hello ~ it's mcwilla (aka ellie)! i write entirely for fun; this blog is the perfect way to get my thoughts and ideas out, and i hope you enjoy reading my work as much as i enjoy writing it. i love enhypen, so that's who i will be writing for. my blog is 18+ due to the mature nature of my content, however, i cannot control what you consume, so be warned. all work is thought of by me, written by me, and posted by me. DMs and asks are always open for both requests and just chats; i'd love to talk to you all + be moots - just ask!
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people telling you they reread your fic is the biggest compliment you could ever receive. there are thousands of stories out there begging to be found, to be explored, but your story meant so much to someone that they came back to it eagerly, they went over every word again. to love is to return and loving a fic is rereading it. thank you to all readers and rereaders <3333
Sunghoon learns that his daughter not only has been hiding her stress, but sheâs also experiencing insomnia for the first time.Â
pairing: dad!sunghoon x momf!reader
genre: fluff, angst
warnings: reader is mentioned but ur daughter (violetta) and hoon r the mains here hehe, they're going ham on cheese and grapes, mentions of parents overworking, that's all. don't like, don't read. xoxo
a/n: requested by the goat @mcwilla I hope u like it twinđ„č
The sound of a door squeaking open wakes Sunghoon up. He peeks at the clock next to your shared bed, groaning when he sees that itâs two in the morning. He sits up, careful not to wake you, before drinking a glass of water that rested on his night stand. Sunghoon runs a hand down his face. Why canât he ever just rest peacefully?Â
He places the cup back down, hoping the cold water would help him fall back asleep. Unfortunately, he hears the sound of feet walking in the hallway. He lifts his head just enough to see underneath the doorâthe hallway light isnât onâŠwhat is your daughter doing?
Sunghoon huffs. He gets out of bed carefully before kissing your forehead softly. Walking towards the door, he slowly opens itâlike heâll come face to face with a monster if he opens it any quicker.Â
He peeks his head out the door, looking left to right before fully stepping out. His hands find themselves in the pockets of his black sweatpants.Â
When he makes it to the end of the hall, he notices the balcony light is onâwhich only turns on when someone is out there. He tilts his head in curiosity before walking to the balcony door. For a second, he doesnât see anyone until he steps out, finding his seven year old daughter, Violetta, sitting on one of the couches.Â
Sheâs reading a book. Cheese and grapes rest on a plate in front of her. Itâs two in the morning. When did she do all of this?Â
He scoffs in disbelief. "You're out here eating while I was fighting for my life just to fall back asleep.â She jumps at the sudden sound of his voice.Â
Meeting his eyes, she smiles sheepishly. âUm,â she purses her lips, setting her book down before offering the plate to him. âWant some?â Silence comes between them for a moment.Â
They both burst into a fit of laughter. Sunghoon rubs his eyes tiredly, taking a seat next to her before plopping a grape in his mouth. âWhat are you even doing up this early?â He asks.Â
Violetta shrugs. âCouldnât sleep, I guess.â He knits his eyebrows together in concern.Â
âYou feeling okay?â He touches her forehead, checking for a fever. She laughs, gently swatting his hand away.Â
âIâm fine. I promise. Itâs just,â she pauses, turning her body to fully face Sunghoon. âHave you ever felt like your mind is having a race with itself? Itâs like, no matter what you try to do, you canât seem to calm it down. Thatâs why I canât sleep. My mind is having a petty race.â She rolls her eyes.
 Sunghoon furrows his eyebrows. âHas this happened to you before? Not being able to fall asleep?â Violetta shakes her head, grabbing a grape before eating it.Â
âI think you might be experiencing insomnia, princess.â She frowns.Â
âWhatâs insomnia? Is it a bad thing?â She asks nervously. Sunghoon shakes his head.Â
âItâs a sleeping condition where some people have a hard time falling asleep. It can come from stress or other things,â he meets her eyes, noticing how tired she looks. âHave you felt stressed about anything lately?â
She thinks for a moment, grabbing a piece of cheese before eating it. âWell, school has been kind of rough recently. Everythingâs just,â she trails off, avoiding his eyes. âHard.âÂ
Sunghoon feels a pang in his chest. He gently holds her shoulders, telling her to look at him, she does. âWhy didnât you tell us?â He whispers. Violetta sighs, pushing a strand of hair that fell behind her ear.Â
âI didnât want to bother you. Youâre both always so busy and I didnât want to make anything worse,â she shrugs.Â
His baby, his princessâthinks sheâs a bother? Sunghoon feels like his world has come to a stop. Hearing those words leave her mouth makes him do something he absolutely hates.Â
Thinking.Â
Heâs always been the guy whoâs one, twoâthree steps ahead. How did he never catch this sooner? He feels like heâs missed a puzzle piece. Like if a puzzle was put together, but one piece was out of place, he needed to fix everything so it could feel like it belonged.Â
Your daughter has felt pushed to the side. Thatâs the worst thing he could have ever known.Â
He had to admit, you both were always busy. Your work schedules collided like swords. From early in the morning til noon, you were already at work. Sunghoon left the house as soon as you arrived home.Â
The only time Violetta spent âquality timeâ with either of you was on the car ride homeâwhich wasnât very long.Â
Times that Sunghoon worked from home was only when Violetta had breaks from school, and even then, he was in the home office working.Â
None of this is an excuse. Heâs simply reflecting on how easily heâs allowed work to swallow him whole, and how it has left his daughter alone in the dark.Â
âLook at me,â he says softly. She slowly meets his eyes. âYouâre never a bother. Not to me, your mom, or anyone else. Youâre literally the best kid I could have ever asked for.â He tickles her side, making her giggle.Â
He brings her closer to him, caressing her hair ever so gently. âIâm sorry that itâs been so hard to get our attention. It should never be like that. Weâll have a talk with mommy in the morning, yeah? Weâll do better, I promise.â She nods.Â
He smiles softly. âHug?â She nods again, throwing her arms around his neck, making him laugh quietly. âI love you, princess.â He gently presses his forehead against hers.Â
Violetta grabs another grape, tossing it into her mouth. âI love you more, daddy!â She tries to say, but it comes out muffled.Â
Sunghoon canât help but grin, shaking his head in disbelief. Copying her actions except with a slice of cheese. âMaybe all of these grapes and cheese weâve been eating will put you right to sleep,â he chuckles.Â
Violetta curls up even closer to him. âYeah, maybe they will.â She says as she plops yet another grape into her mouth.Â
Once the clock hit seven am, they were both knocked out on the balcony under the warm summer sun. No worries, no stress, no burdens. Just a very rewarding resting sleep.Â
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hiii so i saw that u take requests soooo can u PLEASE write a fic of jay but like, y/n is also an idol and she ( or us/we ??? HELP ) produces and writes songs of some groups of hybe. like the group she works the most with is enha and she also plays the guitar A LOT soo yn and jay are always together playing guitar and one day they js have a makeout section in his dorm and then have like a slowburn but not so slow situation going on and have to hide it from ynâs members and jayâs members ⊠PLSPLS HEAR ME OUT ON THIS ONE IT SOUND SO GOOD IN MY HEAD oki thank u
okay i usually donât answer requests before posting the fic but HOLY SHITTTTT
i just need everyone to know that iâm writing this as we speak đââïžđââïžđââïž
anon iâm obsessed with you and your brain. thank you so much for lending me this idea and trusting me to write it đ„čđ„č
Just you and Jay spending time at the beach đïž
pairing: non-idol!jay x fem!reader
genre: est.relationship, fluff
warnings: jay chases reader and she gets picked up, that's it lol
The sound of the ocean waves engulfed your ears. Sand crunched between your toes. And the sun was shining. Typical day at the beach.Â
Today was the only day out of you and Jayâs schedule where you could do an activity during the afternoon, and since it was such great weather, heading to the beach seemed like a good choice.
You were sitting on a towel under a palm tree, watching as your boyfriend enjoyed himself in the cool water.
Un(fortunately) Jay called you over to come swim with him. You gesture to the shade hovering over your figure.Â
He narrows his eyesâbringing himself out of the water before he sprints toward you. Your eyes widen, standing from your seated position, you run in the opposite direction. You donât make it very far before he catches you by your waist.
âNot so fast, are we?â He chuckles. You roll your eyes in faux annoyance.Â
âShut up. How was I supposed to know you were about to chase me out of nowhere?â You shake your head in disbelief.Â
Jay smirksâtickling your sides, making you yelp in surprise.Â
âYou were looking so lonely, I couldnât help myself,â he admits.Â
You dramatically sigh, making an attempt to pull out of his grasp, but he tightens his grip.Â
âWhere do you think youâre going? Iâm not letting you go that easily.â He turns you around to face him, and before you can ask him what heâs doing, he lifts you over his shoulder and begins running to the water.Â
âWhat the hell? Donât you dare put me in the water!â He doesnât listen to your complaints, he just laughs.Â
âItâll be fun, I swear!â You swear that youâre gonna make him sleep on the couch tonight.
You groan loudly as he puts you in the waterâwrapping your legs around his waist and pulling you both further into the water.Â
âI hate you,â you mutter. He laughs and pecks your lips cutely.Â
or ââ .⊠getting to watch your boyfriend win the award heâs worked toward for five years is amazing. though, you wouldnât knowâyou could only focus on his tears, rather than what he was saying.
content: smut, riding, sex in a limousine, unprotected sex, dacryphilia, reader a lilâ perverted but she chill, sub sunoo, dom reader until sheâs lowkenuinely not, he like sorta implies that sheâs gonna cry too #yolo
kim sunoo might be the hottest when he criesâno, he is.
so naturally, after enhypen won the daesang, you couldnât help but ogle at the screen during their acceptance speech. there he wasâyour boyfriendâhappily spilling words of gratitude into the microphone, and you could only focus on one thing: the tears spilling from his eyes.
youâre not a pervert (maybe); you just have turn-ons. and, like, sunoo is your boyfriend, not some random guy. heâs also acutely aware of yourâŠwants. and if he wasnât already, wellâŠ
âfuck, you just looked so good,â you pant into his ear as your fingers curl into the collar on his suit jacket, riddled with small flowers and sparkles that only get in the way. âit was so hot, sunnie.â your thighs tighten around sunooâs waist as you sink firmly into his lap again; he breathes, not bothering to speak with the way you tighten around him.
they think sunoo is adorable, cute, innocentâbut he loves to fuck you. he loves it even more when you want him this badly. take him, plain and simple. no argument, no hesitation, just raw want, even if itâs sparked from a clip of him with tears streaming down his cheeks.
god forbid.
âyouâre fucked up,â he finally groans, and you giggle, rifling a hand through his dark hair.
but you donât reply, because his hips are bucking up to meet yours, not even letting you take charge for just once. the one night you just want to give him the ride of his life, and he literally wonât fucking let you.
you got off to the image of him crying, and the fucker thinks heâs owning you, or something.
well, maybe he is. because youâre not protesting. in fact, you press into him harder, feel his lips trailing along the side of your ribs all the way up to your chest through the thin top. âfuck, sunnie,â you moan as the tip of his cock presses into the spongy spot inside of you, forcing your hips to jolt forward. âoh, my god.â
your fingers trace along the faint tear stain that had bled through his stage makeup, the only remnant of the embarrassingly beautiful imagery left on his body. he notices, offers a curt smile and a shake of his head, and his fingers grip your waist tighter.
