender it almost hurts to look at. "You will draft it beautifully. You’re the smartest person I know, Y/N. You make my rigid law arguments look like child's play. No need to stress about it."

He means it. That’s the most terrifying part of this: he genuinely, truly believes you are his equal. He looks at you through a warped, beautiful lens of blind devotion, completely blind to the vast chasm between his effortless perfection and your frantic, and practically undignified, sprint just to stay in his peripheral vision. Every compliment he gives you feels less like praise and more like a debt you have no idea how to repay.

You force a tight nod, swallowing past the bitter lump of inadequacy in your throat, and quickly finish the food he prepared so he won't see the panic starting to manifest in your eyes. The clock on his wall ticks forward, cruel, mechanical, and relentless. It’s 7:45 AM.

"I need to get ready," you say, setting the empty bowl aside on the nightstand and shifting your legs to swing them out of the warm bed.

Jungkook instantly hooks a firm hand around your wrist, his grip warm and unyielding as he pulls you right back into his space for one more desperate, lingering hug. He buries his face deeply into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. "Stay. Five minutes. Please."

"Jungkook, I don't even have my clothes here," you laugh, though the sound is noticeably strained now.

He groans into your skin, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second, his possessiveness flaring, before he reluctantly lets you go. "Fine. But I’m walking you down to the lobby."

"No, don't," you say quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly, the words slipping out in a sharp, defensive spike. You soften your voice immediately, forcing a playful, easy smile onto your face to cover the slip. "You need to prepare for your formal debate later. I don't want the star of the society looking rumpled and distracted because he was escorting his gremlin girlfriend back to her residence hall. Stay here. Focus." You punctuate your words with a kiss to his cheeks.

He huffs, a sweet, exaggerated pouting expression crossing his handsome face, but he relents under your touch, leaning forward to press one final, firm, breathless kiss to your lips. "Call me the second your seminar ends. I want to have lunch with you. I'll buy you that pastry you like."

"I will," you promise, the word feeling heavy.

You gather your scattered things, slipping into his navy-blue university hoodie that completely swallows your frame. It smells strongly of him: rich, clean, and safe. You slip out of his apartment quietly, the heavy wood door clicking shut behind you with a solid click.

The moment you enter the sterile hallway of his block, the protective warmth of his presence evaporates entirely. It is replaced by the icy, creeping reality of who you are when he isn't around.

You walk briskly down the stairs, pull the heavy hood low over your eyes, step out into the morning air, and cross the wide, bustling quad. You pull the fabric tighter around yourself, feeling entirely like a thief, an imposter who managed to survive another night in a world where she simply doesn't belong. You aren't matching his pace; you are just a ghost wearing his clothes, desperately praying no one notices the difference.

The lecture hall you have found yourself in is grand, old, and suffocatingly prestigious. Wood-panelled walls rise up to high ceilings, and the tiered seating is packed to the brim with students, professors, and esteemed guests. Even the air smells of old paper, leather, and the distinct electricity of competitive intellect.

You sit near the back of the auditorium, your hands shoved deep into the pockets of your jacket, trying to make yourself as small and inconspicuous as possible. You shouldn't even really be here; you have a mountain of reading for your contemporary prose class, but Jungkook had looked at you with those wide, pleading eyes last week, asking if you’d come watch his debate. “I speak better when you’re in the room,” he had told you, entirely earnest.

Down on the stage of the hall, Jungkook is standing behind a heavy mahogany podium. He is dressed in a crisp, tailored black suit, the uniform of the university’s law debate society. He looks terrifyingly striking. His broad shoulders fill out the jacket perfectly, and his hair is neatly styled away from his face. He is currently adjusting his microphone, speaking casually to one of his teammates, completely devoid of the nervous tremors that are currently plaguing every other speaker in the room. He is entirely in his element.

"Is anyone sitting here?"

You blink, jolting slightly out of your thoughts as a girl gestures to the empty seat next to you. She is fashionable, carrying a sleek leather tote bag and a tablet, looking every bit a pristine student.

"No, go ahead," you say softly, offering a polite, small smile.

The girl sits down, smoothing out her skirt, and immediately focuses her gaze down on the stage. She sighs, a dreamy, slightly envious sound. "Thank god I managed to grab a seat. The turnout for these competitions is always insane when it’s the senior tier."

"Yeah, it’s really crowded," you agree, keeping your voice neutral.

The girl turns her head to look at you, her eyes scanning your casual attire, a plain tee paired with an oversized jacket and jeans, a stark contrast to the numerous sharp blazers surrounding you. She tilts her head. "Are you a law first-year? I haven't seen you around the faculty building."

"Oh, no," you say, a familiar tightness squeezing in your chest. "I’m a Literature major. I’m just... visiting."

"Ah, an arts student," she says, her tone perfectly pleasant but carrying that subtle, unvoiced condescension that STEM and law majors always seem to harbour. "What brought you all the way over to this side of campus? Just curious about legal rhetoric?"

You hesitate. You could lie. You could say you were just bored or that you were researching classical speech structures. But a small, stubborn part of you, the part that loves Jungkook and wants to claim the space he so willingly gives you, makes you speak the truth.

"I’m actually here to watch Jungkook," you say, pointing a finger toward the podium where he stands. "I’m his girlfriend."

The girl’s eyes instantly widen. They snap from you down to Jungkook, then back to you, scanning your face with a brand-new, hypercritical intensity. The casual friendliness vanishes, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated shock.

"Ohhh," the girl says, the syllable stretching out, heavy and loaded. "So, you’re the golden boy's girlfriend?"

The phrase lands like a physical weight in your lap. The golden boy's girlfriend. Not Y/N. Not a person with her own merits, her own thoughts, her own identity. Just an attachment. An anomaly.

"Yeah," you say, your voice dropping a fraction.

"Wow," she says, a forced, tight laugh escaping her lips as she looks back down at the floor. "Everyone on campus talks about him, you know. He’s practically a myth in the law department. Top of his class, literally won the regional theatre showcase last semester... people joke that he’s a synthetic human created in a lab because nobody can actually be that perfect at everything." She pauses, her eyes lingering on Jungkook as he confidently shuffles his note cards. "You must feel... incredibly lucky."

Lucky. The word feels like plastic in your mouth.

"I am," you whisper.

The debate begins, and the hall falls into a dead silence. When it is Jungkook’s turn to speak, he steps forward with an effortless grace that commands the entire room. His voice rings out through the auditorium: clear, articulate, layered with a brilliant, biting sarcasm that makes the professors nod in approval, and the students chuckle. He navigates complex legal precedents as if he’s recounting a simple childhood story. He doesn't look at his notes once. He looks entirely, utterly flawless.