âshit, you feel so good,â he coaxes, lips pressing against your collarbone. he likes when youâre like thisâcertain, desperate, needy. âlove to look at you like this, above me.â
the harsh fabric of his trousers brushes against your inner thigh, and you hiss; the metal zipper feels cold against the skin, though it already burns from the sting of his cock pressing into you and stretching you out after going far too long without fucking him. you wishâif the situation wasnât so damningâthat you could get rid of the pants altogether, but itâs not really an option.
because you are not in a position to be picky.
and maybe it is a little on the nose to be doing all of this in the back of the limousine thatâs driving you back to the hotel, but the driver knows not to look. and, wellâyouâre impatient. maybe your boyfriend is, too.
your lips draw a path along the underside of his jaw until they reach the junction beneath his ear and linger there. the faint hint of his cologne still left after the show emanates from his skin; you hum against his neck, low, weak, prompted by the mix of the scent and the feeling of his cock pressing perfectly into your sweet spot.
âsunoo,â you moan quietly as the street lights illuminate the backseatâthankfully invisible to those on the outside because of the tinted windowsâand sunoo laughs into your ear.
youâre close by now, knot tightening in your stomach and pulse drumming in your ears and head at a speed that your mind canât handle. your walls clench around him, a drop of arousal drips onto his black trousers, but he doesnât feel it, and your other hand grips the side of his face, pulling his mouth to yours to silence the onslaught that you know is coming.
it only takes one more press of the head firmly into your core to make you cumâhardâon top of him as your hips writhe under his fingertips. he doesnât make much of an effort to keep you steady, loving the way it feels when your velvety walls constrict around his length, feeling the warmth seep out of the place youâre joined and onto his lower stomach, then the waistband of his unzipped pants. all from just you, youâre unbridled want for him.
you whimper against his neck, trying your best to muffle the noise and not draw too much attention, while still rolling your hips against his. âinside, ânoo,â you beg, lips finding their way up his face, tongue darting out to grotesquely trace over the faint stain a tear once left. âplease, baby. wanna feel it.â
and who is sunoo to deny you?
âfuck,â sunoo groans as his cock finally pulses inside of you, his hands holding your body still for him to properly fill your stomach with his cum. his head rolls back against the padded seat behind him, leaving you to watch as a tearâalmost as if on commandâforms in his eye and cascades down the side of his face and into the hair above his ear.
you grin; perhaps, a little too hard.
as the lights become fewer and farther between, your brain sparks back to life and snaps into reality, realizing where you are. despite the lingering ache between your thighs and the hot beads of cum dripping down to the base of his cock, you manage to dismount from sunooâs lap and slide into the seat beside him, chest heaving with your skirt still bunched up to your waist.
sunooâs hand slides to the top of your thigh and rests there; comforting, gentle. just to know heâs still there.
and you smile as he turns his head to look over at you, eyes staring into yours with an expression youâre oh, so familiar with. and when he opens his mouth, wellâyouâre not at all surprised.
âwhen we get back, itâll be your turn to cry.â
yeah, you think itâll be a pretty good compromise.
hiii! i saw you say you take requests so if you ever have the time i would love to see you write another jungwon fic since i loved your last fic about him so much and theres a jungwon drought on heređ literally anything u want to write about!! but lowkey the concept of like fluffy smutty husband jungwon has been terrorizing me latelyâŠthank you <3
Y.JW - kitten licks
ââ âą ă»âžâž masterlist | join taglist
AKAâââââ± hectic life, full time jobs, newly married coupleâitâs all too much. itâs okay, jungwon notices, he always notices, and he always wants to ease the tension you hold
pairing | husband.ájungwon Ă reader
genre: smut | wc: 2.8k | content: smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, use of petnames (babe, baby), jungwon is fucking whipped, a lot of dirty talk, jungwon lowkey talks her through it (im so in love with him), hair pulling?? foot mention (SHUT), reader and jungwon are kinda workaholics, also a lot of fluff we canât forget that part
mcwilla.log : i literally love this idcccccccc. thank you to anon for sending in this request, im so happy with how it came out!!! im gonna keep plugging away w writing, i love you all (and thank you for 1.1k?? what the actual fuckkkk????????????) as always, likes, comments, and reblogs are forever appreciated <33
‿ requests & asks are: open
When you push open the door to your apartment, you're half expecting a group of police officers waiting to handcuff you and take you off to court, mentioning that they'd been following you since you'd stolen that pack of gum from the corner store at five-years-old. It wasn't your fault, and the gum wasn't even good.
Your life has been so hectic the past few monthsâit seems like anytime you get a moment to breathe, something has to go wrong. The pipes burst, one of you gets called in for overtime, every single power line in the entire city is out until the following Monday. All real things that have happened, by the way.
Jungwon could tell how it was affecting you; it was affecting him too.
The two of you got married a little under a year ago; a wedding in the most beautiful orchard you'd ever seen in your life. Everything was exactly the way you'd dreamed it up, and Jungwon did his very best to have everything go according to your picture-perfect plan. Where the Groom would usually be drunk off his ass, laughing with his friends and leaving the Bride to do all of the entertaining of guests and tedious tasks, Jungwon refused to let your wedding follow that plan.
Even though you were quite literally in the middle of marrying the man, that was the moment when you were sure that he was the one for you.
You had a nice honeymoon; some five or six days on a beach on whatever tropical island the plane ticket said. You didn't really care, simply happy that you could finally relax from work, life, and nagging questions from people you weren't even sure what they had an invitation to your wedding for. The peacefulness coupled with the feeling of Jungwon loving you every nightâyou were almost positive this was the life you were destined to live.
But then you flew home, and then you had to clock in to your boring nine-to-five office job, and everything was right back into that cycle of 'maybe next week I'll have enough time.'
After almost a year of not feeling like husband and wife to Jungwon, he decided that enough was enough.
"I got Friday off for work, so I'll be here when you get home."
You simply nodded at the comment, not thinking too deeply about whatever just spilled past his lips. Your eyes were focused on the screen in front of you, fingers typing furiously your latest report, completely neglecting the half-eaten yogurt bowl to your right. "Sounds good, babe."
"That means I'm taking you out." Jungwon brought his spoon to his mouth, teeth scraping against the metal for a moment before he cringed at the noise.
"Out?" You asked, eyebrows furrowing but attention never averting.
"Yeah, to dinner. A date."
That was when you stopped typing, shaking your head as you tried to understand too many things at once. "NoâJungwon, it's fine. When I'm done this report, I'll be less busy."
"Sorry, I already made the reservations." Jungwon just shrugged, scooping another heap of yogurt into his mouth. "And on a completely unrelated noteâthe package coming today is actually something you ordered, despite you not remembering it and my name being the delivery address."
Jungwon smiled, eating the rest of his breakfast before he got up. Jungwon placed his dirty bowl into the sink before walking over to you and kissing the top of your head. "Just leave your bowl in the sinkâI'll clean them before I leave."
The dinner-date was nothing short of wonderfulâwhich was to be expected when Jungwon was your husband. He took you to your favorite restaurant as you wore the new dress he'd gotten you. Jungwon mentioned that he was going to get you a new pair of heels to match, but that he knew you wouldn't have had enough time to break them in comfortably before the date.
Your heart nearly burst out of your chest.
Jungwon holds the door open, letting you slip past him into your shared apartment. There are no police officers ready to take you away, and the apartment isn't on fire or flooded or full of ten thousand pigeons like you thought it would be.
You let out a long breathânot a sigh, not one of discomfort or annoyance, just a breath. The weight of the past few months trails out with the air, releasing from your lungs and out into the open world. You don't like to admit when he's rightâbut Jungwon was right, you did need this.
Jungwon crosses the kitchen over to where you rest against the island. He comes up behind you, helping you slowly peel off your jacket. Jungwon places a kiss on your temple, one of his hands coming up to rub your arm. "You look so pretty, baby." He whispers the words softly.
You giggle at his compliment, leaning into his touch as you hum in response, "You clean up nice."
Jungwon copies youâchuckling at your teasing words. "I missed you so much," Jungwon hums, "feels like I haven't seen you in months." He lets your coat fall to the floor, fingers finding your own as he starts to play with them. Jungwon's fingers intertwine with yours, softly squeezing your hand as he starts to move. He moves the two of you from the kitchen to the living room, his free hand bracing your shoulder as he urges you to sit down.
"Jungwon," you question, a sweet smile spread across your lips, "what're you,"
"Shh," he hushes, his finger coming to rest against your lips, wiggling his eyebrows before he breaks out into laughter. "Just lemme do something."
You roll your eyes, arms crossing in front of your chest as you huff out a laugh. Jungwon ducks his head low, hands finding the strap of your heels. You don't usually wear these heels to workâthese are your fancy heels. Unfortunately, they have to be the most uncomfortable pair of shoes you own, but Jungwon once mentioned that your legs look good in them, so you suffer through the pain.
Your husband's mop of blond hair falls over his forehead as he works meticulously on your shoes, fingers fumbling slightly with the buckles. You place your own hand on his head, fingers carting through his hair as you give the blond strands a soft tug. Jungwon almost purrs at the action, swatting your hand away quickly. "Don'tâI'm supposed to be the one working my magic here."
When he finally gets one of your shoes off, his hands find your foot. The pads of his fingers press into the ball of your foot, applying enough pressure for you to swat him away and whisper something about how ticklish you are. He ignores you, shaking his head as he leans forward and presses a kiss to your ankle. Jungwon looks up at you through his bangs, his lips traveling further up your leg.
Jungwon kisses your ankle softly, moving slowly up your calf with open mouthed kisses, stopping at the bend of your knee and sliding his hands up your calf before traveling his lips further to your inner thigh. He maintains eye contact the whole time, gazing up at you with unadulterated want and desperation.
Jungwon hasn't tasted you in months; he needs this like he needs oxygen to breathe.
His hands smooth up your legs, taking their sweet time as he maps the skin you wear as if it's his first ever time touching you. Jungwon has that habitâtouching you like he's never gotten the pleasure a day in his life. Tender, careful, considerateâthat's your husband.
As his hands get closer to his face, he bunches up the skirt of your dress. You let out a soft gasp at the realization of what he's doing, what he's preparing for. Jungwon's eyes quiver when he hears your noise, eyebrows furrowing in deep concentration.
"A lightbulb go off?"
Your bottom lip shakes, pussy already drenched from the touches of your husband. "Jungwon," you breathe out, "fuck."
Jungwon smirks against you, a breathy laugh flowing out of his nose and onto your thighs. "Yeah, baby? Want me to touch you?"
You nod, a whine slipping past your lips as you thread your fingers through his hair once more. You don't tug this time, you just hold him there. "Please."
"Okay," he muses. Jungwon places wet, intimate, open mouthed kisses along your inner thigh. His tongue peaks out every once in a while, the feeling of the wet muscle appearing before that of his delicate lips. Every action draws out a soft whine from you, your impatience growing feverishly. "Missed this," he starts up again. "Missed youâmissed your noises."
Jungwon grabs the remainder of your dress' skirt, bunching it up as his hands slide to rest on the curve of your waist. He holds his hands there, softly squeezing you as his lips travel further up your body. "Haven't tasted my baby in so longâmiss the way you taste."
"Jungwon," you try again, carefully tugging at his blond hair. He hums against your thighs, the vibrations barely meeting you where you need them most.
He pulls away from you, sitting on the heels of his feet, hands sliding down to your knees. Jungwon breathes out, pupils blown wide and eyelids hooded. He takes in your presence; takes in the way you're already panting at his barely-there touches.
"Wanna open for me, baby?" His words are delicateâpleading. Jungwon's only asking you, but the infliction of his voice sounds like he's begging you.
You nod, agreeing to his request as you slowly part your legs. Within seconds, your lace panties are on display for Jungwon, and the only thing he can do is raise his eyebrows and lick his lips. "Forgot how wet you get for me," he hums, "prettiest pussy I've ever had."
A whimper erupts from you at his words, your thighs quivering from neglect. Jungwon clicks his tongue, leaning forward. He starts his trail of kisses again, this time starting at your knee. He's quicker nowâhunger lining his every move.
Jungwon's cheek finds itself on your thigh, his eyes glancing up at you all sweet and glassy. His hand smooths over your knee, slowly making its way up to your thigh. He doesn't stop thereâhe settles on your lower stomach. Jungwon's thumb traces over your underwearâwet and warm. He lets out a low whistle, continuing to stroke you, even when the friction causes you to buck up into his touch.
"'re you needy?" He asks.
Your only response is a nod.
"I knowâI'm sorry." Jungwon bends his neck so he can peck your thigh. "I didn't mean to leave my baby neglected."
You screw your eyes shut when Jungwon's thumb finds your clit, pressing into it with enough pressure to give you pleasure. You moan his name, breathy and wrecked.
"Haven't touched you in so long," Jungwon whispers, watching his thumb play with you over your panties, pure wonder littering his pupils. "Can't imagine how you must feelâgoing about your day-to-day with a wet pussy, all neglected and needy."
You just nod your head, biting your lip to stay quiet.
Jungwon's thumb rubs your clit in a circular motion, once, twice, before he removes the touch. You whine out at the lack of friction, pussy pulsing and sensitive from the lightest touch. "Waitâplease."
Jungwon quirks a brow. "You really think I'm just gonna leave you like this? Oh, baby," he coos, "that would probably make me the worst husband in the world."
Jungwon leans forward, pressing a kiss to your clothed clit before he taps your hips, signaling you to lift them. You comply with a moan, hands rushing to hook underneath your underwear. Jungwon calms you, performing the action sensually on his own. Slowly, slowly, he pulls your pretty, lace panties down your legs until they fall into his hands. He admires themâadmires the slick-covered center, all soaking wet from him.
He wastes no time. Jungwon looks up at you through his long eyelashes and blond bangs, eyes full of want. He leans forward, sticking his tongue out as he maintains eye contact. His eyes stay fixed on you all the way up until his heavy tongue meets your pussy. Jungwon closes his eyes, groaning in bliss. He kisses your pussy, giving you a quick suck before he pulls away.
"Can't believe you're real," he murmurs, more to himself than anything, before diving in again. His lips meet you in a hunger you've never witnessedânot on your wedding night, not on the first time he ate you out, not even on the night a random guy approached you at the bar, completely ignoring Jungwon's presence.
Muscle memory seems to kick in, his tongue painting beautiful pictures and intricate patterns through your folds. He laps up your slick, groaning to himself every time you seem to produce more. He flattens his tongue, gliding a thick stripe from your hole to your clit, finishing the move off with a firm suck. He suckles the bud, finally opening his eyes to watch you.
You tug on his hair, head thrown back and lips parted. Soft moans slip past you in a steady streamâyour whole brain completely shut off as you live in the moment.
Jungwon smirks against you; he flattens his tongue once more. You can feel the divotâthat firm stripe that runs down the center of his tongue. It causes an imbalance in pressure, but it feels oh, so good.
"FuckâWon," you moan, tugging his hair particularly harshly. Heat settles in your lower belly, thighs clenching around his head.
Jungwon sucks in a breath through his nose, closing his eyes once more as he continues his movements. His tongue is the best thing you've ever felt in your life. It kinda pisses you off knowing there are other girls out there that have felt thisâknowing there are other girls out there who have been eaten out by Jungwon and his incredibly skilled tongue.
You can't imagine having to live a life without itâcan't imagine having to close your eyes and remember the best head of your life knowing you'll never get to experience it again.
Thank God for marriage.
Jungwon squeezes your waist, head bobbing rhythmically to the imaginary beat he's made. The sound of his tongue on your pussy fills the dim, quiet living room. It's just the two of you at this momentâyou on the couch, and your husband on his knees not caring about the fact that he can barely breathe.
Jungwon is proud of the fact that he would openlyâand willinglyâdie while eating you out.
Jungwon moves to tend to your neglected hole, his tongue filling it up deliciously as he continues to showcase his talent. One of his hands slides from your waist down to your pussy, thumb fiddling with your clit.
"So fucking pretty," he mumbles.
"Jungwonâfuck," you moan out. "I'm so fuckingâoh, my God."
Jungwonâs tongue returns to your clit, harshly sucking the bud while two of his fingers fill you. He eats you out with purpose nowâhe needs to get you off, needs to feel you cum on his face. Jungwon makes it his personal mission to give you the best orgasm of your life, and to give it to you with his fucking tongue.
When the wave crashes over you and the room goes brighter than Heaven, your thighs clamp shut around Jungwon's head and fingers pull on his hair. Jungwon doesn't careâthe pain is oh, so worth it. His name spills from your lips as you ride out your orgasm, Jungwon's fingers and tongue helping you through it, keeping up their pace like you didn't just soak his face in cum.
Jungwon licks you cleanâmaking sure every ounce of your arousal is on his tongue and savored. When he pulls off of you, juices covering his chin and nose, he lets out a deep breath. "Missed that so much," he groans. His cock is hard, you can see it even though he's wearing black slacks.
"Gonna make you cum three more times," he says, kissing your inner thigh.
Jungwon doesn't care when you twitch from the oversensitivity, he simply gives you a few moments to calm down before moving once again.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" You breathe out, complete disbelief covering your features.
"I'm gonna make you cum three more timesâone for each month I couldn't."
"JungwonâI'd probably pass out before that happens. Especially if you do that again."
Jungwon shakes his head, a soft chuckle slipping out. "Nuh uhâyou're staying awake, I'll make sure of it." He kisses your thigh slowly, eyes peaking up to look at your expression. "And none of those times are gonna be with my cockâtongue only tonight."
You moan at his words, eyes screwing shut when he rubs your clit with his thumb. "Gonna make sure this pussy forgets what cock even feels like."
wonnie's tongue btw... in case you guys were wondering what my thoughts consist of 24/7!!!
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synopsis: It was supposed to be a joke. a simple experiment after one too many 'but what if we could' questions. but now the college golden boy is convinced he's in love with you, and you have to figure out a way to remind him he's not. unless, of course, the experiment isn't the reason he can't seem to leave you alone.
wc: 22.1k
warnings: romcom, fluff, humor, hockey captain!sunghoon, a lot of chemistry nonsense that is not realistic or accurate, slow-burn (i did not mean for that to happen but it did so sorry), love potion (?), severe yearning, reader is a bit oblivious, reader is a woman in stem, reader AND sunghoon are down baddd, one scene inspired by âbetter then the moviesâ // p in v, fingering, oral f!receiving, multiple orgasms, soft dom!sunghoon, super sweet and giggly sex (theyâre in love your honor), praise kink
ab thinks... i rewatched descendants and this came to me...so thank ben's rendition of "ridiculous" for this LOL. also the chemistry plot kind of got away from me towards the end but i promise the concept is there! this fic meant so much to me to write. it's one of the longest I've ever wrote, and i seriously think that despite how much i complained about writing this, it helped me fall back in love with writing. special thanks to @arischacco @ickbite @ewstain @heedimples and @clearlyhoonie for listening to me complain while also supporting all my ideas. ily guys ok?
the playlist: "black magic" - little mix / "if only" - dove cameron / "slut" - taylor swift / "supernatural" - ariana grande / "ready to love" - seventeen / âtoo closeâ - enhypen
Itâd sounded like a good idea at the time.
But now, as you watch Park Sunghoonâcampus golden boy and the boy youâve been (secretly) in love with for three yearsâliterally drink your experiment, youâre starting to think you might have messed up somewhere.
Let's start at the beginning, shall we?
âOkay, but, like, what are the odds a person could make a real life potion? Or something like it?â Jungwon asks, eyes racing back and forth on the screen as Harry Potter brings back Cedric's dead body.
Yunjin shoots him a glare, her eyes brimming with tears. âAre you seriously asking that right now? Cedric just died!â
He blinks, eyebrows knitting in confusion. "Weâve seen this movie, like, a hundred times.â
âThat doesnât make it any less sad!â She scoffs, reaching for the throw pillow behind her head and tossing it at him.
It hits him square in the chest, but he barely reacts. Just lets it fall into his lap like it'd always been there. âIâm being serious, though!â
Beomgyu hums, popping another pretzel in his mouth. âIâm pretty sure youâre just thinking of chemistry.âÂ
Jungwon rolls his eyes, shifting in his seat so he can better face the three of you. âI mean like an actual potion. Like ones that make you fall in love or something dumb like that.â
You finally decide to speak up, tucking your feet under yourself and pulling your gaze away from the glowing screen. âYou want to know if itâs possible to make a love potion?â You ask, voice laced with disbelief.
But Jungwon doesnât laugh. If anything, he just looks ten times more serious. âExactly.â
The three of you go silent, glancing between eachother like Jungwon might reveal heâs joking and he knows something like that isnât possible.Â
Right?
See, there's a lot of issues with being a Biochemistry major. Some of the more obvious being that youâre a woman in a male-dominated fieldâwhich is a problem in and of itselfâand the other being that itâs extremely difficult.
But the one people donât talk about is your extreme crave for knowledge. Even if that knowledge has to do with finding out whether or not itâs possible to make a fucking love potion.
And you should shoot the idea down as soon as it comes to your head, really, you should. But thereâs that little flicker in the back of your mind, the one that usually gets you into trouble, that has you saying: âIt wouldnât hurt to try, right?â
(Newsflash: it really, really would.)
Three weeks. Thatâs how long it takes the four of you to work out numerous formulas, some which nearly exploded in your face, others that did nothing at all. It wasnât until you suggested using a bit less magnesium does the whole thing seem to be less far-fetched.
Despite her initial scepticism, Yunjin was insistent on finishing it as soon as possible so that she could make Jayâher second situationship of the monthârealize he was in love with her and finally ask her on a proper date. You couldnât help but feel like maybe that was a little unethical.
Besides, youâd already agreed you werenât actually going to use the substance on real people. Youâd test it on rats, see if it worked, and then go to sleep feeling completely and utterly satisfied.
That was the plan, anyway.