At one point, during a brief pause while his opponent frantically searches through papers, Jungkook’s eyes sweep across the crowded tiered seating. He searches the back rows, scanning the sea of faces until his gaze lands directly on you. The sharp, intimidating glare of the star debater melts away for a split second, replaced by a tiny, private smile meant only for you. He gives a barely perceptible nod, a silent acknowledgement that he knows you’re there, before turning back to crush his opponent's argument.

The girl next to you lets out a soft, defeated breath. "See? Effortless. He’s just... on a completely different level than the rest of us."

You don't reply. You can't. Your throat feels tightly constricted. As the auditorium erupts into thunderous applause at the conclusion of his speech, you feel yourself shrinking smaller and smaller into your seat. You look down at your hands, rough and stained faintly with ink from your afternoon lectures.

In this grand, wood-panelled room full of brilliant minds and high ambitions, you feel like a ghost. A plain, monochromatic background character accidentally spliced into a vibrant, high-definition movie about a boy who can fly. You love him, god, you love him so much it scares you, but looking at him down there, bathed in the adulation of his peers, the insidious whisper in the back of your mind grows into a deafening roar: You don't belong here. You are holding a star, and eventually, he’s going to realise you’re just a rock.

The evening is supposed to be a celebration. The society booked out a student lounge, which is filled with the warm glow of string lights and the low hum of indie music playing from a mini speaker hooked up to someone's phone. A small group of you are gathered around a low coffee table: you, your friend Leah, Jungkook, and a few of his friends. Some of them you've come to know quite well, Jimin, and Taehyung; others you guess are from his lectures and the society. Jungkook has his arm slung casually over the back of your chair, his fingers occasionally playing with the sleeve of your shirt, his presence a constant, anchoring weight.

"I’m telling you, the judge was practically ready to hand Jungkook his degree right there on the spot," Jimin laughs, leaning back against the worn leather sofa, a plastic cup of cheap cider in his hand. "The other guy looked like he wanted to cry by the third rebuttal."

"He was just unprepared," Jungkook says modestly, though a proud, boyish smile breaks across his face. He bumps his shoulder against yours, leaning down to whisper in your ear. "Did I do okay? Truly?"

"Are you kidding me? You were amazing, Kook," you say, and you mean it. You turn your head to smile at him, forcing the shadows from your eyes. "They had no chance."

He beams, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and he presses a quick, sweet kiss to your cheek, utterly shameless about his affection even in front of his closest friends.

Taehyung snorts from across the table, tossing a peanut at Jungkook. "Get a room, you two. Seriously. A year and what later, and you guys are still acting like you’re in a romance drama. It’s sickening. Let us single people breathe."

Jimin chuckles, shaking his head. "Let them be, Tae. Honestly, we should all be grateful to Y/N. Do you remember what Jungkook was like before he met her? A complete menace. Driving his motorcycle at ungodly hours, staying up all night, smoking a pack a day behind the engineering building because he was stressed out of his mind..."

"Oh, god, the smoking," Taehyung groans, laughing. "He smelled like an old pub twenty-four-seven. And then he meets Y/N, and boom, overnight transformation. The bad boy becomes a model citizen. It’s a miracle he hasn't touched a cigarette since their first official date.”

"It wasn't a miracle," Jungkook says softly, his gaze dropping to look at you, his eyes filled with a raw, intense seriousness that makes your breath catch. "I just realised I wanted to be clean for her. I didn't want her to have to taste ash every time I kissed her. She deserves better than that."

The comment is entirely harmless. It’s meant to be a testament to his love, a beautiful, romantic declaration of how much you mean to him. Jimin and Taehyung let out collective coos, teasing him for being the hopeless romantic that he is.

But inside your head, the words twist. They warp and morph into a grotesque, jagged mirror.

She deserves better than that.

Your stomach drops, a cold, heavy lump of guilt settling deep within your ribs. You remember that night, eighteen months ago, sitting on the steps of the humanities building. You had both been stressed and exhausted, huddled together under his jacket. You had both pulled out a cigarette, lit them, and watched the smoke rise into the crisp night air. And then Jungkook had looked at you and said, "Let’s stop. Together. It’s bad for us, and I want to be better. For you. Let’s make a pact."

You had agreed. You had smiled, kissed him, and thrown your lighter into the trash.

Except you didn't stop.

The laughter of the guys fades into a dull, white noise as the phantom taste of tobacco fills your mouth. You think about the crumpled pack hidden at the very bottom of your makeup bag in your dorm room. You think about the secret, shameful moments on your building's fire escape late at night, your hands shaking as you light it, inhaling the toxic, calming smoke just to keep your racing thoughts from tearing you apart.

Jungkook thinks he changed for you. He thinks he became a better, cleaner version of himself to match the pristine, perfect girl he thinks you are. He has stayed entirely clean for over a year, exercising his iron willpower because his love for you is that pure. And you? You’re a liar. A fraud who couldn't even keep a simple promise, who uses a toxic vice as a crutch because you are too weak to handle the pressure of being loved by him.

"Hey," Jungkook’s voice breaks through your spiral. His hand shifts to rest on your thigh, his thumb rubbing soothing circles through your jeans. "You okay? You look a bit pale."

"Yeah," you force a voice out, your throat dry. "Just... a little tired with all the lectures and that seminar."

"Do you wanna leave?" he asks instantly, completely ready to abandon his friends, his celebration, everything, just because you look a little worn down. "We can go back to my place. I'll make you tea."

"No, no," you say quickly. "Don't be silly. Stay and celebrate. I actually have a couple of library books I need to return before the night drop closes anyway. I'll just head back to my dorm early."

Jungkook frowns, his eyes darkening with immediate reluctance. "I'll walk you."

"Jungkook, stay," you say, your voice carrying a rare, firm edge that surprises him. You soften it immediately with a gentle touch to his cheek. "Please. I'll go with Leah. Hang out with the guys. I’m just going to go straight to bed. I'll call you in the morning, okay?"

He stares at you for a long moment, searching your face for whatever secret you’re keeping, but you force your expression into one of serene exhaustion. Finally, he sighs, leaning forward to press a long, heavy, almost desperate kiss to your lips. "Fine. But text me the exact second you get into your room, or I’m getting a search party."

"I will." You chuckle. He would.

Ten minutes later, you aren't in bed. You are standing on the freezing, rusted metal of your dorm's fourth-floor fire escape, the wind biting through your thin tee; you shouldn’t have left your jacket on your chair. Your hands are trembling violently as you flick a silver lighter, the flame illuminating the dark, empty alleyway below. You press the cigarette to your lips and inhale, the harsh, burning smoke flooding your lungs. It stings, it tastes bitter, and it makes your chest ache with profound, suffocating waves of guilt.

You lean your forehead against the cold metal railing, staring out at the distant lights of Jungkook’s building across the quad. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, hot and angry, as you take another long drag. You are lying to him. You are rotting from the inside out with secrets and self-doubt, while he sits over there, completely, purely, and terribly in love with a girl who doesn't exist.