You crossed your legs, pencil tapping against your chin as you read over the equations in your notebook. The experiment was nearly completedâbut you just couldnât figure out how to make sure its effects wore off. Beomgyu had suggested maybe substituting the sodium for something else, but you just werenât sure what.
Jungwon groans next to you, letting his forehead rest against the desk. âRemind me again why electives insist on giving more work than necessary? Like, why do I have to write a 15,000 word essay on the history of the internet?â
You snort, shaking your head slightly as the eraser of your pencil rubs furiously against your paper. âRemind me again why you chose to take a class on the internet?â
He lifts his head up, glaring at you the entire time. âI wasnât aware the curriculum included 15 page long think pieces on the significance of Damn Daniel.â
You really laugh at that, lips curling up in a cheeky smile.Â
You and Jungwon usually had nightly study sessions at the campus library. It was a good way to unwind while also getting some work done. Well, more like you were getting work done and he was decoding Vineâs cultural significance.Â
Itâs hard for you to focus though.
Park Sunghoon is considerably the most beautiful man youâve ever had the pleasure of seeing, with raven hair and a smile that stops girls in their tracks, he has officially claimed the title of Campus Golden Boy and local heartthrob.
So how can you be expected to focus when heâs sitting in front of you, looking like that?Â
Heâs wearing glasses, something you werenât even aware he needed, slightly hunched over his glowing computer screen with an adorable knit in his brow. The sight should be illegal, honestly.Â
You donât even notice youâre staring until Jungwon nudges your foot with his, a knowing smirk on his face. âIf you keep staring at him like that he might think thereâs something wrong with you.â
You immediately flush, forcing your gaze back onto your notebook and trying to ignore the fact that your ears have begun to burn something mean.
âI hate you.â You mumble, fully expecting Jungwon to reply with something witty, but it never comes. Instead, when you lift your gaze up, Sunghoon has left his table and begun to make a beeline for you.
Your eyes widen, throat already closing up and panic swelling deep in your chest. Youâd definitely been caught and now he was going to confront you about your stalker-like behavior. You briefly wonder how long it takes for the police to arrive when theyâre called, because he was definitely coming over to inform you that heâd done just that.
âStop looking like your five seconds away from combusting.â Jungwon whispers, tone strangely serious.
You do your best to straighten your posture and make it look like there werenât three-week-old eye bags under your eyes or a mysterious stain on your sweats, but itâs all futile when he flashes you that smile. The one he gave everyone when he was being friendly, something youâd been on the receiving end of before. But, for some reason, this time it feels different.
This time it feels like the start of something new.
He stops at the other end of your table, hand shooting up in a brief wave. âHi,â He breathes out, âWe have chemistry together.â
You blink. Once. Twice. Jungwon kicks your shin and you remember that you should probably reply. âUhâYeah!â Your voice cracks, tone pitching up higher than you meant it too. You clear your throat with a slight wince, doing your best to give him a smile. âYes. Yeah. We do.â
He chuckles, bringing a hand up to run through his hair. And, wow, maybe Jungwon was rightâyou really are about to explode.
âI was having trouble with this last assignment,â He sighs, clearly exasperated, pointing a thumb back at his computer. âWhat are the chances you might be able to help me?â
Okay. This is fine. Amazing, actually. Youâd finished that assignment the other night and you understood it pretty well, so helping him should be a piece of cake.
At least it would be if you didnât seem to forget everything in his presence. Because you can definitely smell a bit of his cologne right now, sharp and clean, and you think youâre going to die. Yep. Youâre going to pass away from cologne.
âYes,â Jungwon answers for you, already ushering you out of your chair. âShe can help you. Trust me, sheâs crazy smart.â
Your eyes widen, staring at your friend in horror as he practically pushes you out of your chair and closer to Sunghoon.
âI know.â Sunghoon replies easily, tone light. Two words, but theyâre enough to nearly send you melting into the floor.
You do your best to stay composed as Sunghoon leads you back to his table, but you arenât entirely sure youâre even going to be able to think next to him. Which is definitely a little pathetic when you think about it, but seriously, look at the man. You are not ashamed in the least.
Jungwon shoots you two thumbs up, dimples showing as he smiles like heâs just won the fucking lottery. You donât return the sentiment, instead shooting him a harsh glare.Â
Sunghoon pulls out the chair next to his computer for you, and you sit down shakily. Your nerves feel completely shot, face on fire and your palms becoming uncomfortably moist.
He gestures to the problem on his screen, murmuring something about how heâd been stuck on it for the last hour.
You nod along, chewing on your bottom lip. The equation he was stuck on was thankfully something you knew how to do, so after taking a breath and reminding yourself that he is simply a boy and you are a very smart woman, you manage to explain it to him.
âYou put a negative there, but the equations actually positive,â You explain, voice still shaking the tiniest bit, but stronger than it was earlier as you gain back some confidence. âYou also wrote the wrong unit over here.â
Sunghoon listens as you explain everything to him, your hands gesturing wildly and words going a mile-a-minute. Itâs obvious to anyone watching you that youâre passionate about the subject.
By the time you finish, heâs already fixing his mistakes and taking the steps needed to get the right answer.
He shifts closer to you, finger dragging over the paper with a light touch, âIs this right?â He asks, voice barely above a whisper. He says it loud enough that only you hear, eyes flickering over the side of your face.
You feel that familiar flush building when his knee brushes yours under the table, but do your best to swallow it down. âUh, yeah. All you have to do now is figure out the correct configuration, which youâre pretty close to doing, and youâll be good to go.â
He hums, leaning back in his seat and flexing his palms. âHow are you so good at this stuff?â He asks with a laugh, eyes raking over yours like heâs trying to fully understand you.
You swallow, playing with your fingers in your lap. âItâs just always interested me, I guess. Like, the fact that we breathe in air and breathe out carbon? And the earth needs carbon to survive, so really weâre helping power the world. Itâs all just so fascinating to me!â Youâre smiling now, talking animatedly, âItâs difficult, yeah, but itâs also rewarding. Like, watching your experiment work is such a rush and Iââ
You cut yourself off, realizing youâre rambling about fucking chemistry like youâre in love with it. He must seriously regret even asking.
âSorry,â You mumble, nervous laughter bubbling out of you like a defense mechanism.
He shifts, leaning forward onto the table now, face turned so heâs still looking at you. âDonât be sorry,â He reassures, eyebrows lifting slightly. âI was listening.â
Okay, wow. You are seriously either about to throw up and die orâŠyeah thatâs it. There arenât any other options.
By the time you make your way back to your table youâre practically shaking, breaths coming in shallow and rushed, your entire body on fire. You feel like youâre in some weird kind of fight or flight.
Jungwons bouncing in his seat, bottom lip sucked into his teeth. He practically pulls you down next to him, beginning to ask you a million questions, but you canât see him.
All you can focus on is the subtle glance Sunghoon gives you when he leaves.
You shouldâve known something was going to go wrong the moment Beomgyu called you.Â
âI swear Iâve almost figured it out,â He sighs into the phone. You canât see him, but you can tell his nose is scrunched up the way it always is when heâs thinking too hard about something. âI think we got the units wrong, but if we can figure out the correct ones it should work.â
You kiss your teeth, bumping your silverware drawer with your hip and letting it slide shut. Your phone rests snugly between your shoulder and ear, your head tilted uncomfortably to accommodate it. âAre you in the lab right now?â You ask.
Beomgyu hums, âJungwon and Yunjin are here too, but I donât really know why considering neither of them are doing anything to help.â He says sharply, and you can hear the subtle cries of retaliation from your two friends in the background.
You snort, rolling your eyes slightly. âOkay, well,â You sit on your couch, attempting to get comfortable and placing your plate of food in your lap. âIâm gonna eat this and then Iâll be over, okay? Try not to blow anything up before I get there.â
âNo promises.â He groans, tone laced with annoyance, but you know itâs all out of love.
You get there twenty minutes later, hair thrown up and sweats hanging off your body. Very professional, you know.
When you push the metal doors open the first sight that greets you is one youâre quite familiar with. Jungwon and Yunjin fighting with each other over something stupid, and Beomgyu ignoring them like they're his children. Nothing says friendship quite like that.
Yunjin immediately shoots up when you enter, her eyes narrowed with anger. âCan you please tell him that Jay is in love with me before I kill him?â
Jungwonâs quick to follow her, knocking his shoulder with hers so that his frame blocks her from your view. âCan you please tell her sheâs known him for a week?"
You roll your eyes and scoot past them, making your way over to Beomgyu. Heâs diligently writing down formulas; bottom lip sucked between his teeth. He's giving off a mad scientist vibe right now. Or maybe just a stressed-out university student vibe. Both are interchangeable.
You nudge his shoulder to get his attention, but he barely even glances at you. Just continues mumbling out questions like he's expecting the universe to answer him.
âWhat can I help with?â You ask, throwing on your lab coat and snapping on a pair of medical gloves.
He groans, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. He gestures lazily to the counter top, where a small gatorade bottle is sitting where the glass test tubes usually do. âThose two idiots broke the glass tubes I was holding the liquid in so now I have to use this janky bottle,â He mutters, throwing a glare at Yunjin and Jungwon.
Your experiment was currently sitting in a Blue Crush Gatorade bottle, floating around the bottom unsuspectingly. You snort at the sight, rolling your eyes slightly. âI think they have some extra next door,â You sigh, turning on your heel to go grab them.
But before you can even think about pushing the door open, Sunghoon reveals himself on the other side.
Heâs still in his hockey uniform, helmet hanging from his hand and cheeks flushed a lively pink. You both stand there for a moment, blinking like youâre waiting for each other to make the first move. Jungwon and Yunjin even stop bickering, the both of them staring at you with wide eyes and cunning smiles.
Sunghoon clears his throat, gripping his helmet just the tiniest bit tighter. âSorry for bothering you,â He murmurs, âI, uh, forgot something in here. Just stopping by to grab it.â
Youâre silent for a moment too long, trying to string together a sentence without sounding itâs your first day on earth. It turns out, itâs a bit difficult to do that when Sunghoon is staring at you like that.
Like heâs trying just as hard as you are to not burst at the seams.Â
âCan I scoot past?â he asks, tone small and light, a shy smile playing on his lips.
You swallow, managing a small nod and moving to the side weakly. His fingers brush yours when he scoots past, sending a cool shiver down your spine, one that shouldnât feel as electric as it does.
He waves at Jungwon and Yunjin, who both give him polite smiles, but you can see the way their eyes shine at him. Like they know something he doesnâtâwhich they doâbut still.
Yunjin hurries over to your side as soon as his back is to you, giving you the brightest smile you think youâve ever seen. She grabs your bicep with her manicured hand, squeezing it so tightly you have half the mind to think itâll bruise.
âOh my God,â She whispers, eyes flickering between you and Sunghoon, whose eyebrows seem to be narrowed in confusion as he looks for whatever it is he left. âDid you see the way he looked at you?â
You immediately flush, smacking her lightly on the shoulder. âShut up.â You grumble.
âIâm being serious!â She defends, wiggling her eyebrows. âEven I got butterflies.â
You run a hand over your face, head shaking slightly. âYunjin, seriously, stop talking.â
She laughs, but you canât find it in yourself to laugh with her. Even if Sunghoon was looking at you a certain way, it didnât mean anything. Not when Sophia was still around.
Sophia was the complete opposite of Sunghoon. A rude party girl who assumed the world revolved around her and her perfectly blown-out hair. And somehow, someway, sheâd gotten the dark-haired man wrapped around her perfectly manicured finger.
Their relationship was constantly off and on, mostly because Sophia could never seem to make up her mind on what man she was interested in that week. And Sunghoon, poor, beautiful Sunghoon, always went back to her. Sometimes you wondered if she had some kind of blackmail on him. Or maybe he was just a secret masochist. Both answers were equally concerning.
They seemed to be on one of their breaks right now, but everyone knows it's only a matter of time before she's showing up at his games again. You hate that the thought of it fills your chest with green smoke.
You turn around on your heel to continue your walk to the classroom next door, but the sound of Beomgyu shrieking stops you.
You whip around, half expecting something to have exploded, but instead the sight youâre met with is worlds more alarming.Â
Sunghoon, the campus golden boy and secret love of your life, is drinking your experiment. Literally. Lid to mouth, chugging it like it's water.
Beomgyu rips it from him, but itâs too late. Almost all of the liquid, aside from a few measly drops in the bottom, is gone.
The four of you freeze, watching Sunghoon like heâs grown three heads. But the boy in question just blinks at you with confusion. His tongue flicks out to lick a drop off his bottom lip, eyes flickering between the three of you. âWhat?
Beomgyu takes a cautious step towards him, arm held out like heâs worried Sunghoon might go rabid and lunge at him. âDo you feel anythingâŠstrange?â
Sunghoon swallows awkwardly, lips curving into a concerned smile. âUm,â he murmurs, letting out a nervous laugh. âShould I?â
You share a glance with Jungwon, who just shrugs his shoulders. The four of you are in different stages of shock, because why would somebody drink a mysterious liquid in a lab? What is the thought process behind that?
Yunjin looks like she's holding back a laugh, which isn't that shocking since she always laughs at the most inappropriate times. Meanwhile Jungwon looks nearly amused, like he'd known this would happen, and Beomgyu just looks pissed.
âSunghoon,â Jungwon murmurs, circling the ravenette like heâs studying him, a hand on his chin. âWhy did you drink out of that bottle?â
Sunghoon watches him, head twisting around his shoulder every time Jungwon makes his way out of his line of sight. âBecause itâs mine? I left it here last night.â He answers casually.
Your eyes snap to Beomgyu, watching as his eyes trail down to the bottle in his hand.Â
âYou guys alright?â Sunghoon asks, tone laced with suspicion. Not that you can really blame him.
Yunjinâs the first to answer, a honey-sweet smile on her face. âOh, yeah, weâre good! JustâŠdeadlines. You know how people get.âÂ
Sunghoon nods, eyebrows knit together. âRight,â He mumbles, pursing his lips slightly. His eyes flicker between all of you once more, like if he stares at you long enough one of you might break.Â
When his eyes land on you, he pauses. Itâs just a moment, something you wouldnât have caught if you werenât paying attention, but something you arenât quite sure how to place flashes in his gaze. Something far too real and confusing.
âI should, uh,â He swallows, gesturing lazily towards the door. âI should go.â
You nod, lips parted slightly as he slips past you.Â
Beomgyu clearly wants to stop him and ask more questions, maybe try and keep him for observation, but you shoot him a look that tells him to let it go. Your experiment being gone sucks, yes, but if he seems fine then there isnât any reason to scare him. And if he isnât fine later then you can deal with it then.
Sunghoon glances back at you before he leaves, lips parting like he wants to say something more, but he decides against it. Instead, he pushes the door open and steps back outside, leaving the four of you to try and come to terms with what happened.
Theres a pregnant pause, mostly because you think nobody really knows how to approach the situation. How do you move on with your day after your personal campus celebrity drank your fucking experiment? It's seriously a valid question.
Yunjin clears her throat, arms crossing over her chest. âSo... does this mean I canât use it on Joshua?" She asks, expression completley serious.
Beomgyu lets out a large sigh, fingers squeezing the bridge of his nose like it might ground him. âYunjin,â He murmurs, âShut up.â
She scoffs, rolling her eyes. "It was a genuine question."
Your lips tighten, hand reaching out to give her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "You weren't going to be able to use it on him anyway."
"You don't know that!"
You canât help but feel on edge when you walk into your Chemistry lecture the next day, hands gripping your computer tighter than necessary.
Would Sunghoon be here? Would he be okay? Did he die sometime in the night and the campus just wasnât aware? What if the police were waiting for you so they could question you?
What would you even say? Well, you see officer, he kind of drank my experiment. So sorry it killed him! Yeah, no. That wasnât gonna work.
To your relief, there arenât any police officers waiting for you in the lecture hall, and Sunghoon seems to be perfectly fine.
Except, heâs sitting in Yunjinâs usual seat right next to yours.
You immediately pause, heart dropping to your stomach. This has never happened, ever, and you already know it must mean bad news.
Heâs writing something in his notebook casually, hair curling over his forehead in a way that makes him look hand-sculpted by the Gods themselves. Your mouth goes dry, eyes flickering across the room until they land on a sly looking Yunjin. She curls her fingers at you in a sultry wave, like she knows exactly what sheâs doneâwhich youâre sure she does.
And, conveniently, every other seat in the room is full. Which means you have no other choice than to sit by Sunghoon.
Which is perfectly fine. Yep. Itâs fine.
You force yourself to make your way to your seat, feet dragging the entire way, head hanging so that your hair covers your face. Is it a little pathetic? Yeah, definitely. But youâre way past caring.
You try to sit down as incredulously as possible, making sure your body is conveniently facing away from him. And for the first few minutes it works! Sunghoon doesnât glance at you when you open your computer and pull up the assignment, doesnât even blink when you sneeze right next to his ear.
And when you think youâre finally in the safeâfinally feel like you can let yourself relaxâit happens.
Sunghoon turns to you, his cheeks flushed a strange shade of pink, eyes strangely bright and pupils blown, and says in a scarily serious tone, âHow are you, beautiful?â
You donât even register it at first. It feels so absurd, so out of reach that he could even be thinking about saying that to you, that you completely ignore him. You assume he must be on the phone with Sophia, because there is absolutely no way Park Sunghoon just called you beautiful. It just wasnât possible.
But then his foot finds yours under the table, and he starts trying to play fucking footsie with you. You freeze momentarily, brain trying itâs very hardest to catch up with whatever the hell it is thatâs going on right now.
You swallow, finally forcing yourself to look at him. For a moment you really wish you hadnât, because heâs got this cheeky smile going on, like heâs content just being in your presence.
You clear your throat, looking around once more for confirmation that he isnât talking to anyone else. Your pointer finger comes up to point at yourself hesitantly, voice coming out in a small whisper when you say, âAre you talking to me?â
His foot stops nudging against yours now that youâve finally answered him, and his smile widens. âWho else would I be calling beautiful?â
You nearly choke on your own spit, hand flying up to your mouth as you fall into a coughing fit. Sunghoons hand comes up to rub soothingly on your back like heâs done it a million times.
âWhat are you talking about?â You manage between coughs, eyes wide like youâve just seen a bomb go off.Â
Well, this certainly feels like one has.
Your mind can't even make sense of what he's saying. It almost feels like he's speaking another language and you're using google translate to try and communicate with him.
Sunghoon laughs, head shaking as his hand travels up to ruffle your hair. âYouâre so funny sometimes, really. Did you know that? Honestly, Iâve always thought you were the funniest girl Iâd ever met. And the prettiest.â His eyelashes flutter, leaning his cheek onto his hand like heâs got some type of school-girl crush. âI want the whole world to know just how perfect you are.â
Youâre too shocked to even respond, lips opening and closing while you rack your brain for anything to say. This is so out of character for Sunghoon. Not just because his admiration is aimed at you, but because youâve gone to university with him long enough to know he doesnât act like this.
And then it hits you.
The fucking experiment.
You are so screwed.
You clear your throat, glancing around warily. Your professor started lecturing a few minutes ago, but you were so busy with Sunghoon you had no idea what it was he was even talking about.
You suck in a shaky breath, âOkay, listen, I know youâre probably confused right now." You attempt, voice quiet as to not draw any attention to whatâs going on. âBut you drank something you shouldnât have yesterday, which isnât your fault! Me and Beomgyu just have to figure out how to reverse its effects! Unless, of course, it wears off by itself. That would definitely be ideal.â You mumble the last part, bottom lip finding its way between your teeth just like it always does when youâre thinking too hard.
Sunghoon watches you with a dopey smile on his face, clearly not caring about anything that youâre saying. The sight makes your heart stutter, which you know shouldnât happen. Personal feelings about Sunghoon aside, he doesnât actually feel anything for you. He just thinks he does.
âYouâre so cute when youâre focused.â He murmurs, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
Your breath catches when the tips of his fingers brush against your cheek, the touch soft and intentional. He's gazing at you with so much love, so much genuine feeling, it breaks your heart the tiniest bit.
And you wonder for the briefest moment what would happen if you let yourself indulge in this. Even if just for a day. Would it be so bad?
He pulls away from you slowly, the tips of his ears pink and his lips curled into a shy smile. âYouâre beautiful,â he murmurs again.
You sigh, letting your head fall into your hands. âSunghoonââ
He stands from his seat abruptly, his chair scratching against the floor obnoxiously. You wince, head whipping up to figure out what the hell it is heâs doing.
âEveryone!â He announces, voice booming through the lecture hall. You immediately scramble to stop him, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt to try and pull him back down. He just ignores you, instead choosing to continue to address the whole class like heâs giving some big speech.
âIâm in loveâ!â
Yeah, no.
You practically wrestle him into his chair, pulling on his arm so hard he nearly collapses into your lap. You push him into his chair, a shaky smile on your face.
The class stares at you with unamused frowns, all clearly annoyed at having the lecture interrupted by Sunghoons near-declaration.
You clear your throat, hands waving in front of you. âHeâs just not feeling well,â You attempt nervously, a humorless laugh bubbling out of your lips like it might save you from embarrassment. It doesnât.
Your professor fixes you with a stern look, one that youâd never been on the receiving end of until this moment. Now, youâre starting to understand why people say sheâs so icy.
You murmur out apologies to the room, hoping to ease at least some ofthe growing tension between you and your peers. Yunjins looking at you with genuine shock, her hand covering her mouth like sheâs hoping to spare you any kind of embarrassment. It doesnât work.
You turn your attention back to Sunghoon, whoâs giggling in his chair like heâd just witnessed the funniest thing ever.
âWhat is wrong with you?â You hiss, beginning to pack your stuff as well as his. Youâd thought youâd wait until class was over to go find Beomgyu, but after that stunt youâre starting to think your social life might go down if you donât figureout how to fix this ASAP.
Sunghoon shrugs, fingertips tapping against his thigh. âIs it a crime to tell people about the girl I love?â
You tense for a moment, but donât stop gathering the rest of your things. âYou donât love me.â You manage out, voice cracking slightly. âYouâre just confused.â
Sunghoon grabs your wrist and stops you from closing his notebook, his thumb hovering over your pulse point. âIâm not confused.â He insists, and, God, for a second you almost believe him. Itâd definitely be easier to.