The university library is supposed to be a sanctuary, but today it feels like a cage. You are surrounded by towers of leather-bound volumes, literary journals, and half-empty cups of lukewarm coffee. Your laptop screen glows blankly back at you, a cruel, flashing cursor mocking your complete inability to string together a single coherent sentence.

Your essay on medieval science fiction is due in forty-eight hours. You have written three paragraphs, and every single one of them reads like absolute garbage. You delete the last sentence for the fourth time, letting out a sharp, frustrated breath that cuts through the dead silence of the humanities floor.

“Come on,” you mutter to yourself, tapping your pen aggressively against the desk. “You’re a lit major. This is the one thing you’re supposed to be good at. Just write the damn analysis.”

But your brain feels entirely blocked, clogged by a thick, suffocating fog of inadequacy. You keep thinking about Jungkook’s perfect legal brief from earlier this week. You keep thinking about how he handles his workload with a calm, systemic efficiency, while you are here, unravelling over a mere two-thousand-word analysis.

"Staring at a blank document won't magically make the words appear, you know."

You flinch, your head snapping up. Standing at the end of your study desk is a girl. She is older, probably a fourth- or fifth-year, dressed in a perfectly tailored tweed blazer and carrying a stack of texts. Her hair is sleek, her makeup flawless, and she carries herself with that distinct, high-class confidence that practically screams that she has her life together. The more you look at her, the more familiar her face becomes.

Oh.

She’s in Jungkook’s year. Serena..? She’s the vice president of the Competitive Debate Society.

"I’m aware," you say, your voice carrying a sharp, defensive edge. You are too tired for polite pleasantries, and your naturally snarky instincts tend to flare up when cornered. "Thanks for the profound psychological insight, though."

Serena doesn't look offended by your bite. Instead, she lets out a soft, elegant chuckle, pulls out the chair opposite you, and sits down without being invited. She sets her heavy law books down with a soft thud. "Don't snap. I’m just offering some sympathy. I see you here all the time, huffing and puffing over those literature books. I’m Serena, by the way. I work with Jungkook in the society."

"I know who you are," you say, closing your laptop slightly, an instinctive gesture to shield your failure from her eyes. "Jungkook mentioned you helped organise the regional tournament."

"Oh, did he?" Serena's eyes flash with a strange, fleeting look of satisfaction before she settles into a warm, patronising smile. She tilts her head, looking at your cluttered desk, the crumpled sticky notes, the highlight-stained pages. "You look completely overwhelmed, sweetie. Are the undergraduate lit modules really that brutal? I always assumed arts degrees were a bit more... flexible."

There it is. The first tiny prick. It’s subtle, buried under a sweet tone and an endearing nickname, but the jab lands perfectly. Arts degrees are flexible. Arts degrees are easy.

"They require a different kind of critical thought," you say smoothly, your eyes narrowing just a fraction. You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms. "We actually have to formulate original arguments instead of just memorising legal codes written by dead white men from the nineteenth century. It can be quite taxing."

Serena's smile tightens for a microsecond before smoothing out into a soft, airy laugh. "Oh, absolutely. I didn't mean to minimise it. It’s just... cute to see how hard you try. You’re always buried in these books, sprinting to catch up. It reminds me of myself when I was a first-year. So young, so inexperienced, just desperate to prove that you belong in a university setting."

"I'm a second year, actually."

"Oh." She reaches across the table, gently patting the back of your hand. Her touch is warm, but it feels like ice against your skin. "Don't stress yourself out to the point of a breakdown, Y/N. Jungkook's a very understanding guy. He knows you operate at a different academic level. He doesn't expect you to match his pace, and that’s perfectly okay."

Your heart hitches in your chest. He doesn't expect you to match his pace.

The words are delivered under the guise of elder-student comfort, a senior reassuring a stressed junior, but they carry a terrifyingly potent poison. Serena is stating out loud the exact nightmare that keeps you awake at night. She is confirming your deepest, darkest fear: that everyone looks at you and Jungkook and sees a brilliant, mature man babysitting a struggling, inferior child.

You pull your hand away from her touch, your fingers curling into tight fists under the table. Your defensive snark dries up in your throat, replaced by a sudden, choking wave of panic.

"I have to get back to work," you say, your voice dropping into a flat, cold register.

"Of course," Serena says easily, standing up and gathering her books. She offers you one last, beautiful but destructive smile. "Good luck with your little essay, Y/N. And tell Jungkook I'll see him at the mixer tonight, okay? Don't forget to take a breath."

She walks away, her heels clicking softly on the library's linoleum floor. You sit entirely frozen in your chair, staring at the blank laptop screen. You picked up on the bite in her words; you aren't stupid. You know she was throwing passive-aggressive shade. But instead of dismissing it as the petty jealousy of a rival student, you can't help but let the words sink into your skin. You don't dig into it immediately; you don't want to admit that she got to you. But as you open your laptop again and stare at the blinking cursor, Serena's voice echoes in your head, loud and clear, drowning out every original thought you had left: He doesn't expect you to match his pace.

The university’s Arts and Culture Alliance mixer is held in a historic courtyard on campus, illuminated by heavy iron lanterns and the warm glow of string lights woven through old ivy. It’s a joint gathering between a few departments and societies, an attempt to foster interdisciplinary collaboration. The air is alive with the chatter of students, the clinking of glasses filled with cheap wine, and the soft strains of a student jazz quartet playing in the corner.

For the first hour, everything is wonderful. Jungkook is by your side, his hand firmly locked with yours, completely ignoring the various law professors and senior debaters who keep trying to pull him into serious conversations. He is completely, utterly focused on you.

"Look at this," he whispers, leaning down to show you a small, terribly drawn caricature of his constitutional law professor he had sketched on a napkin while someone was giving an opening toast. "If I fail my finals, I’m joining the fine arts department. What do you think?"

You let out a genuine, bright laugh, the tension in your shoulders melting away. "It’s terrible, Kook. Truly. Please stick to the law. For the sake of visual arts everywhere."

"Harsh," he pouts, wrinkling his nose in that sweet way that completely contradicts his intimidating campus reputation. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder, entirely unbothered by the hundreds of people around them. "But I'll do whatever you say. You’re the boss."

You turn your head to kiss his cheek, a warm, fluttering feeling blooming in your chest. In moments like this, when his warmth is physical, and his laughter is loud in your ear, the doubts feel small. They feel like distant shadows.

"Jeon!"

The loud, commanding voice breaks your bubble. A senior professor from the Faculty of Law, a notoriously stern man who rarely speaks to undergraduates, is standing a few yards away, gesturing sharply for Jungkook to come over. Next to him stands a prominent local judge who had acted as an alumnus guest for the debate tournament.

Jungkook sighs, his grip on your waist loosening with visible reluctance. He looks down at you, his eyes filled with an apologetic, frustrated expression. "I’m sorry, sweetheart. Professor Kang has been trying to corner me all week about an internship placement. I need to quickly greet the judge. Will you be okay for five minutes?"

"Of course," you say, offering a reassuring smile. "Go. It’s important. I'll just grab another cider and wait by the fountain."

"I'll be right back. Five minutes, I promise," he says, pressing a quick, firm kiss to your lips before turning and walking away, his posture instantly shifting into that confident, professional demeanour as he approaches the elders.

You watch him go, your smile slowly fading as the cold night air fills the space he left behind. You walk over to the refreshment table, pouring yourself a plastic cup of cider, feeling suddenly very exposed without his large frame shielding you from the crowd.

"Left all alone so soon?"

You don't even need to turn around to know who it is. The voice is smooth, sweet, and entirely toxic.

Serena steps up beside you, holding a glass of white wine. She is dressed in an elegant silk blouse that perfectly matches the sophisticated atmosphere of the faculty guests. She looks down at your casual denim jacket, her expression one of gentle, masking pity.

"He’s just networking," you say, keeping your voice steady as you take a sip of your drink. "It’s part of his career."

"Oh, I know," Serena says, leaning against the table, her eyes tracking Jungkook across the courtyard. He is currently bowing politely to the judge, speaking with an elegant, mature eloquence that has both older men smiling in deep approval. "Jungkook’s a natural. He fits into that world seamlessly. It’s just a shame he has to constantly worry about leaving you behind in the corners while he does it."

Your grip tightens around the plastic cup, the plastic crinkling slightly under your fingers. "He doesn't worry about that."

"Are you sure?" Serena turns her head to look at you, her eyes sharp and predatory beneath her soft makeup. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks exhausting. He has to balance a high-profile academic career, a massive future in the legal field, and a girlfriend who looks like a lost freshman every time he steps away for five minutes."

She takes a slow sip of her wine, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial, whisper-soft tone that makes it sound like she’s sharing a painful truth for your own good. "Don't get me wrong, Y/N. It’s sweet that he loves you. But look at him over there. He belongs with the best. He needs someone who can stand beside him at these dinners, someone who can converse with judges and partners, someone who understands the weight of his world. Instead, he spends half his time checking his phone to make sure you aren't having an anxiety attack in the library. It’s... a bit of a burden, don't you think? You’re keeping him tethered to the ground when he could be soaring. I’m not saying it’s your fault or anything, but you do want what’s best for him… right?"

The words hit you like a series of physical blows to the chest. A burden. Keeping him tethered to the ground.

Your breath stutters. You want to snap back, you want to use the sharp, biting literature-major wit that usually protects you, but the terrifying truth is that her words align too perfectly with what you've been thinking this whole time. She isn't planting a new seed anymore; she’s watering a plant that has been growing in the dark corners of your mind for eighteen months.

Before you can force a response, a heavy, warm hand settles on the small of your back.

"Sorry I took so long," Jungkook’s voice cuts through the freezing air. He steps into your space, his presence an immediate shield. He nods politely to Serena, his tone completely professional but distinctly cool. "Serena. I didn't know you were over here."

"Just keeping your lovely girlfriend company," she says, her toxic edge vanishing instantly, replaced by a bright, friendly colleague smile. "We were just talking about how wonderful your debate performance was. I mean, it’s you, you’re always amazing.” He shyly chuckles at this, “Anyway, I should go greet Professor Lewis. See you both around."

She glides away, disappearing into the crowd of law students.

Jungkook immediately turns all his attention back to you, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his brows furrowed with deep concern. "Hey. Are you okay? Your hands are freezing, and you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Did something happen? Did she say something to you?"

"No," you lie, your voice sounding small, distant, and hollow even to your own ears. You force a bright, synthetic smile onto your face, looking up at his perfect features. "No, she was just being nice. I’m just... the cold is hitting me, that’s all."

Jungkook doesn't look entirely convinced, his dark eyes searching yours with that desperate, analytical intensity, but he accepts the excuse, pulling you tightly against his chest, wrapping his coat around your shoulders. "Let’s go home. Forget the mixer. I’ve had enough of these people anyway. Let’s just go back to my place and lock the door."

You bury your face in his chest, nodding silently. He holds you so tightly, so sweetly, but as you walk out of the courtyard with his arm securely around your waist, you can't shake the freezing, terrifying chill in your bones. You look at his profile in the moonlight, and all you can think is: She’s right. I’m an anchor dragging him down. I’m the burden.

The rain taps a steady, rhythmic cadence against the glass of Jungkook’s bedroom window, blurring the green leaves of the campus trees into watercolour streaks of grey and emerald. Inside, the room is warm, smelling faintly of the cinnamon pastries he had sprinted out in the drizzle to buy you, and the rich, dark aroma of fresh espresso.

You are sitting at his wide oak desk, surrounded by your library books and your heavily annotated copy of Beowulf. Jungkook is sitting on the floor right beside your chair, his long legs stretched out, his back resting against the table leg. He has one hand resting casually on your thigh, his large thumb moving in slow, absentminded strokes over the denim of your jeans as he reads through a massive casebook on property law.

It’s a perfectly domestic afternoon. The kind of effortlessness that used to make your chest ache with pure happiness.

"Hey," Jungkook murmurs, not lifting his eyes from his text. His thumb continues its soothing, rhythmic sweep. "You haven't touched your pastry. It’s gonna get cold."

"I’m just reading, Kook," you say softly, keeping your eyes glued to a paragraph you've re-read three times but still have no idea what it says. "I'll eat it in a minute."

"Mhmm." He lets out a low, rumbling sound of agreement, but a moment later, he closes his heavy textbook with a soft thud. He shifts his weight, rising to his knees so he is suddenly level with you. Before you can blink, his large hands settle on your waist, and with that effortless, terrifying strength you love so much, he lifts you slightly and pulls you right out of the chair and down into his lap on the floor.

You let out a small, startled gasp, your books tumbling slightly onto the desk. "Jungkook!"

He just laughs, a bright sound that echoes warmly against your neck as he wraps his arms tightly around your waist from behind, locking you against his broad chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his lips brushing against your skin as he speaks. "You’ve been staring at that monster book for three hours straight. Look at me instead. I’ve been missing you."

"Jungkook, you're literally sitting right next to me," you giggle, though the sound no longer rings entirely true. It feels a bit hollow, a bit forced.

Inside your chest, the ghost of Serena's words from the mixer is clawing at your lungs. “He spends half his time checking his phone to make sure you aren't having an anxiety attack... You’re keeping him tethered to the ground.”

Jungkook leans forward, pressing a warm, lingering kiss right beneath your ear, his hands sliding up to cover yours, intertwining his long fingers with your smaller ones. "Doesn't matter. If you aren't looking at me, you're too far away." He squeezes your hands, his voice dropping into a soft, reflective register. "You know, sometimes I look at you sitting here in my room, and I think about how lucky I got. I wasted a whole year before I finally found my track and came to this university. If I hadn't taken that gap year, I wouldn't be here with you. The universe actually did something right for once."