But you know he doesnât know what heâs saying. Heâs confusing his emotions for you with something elseâsomething that isnât there.
Something that will never be there.
You pull your wrist out of his grip, a sad smile on your face. âCâmon,â You manage, throwing your bag over your shoulder. âLet's go talk to Beomgyu.â
The walk to Beomgyuâs apartment is filled with endless yapping from Sunghoon and mostly silence from you. You arenât sure how you should reply to his advances considering he doesnât actually know what heâs saying. You keep telling yourself to imagine heâs on some weird drug that makes him more open than normal. And ten times more flirty.
Beomgyus apartment is just on the cusp of campus, close enough that it wasnât a long walk, but far enough to get some sense of individualism. Youâd been there a thousand times, whether it was for a casual hangout or to catch up on homework, but never in a million years did you imagine youâd be knocking on the door with Park Sunghoon staring at you like youâd hung the moon and the stars.
âStop,â You mumble, fist rapping onto the door again. You know Beomgyuâs home right now.
Sunghoon raises a brow, arms crossed as he leans against the wall next to you. âStop what?â He asks, maintaining his false facade of innocence.
You shoot him a glare, hands gesturing at him wildly. âStop looking at me like that!â
He just hums, like heâs amused at your reaction. And you know none of this is technically his faultâwell, it is but it isnâtâbut thereâs a growing annoyance in your chest that you canât seem to get rid of. If you were going to be subjected to another public embarrassment like what heâd pulled in your lecture you think youâll die.
You huff, fist tapping against the door again. âI know youâre in there, Beomgyu! Stop trying to pretend you arenât there so Iâll leave!â
Thereâs a momentary silence, and then the door clicks open and an unamused Beomgyu stares at you from the other side. Heâs wearing a white stained shirt, hair sticking up in numerous places.Â
Heâs a sight for sore eyes, honestly.
âWhat?â He sighs, staring at you like youâve interrupted his very busy schedule.
You point over at Sunghoon with your thumb, âWeâve got a massive issue.â
Beomgyuâs eyes trail towards where youâre pointing lazily, like youâre somehow inconveniencing him. He looks Sunghoon up and down, lips twisting into a frown. âI donât see the problem.â He mumbles.
You sigh, running a hand over your face and letting it slap back down to your thigh. âIt worked.âÂ
Beomgyu raises a brow. âWhat worked?â
You groan, âThe experiment worked.â You hiss, nodding towards Sunghoon slightly. âAnd now heâs convinced heâs in love with me.â
Beomgyu blinks, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head as he processes what you said. Heâs been your closest friend for long enough to know that under different circumstances, Sunghoon confessing his love to you wouldâve had you over the moon. He knows you wouldâve had a much different reaction to the one youâre giving now, at least.
He licks his lips, glancing around the hallway like heâs expecting someone to jump out at you, and then ushers the both of you into your apartment. Sunghoon tries to grab your hand when you go inside, but you pull away and shoot him a sharp glare. He just smiles back, like your annoyance is the most amusing thing in the world to him.
Beomgyu gestures to the couch, mumbling out a hasty sit before disappearing into his room. You sigh when you plop down onto it, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursued.Â
You know itâs not Sunghoons fault. This whole thing was a complete accident. ButâŠsome part of you couldnât help but feel like this entire thing was only going to end one wayâwith you getting hurt. Sunghoon doesnât love you like he seems to think. The issue is, you arenât sure just how long youâll be able to resist him before you finally start believing him.
Thatâs why you need to figure out how to reverse this before it gets to that point.
And what about the effects it must be having on Sunghoon? Sure, you were taking emotional hits, but what if you had accidentally seriously messed him up mentally or physically? What if he never recovered and then youâd have to live with the fact that youâd indirectly messed him up for life?
Sunghoon sits down next to you wordlessly, hands shoved in his pockets. His eyes trail over the living room, eyes pausing on a framed picture of you and Beomgyu from highschool. In it, the both of you are laughing at something on the other side of the camera, your hands clenching your stomachs and wide smiles on your faces. You donât remember what exactly had been so funny at the time, but your heart still melts all the same every time you look at it.
Sunghoon hums, nodding towards the picture. âYou look happy.â
Even though you donât mean to, and there's definitely no reason to do so right now, you crack a small smile. âYeah,â You mumble, âThat was a good day.â
The space between you isnât uncomfortable, it never really has been despite everything, but itâs tense. Like thereâs some sort of gravitational force pushing you towards him, and the harder you resist, the more it wants to persist.Â
Sunghoon must feel it to, because his tongue darts out to wet his lips, his adams apple bobbing slightly. For the first time since this entire fiasco started, he looks almost unsure, like thereâs something he wants to do or say, but he canât.
You frown, hand instinctively coming up to rest on his bicep, âSunghoon,â You murmur, eyebrows furrowing in concern. âAre you alrightââ
âOkay, here's the plan,â Beomgyu interrupts, finally emerging from his room. He looks much more put together now and not like heâd just rolled out of bed. He points to himself, âIâm going to figure out how to fixâŠâ He gestures to Sunghoon warily, âThis as soon as possible. You,â He points to you next, âAre going to watch him while I do.â
Immediately, alarms go off in your head. You canât watch over Sunghoon. You just canât.
You sit up straighter, arms crossing in an X over your chest. âI canât,â You blurt, heat rising to your cheeks. You slowly lean back again, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. âI haveâŠplans.â
Itâs a lame excuse, you know. And you know neither of them believe you. (Honestly, does Sunghoon even understand whatâs going on?)
Beomgyu rolls his eyes, âOkay, first off, no you donât. And if this is like, a one in a million time in which you actually do have something going on, cancel it.â He lowers his voice slightly, hand covering his mouth so Sunghoon canât see what heâs saying. âHe canât be alone right now, and Iâm guessing youâre the only person heâll willingly go with. So, either take him or deal with the repercussions.â
You hate that heâs right.Â
Maybe, if you had any energy left in you youâd fight with him on it. Or maybe youâd just deal with the consequences of sending Sunghoon out there on his own. But one glance at the man in question, and you immediately cave.
Heâs gazing at you with hopeful eyes, his head tilted slightly to the side, like heâs hanging onto every word you say. It really shouldnât tug at your heart strings like it does. It shouldnât make you want to say yes until the word doesnât sound like a word anymore.
You sigh, forcing your gaze to the ground. âFine,â You huff, âIâll watch him. Whatever that means.â
Beomgyu grins, glancing between you and Sunghoon cheekily, like he knows something you donât. âGreat,â He rolls his neck, letting it pop once. âNow get out so I can get to work.â
Campus is never busy on Mondays. You think itâs because most people donât like the idea of morning classes on the first day of the week, which you canât really blame them for. But that also means that itâs just you and Sunghoon on the street, and while it feels completely awkward for youâhe looks like he just won a million bucks.
Heâs smiling, as if the harsh winds blowing across your faces is anything to smile about. As if anything about this situation is something to smile about.Â
And you know you shouldnât be upset. Anyone in your situation right now would probably be ecstatic. The man youâve been secretly in love with for the past three years is finally returning your feelings, even if they arenât completely genuine.
But thatâs the issue, isnât it? He doesnât really feel this way towards you, he just thinks he does. And it would be so easy to let yourself indulge in itâto let yourself forget that none of this is actually real.
But you canât. You know you canât.
Sunghoons arm brushes against yours, a complete accident, but you still flinch and pull away like heâs burned you.
He glances at you, eyebrows furrowing. His breaths coming out in uneven puffs of white fog. âEverything okay?â
You clear your throat, trying to act like the shiver that goes down your spine is from the frosted air and not because his smooth voice makes your body flush with heat. âIâm fine,â You murmur, âJustâŠhungry. Tired.â
He hums, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. âYou know,â He drawls, trying to keep up a nonchalant front. âWe could go eat. Together. Just me and you.â
You blink, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. Is he asking you on a date right now? If the past two hours hadn't happened, you probably would've been more surprised.
You sigh, shaking your head slightly, âIâm not going on a date with you Sunghoon.â The words nearly don't make it out of your throat, feeling more artificial and practiced than anything else. If you would've told yourself a week ago you'd be rejecting Sunghoon, you probably would've slapped yourself for even thinking about it.
He shrugs, eyes glinting with mischief. âWho said anything about a date?â He asks, looking at you like you've just uggested the craziest thing he's ever heard. âWe're just two friends eating lunch together, right? Even if I am irrevocably in love with you.â
He throws the word love out like he's saying hello, not like he's pulling at the strings of your heart every time it leaves his lips. It almost sounds fucking natural, like he'd been saying it to you for years, which makes it even worse.
You pause in the street, pointing an accusatory finger at him. âOkay, I get that your brain isnât in the right place right now, but stop saying things like that.â
His head tilts slightly to the side, eyebrows raising in amusement. âWhy?â He asks, tone innocent, but you know better. You know heâs finding this funny. Itâs frustrating and annoying and your heart fucking stutters every time he looks at you like he knows exactly what makes you tick.
You stumble over your words, hands gesturing wildly in front of you. âBecause Itâs annoying! And weird! How would Sophia feel if she knew you were saying all of this?â
The air goes still at the mention of Sophia, like the thought of her is enough to push away the sun. Sunghoons expression hardens, his jaw tightening for a moment before he releases it. Itâs almost like the sound of her name has sucked all of the joy out of him. âWhy would I care what she thinks?â He mutters.
You blank, unsure of how to respond to that. You know the two have always had a more than toxic relationship, but youâve never seen him have so much distaste towards her before. Youâve never seen him have so much distaste towards anyone before.
âI don't know, maybe because sheâs your girlfriend?â You attempt.
His eyes harden as he looks away from you, like he doesn't want to point his annoyance towards you. âSheâs not my girlfriend.â He mumbles.
Your neck cranes up so you can look at him, arms crossing over your chest in a silent defense. âBesides,â He continues, taking a small step closer. âWhy would I care about her when youâre right in front of me?â
You feel that familiar heat rush up your neck, the one you know you have no right to feel. And itâs strange how something good on the surface can cut you so deeply. How something you hoped to hear from him for years can suddenly feel like the biggest insult.
But, you are hungryâyou werenât lying about that, and Beomgyu has already assigned you to practically be his babysitter anyway, so might as well get something out of it, right?
You let out a breath, kissing your teeth as you do. This is a very bad idea, and you know it. âWe can go to lunch as friends, but thatâs it, okay? And no more flirting.â
His lips curl into a grin, eyes flashing like heâs just won a prize. âPerfect, because I already made a reservation for us off campus.â
Of course he did.Â
You open your mouth to argue, or really say anything, but his hand makes its way onto your lower back so he can lead you away and you suddenly forget how to speak. Because, yes, youâre still a strong woman who would rather die than ever be rendered speechless by a manâbut Park Sunghoon is an exception. One that you know you shouldnât indulge, but doesnât it feel oh, so good when you do?
Thatâs how you find yourself thirty minutes later in the nicest restaurant in a fifteen mile radius, wearing jeans and an old ratty t-shirt. You cross your legs, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in your stomach at being so underdressed.
Sunghoon doesnât look the least bothered by it though, reading over the menu with sharp eyes and a slight furrow to his brows. He asks you your opinion occasionally, mumbles about calories and his protein intake. All things youâd never really felt the need to look at yourself before. Maybe hockey people have to worry about that stuff? Youâd always assumed it was just wrestlers and weightlifters.
âDo you like Alfredo sauce or marinara? I like both, but I want you to be able to pick off my plate.â He mutters, saying it so casually. Like ordering his own food based on what you like is just common sense. If any of this was real, he would make the perfect boyfriend.
It makes you wonder again how Sophia could just let him go so easily.
Your eyes flicker up from your own menu, heart stuttering in your chest. âJust get whatever you want,â You sigh, âYou donât need to ask me.â
Heâs silent for a moment, the gears in his head turning. He slowly sets his menu down, and then plucks your own from your fingers.
Your eyebrows furrow as you go to reach for it, âSunghoonââ
âWhy are you so set on rejecting me?â He asks, keeping his eyes on yours. The eye-contact nearly makes your throat close up from how intense it is. âI know you think none of this is real or whateverââ
"Because it isnât.â You interrupt. You wish you understood how this experiment worked, because then maybe you'd know how to get it through his thick skull that none of this was real. You run a hand through your hair before continuing, âYou drank an experiment, Sunghoon. Everything youâre feelingâeverything you think youâre feelingâit isnât real.â Your voice cracks slightly, like itâs a manifestation of your own hurt.Â
Sunghoon, for the first time since this entire thing started, goes silent. His jaw ticks, breathing going slightly uneven. The air crackles between you, tension that neither of you really want to admit is there.
And then, without even so much as a stutter, he says, âIâll prove it then.â
You falter, lips parting as a laugh bubbles out of your throat. You donât mean to laugh, really, you donât, but Sunghoon's insistence is almost admirable. And, unfortunately for you, his stubbornness only makes you fall for him the tiniest bit more.
âWhy are you so set on this?â You ask, mimicking his question from earlier.Â
He shrugs, leaning forward and placing his chin in his hand. âDoes it matter?â
Yes, it does matter. But you know thereâs no way youâre going to get an actual answer from him, so you wonât push anymore. So, instead you just shrug, fingers tapping against the table. âI guess not.â
Sunghoon grins, his tongue poking against his cheek slightly. âAtta girl.â
You should drag him out of the restaurant and back to Beomgyuâs apartment after that. Should refuse to even speak to him until Beomgyu figures out how to reverse this whole thing. Should protect your heart from the hurt that you know is coming.
But you donât do any of that. Instead, you laugh along to his jokes. You donât protest when he pays for your food. You let him walk you home like heâs your boyfriend and try to ignore the deep ache beginning to bloom in your chest every time he looks at you like he loves you.
And when you lay in bed that night, sheets tucked to your chin and green glowing stars shining on your ceiling, you let yourself believe that all of it was real. That all of it meant something.
Even if that was only true for one of you.
You arenât sure what youâre expecting the next morning, but it certainly isnât sunghoon at your door with a jersey in one hand and hockey stick in the other.
You blink at him, still in your pajamas with leftover mascara flakes covering your cheeks. Youâre sure you look the picture of attractiveness right now. You sigh, rubbing your eyes with your knuckles. âWhat are you doing here?â
Sunghoon holds the jersey out to you, and itâs then that you realize itâs his. Or, at least, one with his number and name on it. âThis is for tonight.â He says casually, like youâre supposed to know what that means.
Your eyebrows furrow as you cautiously take it from him, inspecting it like it was a bomb and not a piece of fabric. âUh,â You chuckle humorlessly, âWhatâs tonight?â
The jersey is your size, but the only other people you can think of who wear these are family members, die-hard fans, andâŠgirlfriends.Â
But thereâs no way thatâs why heâs giving this to you. Besides, youâd seen Sophia wear the same exact thing enough times to know what wearing it would mean--to know what it would make you, as well as everyone else on the campus, aware of.Â
That you were Sunghoons.
That is not happening.
He leans against your doorframe, arms crossed against his chest. His hockey stick pokes out from under his armpit awkwardly, and the sight nearly makes you crack a smile.
âFor the game,â He says, âYouâre coming.â
You immediately shake your head and attempt to shove the jersey back into his arms. âYeah, no, Iâm not going to that. Thanks for the offer though.â
You turn on your heel after forcing him to take back the shirt, and while you know you should tell him to leave, you let him follow you into your apartment.
He trails behind you like a lost puppy, a slight pout twisted onto his features. âYou have to go,â He insists, âYouâre my girlfriendââ
You whip around and glare at him, âI am not your girlfriend.â
His lips curl up into a shy smile, a hand coming up to brace the back of his neck. âThatâs a technicality.â
You give him a look before finally turning back around and continuing your walk to your bathroom. He tries to follow you in, but you quickly shut the door in his face. You half expect that to finally be the hint he needs, but of course it isn't. Instead, he just keeps talking to you through the door. âOkay, fine, youâre not my girlfriend.â He sighs, voice slightly muffled. You just roll your eyes and throw your hair up, grabbing your toothbrush from its place in the barbie cup on your sink.
âBut you said I could prove to you how serious I was,â He continues. You can hear his body slide down to the floor, and you assume heâs sitting with his back against the door. Heâs silent for a moment, before mumbling out so quietly you nearly donât hear him, âLet me do what I said I would. Please.â
You are a weak, weak woman. Youâve always known this. When it comes to school and things of that nature youâd always known you excelled. But, people? That was something that was way out of your league.
Your mom used to call you a people-pleaser. Said itâd end up in you getting hurt if you didnât learn how to step away from things before they got out of hand. And you thought you had.
But maybe you hadnât.
You sigh, finishing up brushing your teeth and washing your face. By the time you're finished the ends of your hair and the sleeves of your shirt are soaked, but you donât care. He wouldnât care what you looked like right now anyway. His brain is all jumbled up and you doubt you looking like a hot mess is the thing that'll fix it.
You open the door cautiously, and just as youâd expected heâs sat on the other side with his knees tucked into his chest. He looks so small here, so boyish. Not like the Park Sunghoon youâd seen from the spotlight, not like the school's star player and pride and joy. From here, he looks like a boy trying to find himself in a world too big for him.
You tug your bottom lip into your teeth, eyes choosing to look everywhere but at him. âIâll go,â You finally mumble, voice smaller than you wanted it to be. âBut Iâm not wearing the jersey.â
He smiles, shoulders sagging in relief. He tilts his head up so he can see you. âJersey?â He smirks, crumbling up the fabric and shoving it behind his back. âWhat jersey?â
You grin despite yourself and nudge your foot into his lower back. âWhatever. Go home so I can get ready.â
He stands, knees popping as he does. He grabs his hockey stick from where it leans against your wall, fingers wrapping around it and giving it a firm squeeze. âSix pm, alright? Iâll get you and your friends a spot up front.â
You shake your head, âYou donât have to do thatââ
He grins, and before you can even think about swerving him, leans in and places a gentle kiss at the crown of your head. You freeze, body flushing and eyes going wide.
His lips are softer than you thought theyâd be, coated with a scentless chapstick that youâd seen him carry around with him for years. He pauses for a moment, his spare hand lingering at your waist. He never touches you directly, doesnât even attempt to. But you can still feel the slight heat emitting from his hand, and it almost feels more intimate than if he'd just taken that final leap.
He swallows, taking a step away from you. Thereâs a slight pink blush dusting his cheeks, like heâs shocked by his own actions, but heâs quick to clear his throat and pretend like there was nothing out of the ordinary about what heâd just done. Like the entire thing was a regular occasion for the both of you.
âIâll see you there, okay?â He mutters, raising a brow. Like he needs more reassurance that youâll stick to your word and show up.
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips for a moment, eyes searching for any indication that maybe he understands what he did. That maybe the experiment's effects are starting to wear off. But when you look at him, you see the same exact thing youâve been seeing since yesterday morning.
Pure, unbridled, love.
You suck in a breath, nodding your head slightly. âYeah,â You manage, though your voice comes out low and breathless. âIâll be there.â
He smiles, mumbles out a soft goodbye, and then leaves you in the middle of your hallway, body flushed and mind jumbled.
Yunjin, to your dismay, comes over as soon as you ask her too.
She looks ecstatic. Youâd called her last night and explained the entire situation, but she, of course, couldnât see how it was a very bad thing.
âWhy are you so upset?â Sheâd asked over the phone. You didnât have to see her face to know she was practically beaming. âThe guy youâve been secreltey obsessing over like some kind of stalker is in love with you! That sounds like a complete win to me!â
Youâd winced, bottom lip tugged between your teeth. âYeah, It sounds great! But he doesnâtâŠâ You swallowed uncomfortably, âHe doesnât actually feel that way for me. He just thinks he does.â
You heard her take a drink of something before she sighed out, âHow do you know that?â
You went silent, unsure of how to answer. What did she mean how did you know? It was obvious. Sunghoon accidentally drinks a love potion and now thinks heâs in love with you. Thatâs what had happened.
You tucked your legs under you and adjusted your phone against your ear. âI think thatâs obvious, Yunjin.â You murmured.
She hummed, âI donât know, [Y/N].â She said, tone strangely teasing. âMaybe heâll surprise you.â
So, when youâd called her and asked her to help you get ready for tonightâs match, she was ecstatic. And you appreciated her support, of course, but you werenât sure she really understood what was happening here.
You and Sunghoon are nothing. When all of this was over, youâd go back to being two strangers who sometimes smiled awkwardly at each other out of obligation. And you needed to be able to be okay with that. You had to be.
âOkay, I think you should wear something super sexy so that Sunghoonâs knocked on his ass.â Yunjin quips, scouring through your closet and inspecting everything you own like it owes her something.
You sigh from where you lay on your bed, staring up at the stars on your ceiling like maybe theyâll save you. âWeâre going to his game, Yun. I donât want him to fall on his ass.â You chuckle, throwing up air quotes around the end of your sentence.
Yunjin rolls her eyes and throws another pair of jeans onto your desk chair. âI donât mean literally. I just mean maybe it wouldnât hurt to wear something different."
You sit up, bracing yourself against your elbows. âWhat's wrong with my usual clothes?â You ask, eyebrows raising teasingly.
Yunjin pauses, cautiously turning around so youâre face to face. âThereâs nothing wrong with it," She attempts, lips twisting thoughtfully as she tries to come up with the softest way to say it. âBut I donât think a pair of sweatpants and some random shirt you got in middle school is quite the look weâre going for.â
You scoff, flopping back down onto your bed and pushing the palm of your hands into your eyes until white dots fill your vision. You donât think thereâs anything wrong with what you usually wear, even if it isnât the nicest clothes ever.
But you canât lie and say there isnât a part of you that wonders how Sunghoon would react. Would he even care? If he did, would it even be real?
âI think that youâre blowing this way out of proportion.â You mutter, letting your arms wrap around yourself.