He means it as a beautiful, romantic sentiment, a declaration that the timeline of his life aligned perfectly just to give him you.

But your brain, poisoned and hyper-vigilant, takes the beautiful sentiment and warps it into an ugly weapon.

Two years, the voice whispers. He’s two years older than you. That’s two extra years of maturity, of life experience, of academic dominance over you. He is a man who knows exactly who he is, and you are a shaking, insecure second year who can't even handle a single mixer without wanting to run away and smoke.

A sudden, suffocating wave of claustrophobia hits you. The warmth of his chest against your back suddenly feels less like a sanctuary and more like a beautifully constructed cage. The weight of his arms around your waist feels heavy, heavy with the burden you are convinced you are forcing him to carry.

Jungkook breathes out a soft sigh, leaning down to capture your lips in a slow, sweet kiss. His lips are warm, soft, and taste faintly of the espresso he drank. It’s a kiss that demands nothing and offers everything.

But for the first time in eighteen months, you don't kiss him back with the same intensity. Your lips remain slightly stiff under his.

And then, you do it. You plant the very first seed of the distance that will eventually tear him apart.

You gently but firmly place your hands against his forearms, breaking the embrace. You slide off his lap, shifting back onto the hard hardwood floor, creating a deliberate foot of empty space between your bodies.

Jungkook blinks, his dark eyes widening in immediate, subtle surprise. His arms hover in the empty air for a split second before dropping to his thighs. "Y/N?"

"Sorry," you force a light, breezy tone out of your throat, avoiding his gaze by reaching up to shuffle the papers on the desk. "My... my leg was falling asleep. And I really need to finish this section before the library closes its digital archives for maintenance at four."

"Oh," Jungkook says softly. The word is tiny, carrying a faint, barely perceptible note of confusion and rejection. He looks at your profile, his sharp, analytical mind trying to calculate the sudden shift in your energy, but you keep your expression entirely neutral, buried in your notes. Finally, he offers a small, understanding smile and gently pats your knee. "Right. Sorry. Go ahead. I'll let you focus."

He pulls his casebook back toward himself, but he doesn't open it immediately. He sits quietly for a long moment, staring at his hands, a tiny, faint crease appearing between his brows.

Later that afternoon, after you have gathered your things and, despite his fierce protests, insist on walking back to your dorm alone because you "need the fresh air to clear your head," your phone buzzes four times in your pocket.

You pull it out as you cross the rainy quad.

Jungkook [15:42]: Text me the second you get to your room, sweetheart. Jungkook [15:42]: Miss you already :( Jungkook [15:43]: Eat the pastry I packed in your bag Jungkook [14:44]: Love you

Usually, you would reply instantly, sending a flurry of hearts and sweet messages back. But today, you stare at the glowing screen, Serena's voice ringing like tinnitus in your ears: “a burden.”

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. Your chest aches with a dull, throbbing agony. Slowly, deliberately, you press the lock button on the side of your phone, darkening the screen. You slide it deep into your pocket, leaving the notification unanswered, letting the silence begin its quiet, violent work.

The go-to campus fried chicken place is loud, greasy, and packed with students seeking a reprieve from the weekend midterms. You sit at a long wooden table in the corner, surrounded by a large group. It’s a rare, massive gathering, you, your two closest friends from the Literature faculty, Jungkook, Taehyung, Jimin, and, unfortunately, Serena, who had tagged along with Taehyung after a student council meeting.

The atmosphere is boisterous. Plates of spicy chicken and pitchers of draft beer cover the table. Jungkook is sitting next to you, his thigh pressed firmly against yours under the table, his hand occasionally dropping to squeeze your knee. He is currently engaged in a loud, passionate debate with Taehyung about a soccer match, his laughter booming across the table.

You try to participate, but your energy is entirely drained. You sit quietly, picking at a piece of radish, your eyes drifting across the table.

That’s when you notice it.

Serena is sitting diagonally from Jungkook. She isn't eating. She is leaning her chin on her palm, her eyes completely fixed on Jungkook’s face. She tracks every movement of his lips, every toss of his head when he laughs, her gaze filled with a quiet, intense longing that is impossible to mistake. It’s a look of profound, massive infatuation.

You feel a strange, dull ache in your chest. You don't feel immediate anger or jealousy; you just feel a profound sense of exhaustion. You look at her, brilliant, beautiful, sitting comfortably in Jungkook’s social circle, and then you look at yourself, hiding in his shadow.

A few minutes later, Jungkook stands up, excused by Jimin to go line up at the counter for another pitcher of beer. Taehyung accompanies him, leaving the rest of the table chatty. Your two literature friends get pulled into a deep conversation with Jimin about an upcoming campus festival, effectively isolating you and Serena on one side of the table.

Serena shifts, leaning closer to you over the restaurant's noisy chatter. She looks at your quiet demeanour, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.

"You're very quiet tonight, Y/N," she says softly, her voice carrying that smooth, comforting older-sister cadence she always uses when she’s about to drop poison. "Still stressed about those essays?"

"Just tired," you say flatly, keeping your eyes on your cup.

She sighs, a soft, sympathetic sound. She looks over at the counter where Jungkook is standing, his broad back to the room, laughing as he ribs Taehyung. "It must be hard. Maintaining a relationship with someone like him when you’re dealing with your own insecurities."

You flinch slightly, your eyes snapping up to meet hers. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, don't be defensive," Serena says smoothly, waving her hand dismissively. "I’m actually just feeling a bit sorry for you. I know how it feels. I had a boyfriend exactly like Jungkook during my first year. Brilliant, popular, excelled at everything. He was my first serious boyfriend, too, just like Jungkook is yours, right?"

You don't answer, but the silence confirms it.

"Yeah, I thought so," she murmurs, her eyes darkening with a faux-nostalgic sadness. "Let me tell you a story, Y/N. From someone who has been exactly where you are. I used to think that as long as we loved each other, everything was fine. But the truth is... men are men at the end of the day. Especially guys like Jungkook. They have... needs. Physical needs, emotional needs, a need for a partner who, you know, can match their intensity. And when they’re with someone who’s constantly stressed, inexperienced, and hiding away... those needs get suppressed. They don't go anywhere; they just get bottled up."

She leans closer, her voice dropping into a sharp, venomous whisper that slices through the restaurant's loud music. "My ex used to act perfectly sweet to my face, just like Jungkook does. But behind closed doors? When he was out with his guy friends, drinking and letting off steam? He would complain constantly. He’d vent about how suffocated he felt, how he felt like he was babysitting an insecure little girl instead of having a real girlfriend, how he felt tied down by my guilt. It broke my heart, but it was the truth. High-achieving men will always resent the anchors that keep them from flying."

She tilts her head, her eyes boring into your pale face. "Look at him, Y/N. He’s twenty-three, a law star, a literal god on this campus. Do you honestly think he doesn't vent to Taehyung or Jimin when you shut down and fake being tired? Do you honestly believe he doesn't feel the weight of you? He’s just too polite, too loyal to say it to your face. But it’s rotting him from the inside out."

She doesn't stop there. "And I mean, you also deserve someone on your level. Think about how freeing it will be when you don't have to constantly catch up to someone."

The restaurant around you completely vanishes. The laughter, the clinking glasses, the smell of food, all of it dissolves into a cold, endless void. Serena's words wrap around your throat like a chokehold.

He complains about you to his friends. He feels suffocated. He feels tied down by your guilt.

Your chest heaves, a sudden, violent wave of nausea hitting you. You look over at the counter. Jungkook is walking back, holding a pitcher of beer, a massive, bright smile lighting up his face the moment his eyes find yours. He looks so pure, so incredibly perfect. But as he sits down beside you, his warm hand instantly finding your thigh, Serena's words echo like a death knell in your mind.

He’s just too polite to say it to your face.

You pull away from his touch just an inch, a subtle movement under the table, your entire body trembling with a sudden, catastrophic influx of self-doubt. You cannot help but overthink. Every laugh he shared with Taehyung tonight, every private whisper with Jimin, did it involve your failure? Were they pitying him? You look down at your lap, completely consumed by the quiet, violent rot of your own mind.

The silence of Jungkook’s apartment is thick, heavy, and dark. The only illumination comes from the faint amber glow of the city lights filtering through the large window, casting long, dramatic shadows across the hardwood floor.

You are sitting on the edge of his bed, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Jungkook is standing directly in front of you. He has already discarded his jacket and blazer; his white button-down shirt is half-unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the intricate ink sprawling up his right arm.

He steps closer, his large hands coming up to gently cup your cheeks. His gaze is intense, dark, and heavy with a year and a half of unyielding devotion. "You’ve been so quiet all night," he whispers, his thumb tracing the sharp line of your cheekbone. "Talk to me. What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?"

"Nothing," you whisper, the lie tasting like ash on your tongue. "Just... tired."

"Let me fix it," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, breathless register. He leans down, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that is completely different from his usual gentle morning greetings. This is the kiss of a man who is deeply, passionately in love, intense, hungry, and heavily possessive.

He slides his hands from your face down to your shoulders, pushing the denim jacket off your arms until it drops to the floor. His lips leave yours, tracing a burning path down the column of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. His large hands slide down to your waist, his grip tightening, pulling your body flush against his until there is absolutely no space left between you.

It’s how you usually make out, intense, passionate, a private language built over several months. His hands slide under the hem of your shirt, his fingers warm against the bare skin of your waist, his kisses becoming deeper, more desperate, as if he is trying to physically pull you into his soul to keep you from drifting away.

He loves you. You know he loves you. You want to match him- god, you want to melt into him and forget the entire world.

But suddenly, Serena's phantom voice explodes in your mind.

“Men have needs. You’re inexperienced. He complains about how suffocated he feels. You’re an anchor.”

The words flash like neon lights behind your closed eyelids. You freeze. Your hands, which had been tangled in the fabric of his shirt, go completely rigid. A sudden, terrifying wave of inadequacy floods your veins. You look at Jungkook, so beautiful, so experienced, so effortlessly perfect, and you look at yourself, a broken, trembling mess of secrets and lies. You feel entirely inadequate, a plain background character trying to play a role she isn't qualified for. If you give in, if you try to meet his needs, you’ll just fail. You’ll be awkward, clumsy, and a disappointment. He deserves a woman, not a struggling, insecure girl.

You panic.

You place your palms flat against his chest and push. It’s a sudden, frantic movement.

Jungkook jolts, his body resisting for a fraction of a second because his grip around your waist is so naturally strong, but the moment he registers your resistance, he instantly pulls back. He steps away, his chest heaving, his lips flushed red, his dark eyes wide with immediate confusion and alarm.

"Y/N?" his voice is breathless, slightly raspy. "What’s wrong? Did I... did I hurt you?"

"No," you choke out, wrapping your arms tightly around your own torso, shielding yourself from his gaze. You can't look him in the eye. The guilt is suffocating. "No, you didn't do anything wrong. I’m just... I’m just really tired, Jungkook. My head hurts. I can't tonight."

It’s a blatant, terrible fake. Your voice is shaking, and your eyes are wild with unshed tears.

Jungkook stares at you for a long, agonising moment. You wait for the flash of hurt, frustration, annoyance, anger, even. But it doesn't come. Instead, you're met with overwhelming sweetness. The alarm in his eyes melts into a look of profound, gentle care. And for some reason you can't put into words, that hurts more.

"Hey," he says softly, stepping back to the edge of the bed and sitting down beside you. He doesn't try to touch your waist again; instead, he gently reaches out and captures your hand, his large fingers intertwining with yours, squeezing softly. "Don't look like that. You don't ever have to apologise. You don't owe me anything, Y/N."

He leans over, pressing a soft, lingering, profoundly sweet kiss to your temple. "Don't worry about it, okay? Come here."

He shifts, pulling the heavy duvet back and guiding your body down until you are lying against his chest. He wraps his strong arms around you, pulling you securely into his warmth, his chin resting on the top of your head. He reaches over to grab the remote, turning on a random movie at a low volume, his hand coming down to stroke your hair in a slow, rhythmic, soothing pattern.

He is being perfect. He is being the most understanding, loving, incredible boyfriend anyone could ask for.

And it makes you feel a hundred times worse.

As you lie there against the steady, calm heartbeat in his chest, staring blankly at the television screen, tears fill your eyes, but you will not let them fall. You can't burden him with this, too.

Every sweet stroke of his hand through your hair feels like a hot iron against your skin. You are a parasite. You are starving him of the intimacy he deserves, forcing him to suppress his needs because you are too broken to handle his love. The overthinking morphs into a monstrous, absolute certainty: He is going to leave you. And he should.

The humanities square is bathed in the harsh, blinding sunlight of a Tuesday afternoon, but your world has gone entirely grey.

You are walking back from a meeting with your academic advisor, a meeting where she gently informed you that your latest essay draft lacked its usual depth, a polite way of saying you were failing to meet your potential. Your fingers are shoved deep into your pockets, your head low, your throat burning with the desperate craving for a cigarette.

You turn the corner by the law faculty building, intending to take the long cut back to your dorm, when your boots freeze against the concrete.

There, on the wide stone steps of the law school, are Jungkook and Serena.

They are standing close together under the shade of a large oak tree. Serena is holding a folder of debate briefs, pointing to something on a page, her face bright and animated. Jungkook is looking down at the paper, a wide, genuine, beautiful laugh breaking across his face. He says something, tossing his head back, and Serena joins in the laughter, her hand lightly, casually touching his forearm for a brief, familiar second.

They look perfect. They look like a matching set. Two star students, two impeccable minds, standing together in the sunlight where they belong.

The sight hits you like a physical car crash. Every single word Serena had ever whispered to you: “He complains about you... he feels suffocated... he belongs with the elite” just solidifies into a concrete, absolute reality. Your brain goes into a catastrophic, violent overdrive of overthinking. You don't see a boyfriend sharing a casual academic laugh with a colleague; you see a man finding the joy, the intellect, and the compatibility that you have been starving him of for months. You see the inevitable future unfolding right in front of your eyes.

A sudden, violent wave of panic claws at your throat. You stumble backwards, turning on your heel, and sprint away before they can look up and see you standing there like a pathetic ghost.

The next five days are an agonising blur of isolation and self-destruction.

The panic inside you grows into a living, breathing monster. You begin to actively, systematically distance yourself from Jungkook. When he texts you in the morning, you wait three hours to reply, claiming you are trapped in a mandatory library workshop. When he shows up outside your lecture hall, you slip out through the back fire exit and hide in the basement bathrooms until his tall frame disappears from the square. You invent a never-ending cycle of group projects, late-night research seminars, and sudden academic emergencies just to avoid being in his presence. You push him away with a frantic, desperate intensity, convinced that if you don't cut the cord yourself, the pain of him doing it will kill you.

And your coping mechanism escalates.

The crumpled packs of cigarettes are no longer enough to numb the roaring, deafening noise of your inferiority complex. The simple tobacco doesn't quiet the thoughts anymore. You slip out to a shady alleyway behind the off-campus convenience store, purchasing a small plastic bag of joints from a computer science senior who smuggles them in.

Every night, when the clock strikes twelve, you lock yourself on the high fire escape of your building. Your hands shake to the point where you can barely spark the lighter. You press the rolled joint to your lips and inhale deeply, the heavy, pungent smoke filling your lungs, dragging the THC into your bloodstream. You smoke until your eyes burn red, until your chest feels like it’s on fire, until your brain finally, mercifully goes completely numb, allowing you to slump against the cold brick wall and forget, for just an hour, that you are the worst thing to ever happen to Jeon Jungkook.

From the moment the clock strikes midnight on the seventh day of the silence, the world shifts into a stark, cold reality. Jungkook stares at his phone screen, the bright light illuminating the deep circles beneath his eyes.

He is sitting on the floor of his living room, his back against the sofa, surrounded by legal briefs he hasn't read in days. His hair is unwashed, messy, falling into his eyes, and his crisp white shirt is wrinkled and unbuttoned. He looks entirely unravelled. The star law student, the golden boy of the university, has completely vanished, replaced by a man who looks as though he is physically starving.

He scrolls through the text thread.

“Still at the library, Kook. Group project is running late. Don't wait up.” “Got a big seminar tomorrow, going to sleep early. See you.” “Too much reading to do today, sorry. Have lunch without me.”

Cold, polite, distant sentences. For a week, you have been a ghost. He has shown up at your faculty building, stood outside your lecture halls, called your phone until his battery died, only to be met with a brick wall of vague excuses.

Jungkook lets out a ragged, shallow breath, his chest tightening until it feels like his ribs are going to crack. A terrifying, clawing panic has been living in his throat for seven days. He doesn't understand. He has spent every second of the last week replaying every moment of the last year and a half in his head, going over what he did wrong. Did he push too hard during that last kiss? Did he make you feel uncomfortable? Did he say something to you that he can't remember? Did someone else say something? Did someone hurt you? Are you bored with him? Do you not love him anymore?

The thoughts are torture. To Jungkook, you aren't just a girlfriend; you're his anchor. The quiet, beautiful sanctuary he runs to when the pressure of being "perfect" for the rest of the world threatens to crush him. You are the only person who looks at him and sees Jungkook, not the golden boy. And now you are drifting away, pulling up the anchor, leaving him to drown in a stormy, empty ocean.

"I can't do this anymore," he whispers to the empty room, his voice cracking, thick with an unshed, agonising grief.

He stands up, his movements sudden, frantic, and entirely desperate. He doesn't grab a coat, he doesn't care that it’s raining outside, he doesn't care that it’s nearly one in the morning. He grabs his keys and storms out of his dorm, his heart hammering a violent, terrifying rhythm against his ribs. He is going to you. He is going to force his way into your space. He doesn't care if you hate him for it. He cannot survive another hour of this silence.

The heavy door of your dorm room doesn't just rattle; it shakes on its hinges under the force of the sudden, aggressive pounding.

You bolt upright on your small bed, your heart leaping into your throat. You are wrapped in a faded blanket, your eyes heavy and dilated from the joint you finished just twenty minutes ago, the room still faintly smelling of a heavy, herbal sweetness you tried to clear by cracking the window.

"Y/N! Open the door!"

The voice through the wood is a raw, ragged shout. It’s Jungkook. But it doesn't sound like him; it sounds like a man who is being torn apart alive.

Before you can even move, the handle rattles violently, and because the cheap dorm lock tends to slip under enough pressure (and you always forget to add that additional lock Jungkook talks about), the door bursts inward with a loud, echoing slam.

Jungkook stumbles into your room.

You gasp, backing up against your headboard, your eyes widening. He looks entirely unravelled. His clothes are damp from the rain; his dark hair plastered to his forehead. His face is pale, his lips are trembling, and his eyes are violently bloodshot, wide with a frantic, wild look that terrifies you. His breath comes in short, shallow, ragged gasps, his broad chest heaving as if he had run a marathon just to reach your door. He looks physically, visibly terrified.

"J-Jungkook?" your voice cracks, small and trembling.

He slams the door shut behind him and closes the distance between you in two massive strides. He drops to his knees right at the edge of your mattress, his large hands reaching out to grab your hands with a grip that is unyielding, desperate, and trembling violently.

"Please, Y/N. Why are you doing this to me?" he cries out, the sound a raw, agonising sob that tears from his throat. Tears are streaming openly down his face, hot and rapid, carving tracks through the dampness of his skin. He drops his head to rest on his hands, which are enveloping yours. "What did I do? Please, Y/N, tell me what I did wrong! Did I hurt you? Am I not enough? D-do you... Do you not love me anymore? Are you breaking up with me?"

His voice cracks on the last few words, a pathetic, broken sound. He is begging. The perfect boy everyone loves is on his knees at your feet, completely shattered, weeping like a child because he thinks he has lost you.

"No, Jungkook, no-" you try to speak, your own tears spilling over instantly, but your voice is choked by the sheer, overwhelming weight of the scene.

Jungkook lifts his head, his wild, frantic eyes scan your face, searching for answers, but as he pulls closer, his head jerks to the side. His gaze lands directly on your small bedside table.

There, sitting out in the open, is a heavy ceramic ashtray. It is packed to the brim with crumpled cigarette butts and the unmistakable, charred remains of two half-smoked joints.

The room is silent save for his shallow, ragged breathing. Jungkook freezes. The world seems to stop spinning. He stares at the ashtray for a long, painful five seconds, his expression shifting from terror into a look of profound, absolute confusion and betrayal.

He slowly lifts his eyes back to yours, his voice dropping into a hollow, trembling whisper. "What... what is that?"

You can't breathe. The guilt collapses on top of you like a fallen building. "Jungkook..."

"You said you quit," he whispers, a fresh wave of tears spilling from his bloodshot eyes. He lets go of your hands, rocking back to rest on his heels, placing a little distance between the two of you. His hands shake as he gestures to the ashtray. "We made a pact that night. I stayed clean because... because I wanted to be better for you. And you’ve been... you’ve been hiding this? You’ve been smoking this entire time? Behind my back? Lying to me?"

"I’m sorry," you sob, going to reach for him, to ground yourself. "I’m sorry, Jungkook, I’m so sorry-"

"Why?!" he suddenly screams. It’s a loud, messy roar that bounces off the small concrete walls of your room. He stands up, pacing back and forth like a caged animal, his hands gripping his hair. "Why would you lie to me about this? Why did you shut me out for a whole week because of this? You think I care about the cigarettes? I don’t.” He pauses. “Do you know what I’ve been thinking for seven days? I thought you hated me! I thought I did something terrible to you! I’ve been losing my fucking mind!"

The dam inside you finally, catastrophically breaks. The months of suppressed agony, the poison whispered by Serena, the choking weight of your own inferiority complex, all of it explodes out of your throat in a raw, defensive scream.

"Because I’m a burden to you, Jungkook!" you shriek, standing up on the bed, looking down at him with a face distorted by tears and raw, ugly agony. "I hide it because I’m drowning! I smoke because it’s the only thing that stops my brain from screaming at me about how much I don't deserve you! Look at you! You’re perfect! You excel at everything: law, sports, music, theatre. Everyone on this campus looks at you like a god! And look at me! I’m a plain, failing literature major who can't even string a coherent essay together without having a panic attack!"

Jungkook stops pacing, his hands dropping to his sides, his eyes wide with utter shock as he stares at you.

"I’m dragging you down!" you scream, the words tearing your throat raw. "You spend half your time babysitting my insecurities, checking your phone to make sure your pathetic girlfriend hasn't collapsed in a corner, when you should be soaring! You have physical needs, emotional needs, a life that belongs at the top, and I’m keeping them suppressed because I’m too inexperienced, too broken, too much of a little girl to match your pace! You’re just too polite and too loyal to admit it to my face, but you must be so suffocated! You probably vent to Taehyung and Jimin about how tied down you feel by my guilt! You should just be with someone on your level! You should just be with Serena! She matches you! She belongs in your world! I don't!"

The room goes dead, terrifyingly silent. Your breathing is a harsh, ragged wheeze, your chest heaving, your face soaked in tears as you stand there, entirely exposed, having finally laid bare the entire ugly, rotting interior of your soul.

Jungkook doesn't speak. For a few seconds, which feels like hours, he just stands there. His face goes completely blank, his eyes darkening into an expression of sheer, unadulterated, dangerous snap.

He snaps.

In a fraction of a second, he closes the distance. He reaches up, his large, incredibly strong hands wrapping around your waist, and physically rips you off the mattress, slamming your back against the hard concrete wall of the dorm room.

You let out a sharp gasp, but before the air can even leave your lungs, Jungkook crashes his mouth down onto yours.

It is not a sweet kiss. It is a violent, breathless, completely desperate collision. He kisses you with an intense, terrifying fury, his lips crushing yours until you can barely breathe. It is a kiss meant to completely obliterate your words, to silence the catastrophic doubts in your head by sheer physical force. You try to push him away, your hands coming up to hit his shoulders, but Jungkook is too strong, his broad chest pressing firmly against yours, pinning you to the wall, his arms locking around you like iron bands. He consumes you, tasting like rain and raw passion, refusing to let you go until your resistance melts away and you are forced to cling to his neck just to stay upright.

He pulls back just a millimetre, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in hot, ragged gasps against your lips. His grip on your waist is so tight it almost bruises.

"Don't you dare," he whispers, his voice a low, terrifyingly angry register that vibrates against your teeth. "Don't you ever say that to me again. I am so fucking angry at you right now, Y/N. I’m furious."

Tears are still spilling from his eyes, burning against your skin. "You let some petty bitch like Serena plant those disgusting lies in your head? You listened to her instead of looking at me? You honestly thought I was complaining about you? You thought I wanted perfection?!"

His voice breaks, the anger instantly melting away, replaced by a profound intimacy that rolls between your bodies like a wave. His grip on your waist softens, his large hands shifting to cup your face with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

"I don't give a shit about the law faculty," he chokes out, his thumbs wiping the fresh tears from your cheeks. "I don't give a shit about the professors, or the judges, or being perfect. Do you want to know why I try so hard at everything, Y/N? Do you want to know why I sprint through my life? Because I am so terrified that I’m not enough for you. Because you are the most brilliant, beautiful soul I have ever met. Every time you talk about literature, every time you look at the world with those kind eyes, I feel like a stupid, clumsy caveman trying to understand a star. I don't want someone on my level. I want you."

He lets out a long, broken sob, and suddenly, his strength leaves him.

Jungkook falls to his knees.

He slides down your body until he is kneeling on the cold floor at your feet. He wraps his long, strong arms tightly around your waist, burying his face completely into the soft fabric of your sweater at your stomach. He clings to you as if he were a shipwrecked sailor holding onto the last piece of timber in a storm. His entire frame shudders with violent, heavy sobs.

"Please," he begs, his voice cracking, entirely muffled against your stomach, sounding small, raw, and utterly desperate. "Please, Y/N... never cut me off like that again. Don't ever hide from me. If you’re drowning, let me drown with you. If you need to smoke, let me hold the lighter for you. Just don't shut the door on me. I can't survive a world where I can't see you."

He holds your waist tighter, his face burying deeper into your skin. "All you have to do is talk to me when times get tough. I don't want perfection. I don't want a trophy girlfriend. I just want my Y/N. I just want you."

You stand there, frozen against the wall, looking down at the back of his dark, damp hair, his broad shoulders shaking with his love for you. The toxic, jagged mirror Serena had built shatters into a million harmless pieces, dissolved by the raw, unyielding reality of his obsession. You slowly slide down the wall so you're directly in front of him. You bring your hands up to cup his face. You wipe a few of the tears from his cheeks and lean into him. He immediately accepts you, wrapping his own arms around you, one holding your head to him, the other around your lower back. He holds you tight. Like he's scared to let go.

"We do this together." He mumbles into your hair. "Okay?" He whispers.

You nod. Lifting your head to meet him with another kiss. One that speaks far more than words ever could.