Yunjin snorts and tosses a shirt at you. You cautiously inspect the fabricâa blue long sleeved top with a deep neckline that youâd bought to make your ex-boyfriend jealous and then never wore. You scrunch your nose slightly at it and then toss it back at her.Â
âThereâs no way Iâm wearing that.â You snort.
Yunjin nods, grabbing a pair of dark jeans from your closet. âThatâs what you think.â
The hockey arena, to no one's surprise, is full to the brim with die hard fans and half-way drunk college students. You, personally, have never been to a game before. Mostly because you know what they consist of, and youâd rather skip watching men fight over a puck on ice when you could be doing much more important things. Like rewatching New Girl.
But, alas, you, Yunjin, and Jungwon all find your seats right at the barricade. Beomgyu had chosen to skip so that he could keep working on some kind of fix for your current situation, but you had half the mind to believe it was because he simply didnât want to come.
Jungwon takes a sip of his fountain drink, letting the red straw rest on his lip. âSo, youâre telling me that Sunghoon drank the experiment, thinks heâs in love with you, and invited you here because he wants to prove to you that itâs real?â
You nod, shrugging your jacket off and laying it across the back of your seat. The players are warming up in front of you, their skates scratching against the ice as they yell instructions at each other. You can see Sunghoon talking to another boy with a serious expression, his hands moving admittedly as he does. You can tell heâs being stern with him, but the boy doesnât look upset or scared in the least. If anything, heâs taking his lecture with prideâlike getting told off by Park Sunghoon is a privilege.
And you think that goes into show just the kind of person that he is. He's kind, and funny, and defientley doesn't deserve what you're putting him through.
"Um," You sniff, adjusting yourself in your seat. âThatâs pretty much it, yeah.â
Jungwon hums, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. âIs it weird that that isnât the strangest thing thatâs happened to us?â He asks.
You furrow your brows, âWhat could possibly be weirder then that?â
âRemember freshman year?â Yunjin chimes in, tossing her hair behind her shoulder. âThere was that full two weeks where Beomgyu was stained pink.â
âOh,â You draw out, chuckling at the memory. âI do remember that.â
You giggle at the memory. Beomgyu had had a rouge experiment blow up in his face--literally--and spent two weeks looking like he'd just stepped out of the Barbie movie.
Jungwon shrugs, âI would argue that seeing Beomgyu walk around campus like a real-life monster high doll was definitely weirder than this.â
You donât respond, instead turning your attention back towards Sunghoon. He still hasnât noticed youâwhich youâre mostly grateful for, but it also makes you anxious for when he does.
While youâve never been to one of the matches in person, you have seen them online. You know that they can get heated and violent. Youâve seen Sunghoon walk into class with the occasional black eye or scabbed over knuckles.
It makes worry build in your stomach, thick and strong and nearly overwhelming. And you know you shouldnât care. Sunghoon isnât your boyfriend, even if he seems to think he is. But, still, the thought of him getting hurt makes you want to throw up.
You lean back in your chair, leg bouncing anxiously, and then you see it. Itâs a subtle movement from the corner of your eye, but you catch it nonetheless.
Two seats down from you, Sophia sits down with her friends, all of them looking like they just stepped out of fucking vogue. And Sophia, with her perfectly blown-out hair and sickly sweet smile, is wearing Sunghoons jersey.
Your heart drops, stomach becoming an endless pit as you stare at her. Youâd assumed they broke up, but what if they hadnât? That was the only explanation you could think of for why she was here wearing that. What if you had accidentally ruined her relationship with Sunghoon?
Not to say that their relationship wasnât already on the brink of disaster, but still.
You nudge Jungwon with your elbow, forcing your gaze onto the rink. The other team has come onto the ice now, and you can see Sunghoon's jaw tick. But he isnât watching the other team, no, heâs searching the stands.
Searching them for you.
You suddenly feel a wave of guilt at what youâve done, even if it was an accident. Youâve inadvertently forced yourself into the middle of a relationship that was never any of your business. Does this make you a homewrecker?
âJungwon,â You mumble, âTell Yunjin weâre leaving.â
âWhat?â He asks, eyebrows knitting together. âThe game hasnât even started.â
You sink into your seat as you watch Sunghoons gaze get closer and closer to you. âSophiaâs here.â You say through your teeth, âAnd sheâs wearing his jersey.â
Jungwons gaze shifts past you, lips parting when he spots her. âOh.â
âYeah,â You murmur, âOh.â
Jungwon turns and tells Yunjin, and you watch as her head pops out from behind him, her lips pulled into a frown. âOh, this is so fucked.â
You cover your face with your hands and groan, âIâm a homewrecker!â
âOkay, no,â Yunjin scoffs, still eyeing Sophia like maybe if she stares at her long enough sheâll disappear, âThis is all just a really small misunderstanding.â
You groan again, dropping your hands to your lap and looking back onto the rink. Sunghoon finally spots you then, a smile curling onto his lips as he skates over. Your stomach churns, letting yourself steal a glance to Sophia, who is also smiling at Sunghoon.Â
You sink further into your seat.
âY/N!â He calls once he approaches, placing a hand in the glass separating you. You can practically feel Sophiaâs gaze burning into your skull, and for once, you canât even be mad that youâre on the other side of her icy glare.
âUm,â You manage, clearing your throat and cocking your head as subtly as possible towards Sophia. âSunghoon, you should probably go say hi to your girlfriend before you say hi to me.â
You can feel Jungwon and Yunjin holding their breaths, like theyâre scared any sudden movement will set off some kind of bomb. But Sunghoon either doesn't notice the tension, or heâs actively choosing to ignore it.
He cocks his head to the side, smile faltering a bit. âWhat are you talking aboutââ
âHoonie!â
Thereâs something very distinct about Sophiaâs voiceâjust the right amount of feminine to be cutsey, but still bordering on the edge of nails on a chalkboard. Normally, the sound of it would make you roll your eyes and resist the urge to pull your hair out, but now it just makes you feel sick with guilt.
Sunghoons expression immediately shifts, his smile curling downwards, eyes narrowing slightly. When he spots Sophia, he almost looks bored. Like the sight of her is nothing special.
She climbs over the people next to you, a mom and her toddler, both of whom she doesnât apologize to when she steps on the tips of their shoes.
âHoon,â She sighs, adjusting her skirt. âI missed you.â
She doesnât even spare you a glance, which youâre partially thankful for. But, you also canât help but wonder if itâs because she doesnât even see you as a threat.
Which, youâre notâbut still. Itâd at least be nice to be considered one.
Sunghoons jaw ripples, gaze icy and nearly angry. âWhatâre you doing here Sophia?â He asks. His gaze falls downwards, onto the blue jersey she wears proudly across her chest, and scoffs. âAnd why are you wearing that?â
Sophia doesnât even flinch at his tone, if anything she seems to revel in it. âWhy wouldnât I be here, silly?â She giggles, âIâm supporting my boyfriend!â
Jungwon glances over at you, but your eyes stay on the floor. What are you supposed to say? Actually, youâre boyfriend thinks heâs in love with me, so sorry! Youâd just sound crazy.
Sunghoon leans closer, voice lowering an octave. âAre you forgetting that I caught you fucking my roomate last weekend?â He spits, gripping his hockey stick so hard youâre convinced itâll break. âOr am I supposed to just get over that like everything else?â
You canât help the gasp that leaves you. A small sound, but itâs enough to catch her attention. She whips her head around, dark eyes catch yours, nose scrunched like sheâs staring at the trash on the side of the sidewalk and not a person.
You half expect her to apologize for having such a private conversation in front of you, but she doesnât do that. Why would she? Instead, she barks, âCanât you see weâre having a conversation? Go somewhere else.â
You blink, lips parting as you try to come up with something to say. But, Sunghoon beats you to it.
âDonât talk to her like that.â He defends, eyes blazing something nearly protective. It makes your heart flutter and heat fill your stomach for all the wrong reasons.
Sophia takes a moment to process, but when she does, you wouldâve thought Sunghoon had just told her heâd made out with her mom.
âWhy are you defending her?â She asks, letting out a humorless laugh. She really takes you in then, eyeing you up and down. You sink into yourself instinctually, arms wrapping around your stomach like a shield. âDonât tell me this is my replacement?â She chuckles, like the thought of you even being near Sunghoon is amusing.
You shake your head, hands shooting out in front of you. Even though she doesn't deserve it, you don't want to be the other woman. âNo, no, thatâs notââ
But Sunghoon doesn't let you finish. âShe canât be a replacement when thereâs nothing to replace.â He mutters, tongue leaking venom.
Sophia, for what youâre sure is the first time in her life, is rendered speechless. Her glossy lips part, eyes widening a fraction. âSunghoonââ
He turns to you then, completely ignoring her like her prescense isnât even a blip on his radar. His eyes soften, cheeks flushing the lightest shade of pink. âMeet me after the game, okay?â He mumbles.
A buzzer sounds, and both teams on the ice skate over to their respective coaches to get ready for the game. Your lips part as you wrack your brain for a response, but itâs hard when Sophia is sneering at you like youâd just said the dumbest thing sheâd ever heard.
Sunghoon sighs, throwing you a final glance before pushing off the glass and beginning to skate towards the rest of his teammates.
His jaw ticks once, throwing Sophia an icy look over his shoulder. âGo home, Sophia.â He mumbles.
Sophia doesnât say anything else, just shoots you a glare and then stomps back to her waiting friends. They all look sympathetic when she tells them what happened, shooting you not-so-subtle death glares. As if you did something. Well, you didâyou unintentionally home wrecked her relationship, but still, it was all accidental!
Yunjin lets out a low whistle, crossing her leg over her knee and clasping her hands around it. âCan we make more of those love potion things?â She asks with a chuckle. âThis is reality tv kind of entertainment.â
Jungwon nods, âRivals love island, honestly.â
You pinch the bridge of your nose and squeeze your eyes shut, âThis isnât a reality tv show.â You mumble.
Yunjin shrugs, popping a piece of candy into her mouth. âWe know, but it might as well be. Or maybe the plot of some super bad fanfiction.â
And, well, you canât really argue with that.
But youâd never been good at confrontation, and Sophia keeps looking at you like youâd owe her something. Her lips pulled tightly together, friend whispering in her ear like she knows your deepest darkest secrets.
And somewhere in the back of your mind, thereâs a subtle prick of insecurity. One that forces you deeper into your seat and into your own head.
The game goes by in a blur, one that you barely pay attention to. Itâs not that you donât want to, but itâs a little difficult when Sophia keeps glancing over at you and laughing with her friends.
You arenât stupid. Youâve been laughed at before--been the victim of bullies who thought they had the upper hand for whatever reason. But that had been in high school, never in college. And even though you try to push it awayâtry to block it outâthose awful thoughts still crawl their way from the depths of your mind. Thoughts that you hadnât had since youâd sat alone in a chemistry classroom in tenth grade, back before youâd met Beomgyu.
So, when the game is over (Sunghoon led the team to victory of course, because why wouldnât he?), you donât hesitate shrugging your jacket back on and climbing your way over people to get to the exit.
Yunjin and Jungwon stumble behind you, calling your name in an attempt to get you to slow down, but you donât. Canât, really.
You didnât sign up for any of this. Didnât sign up to be the target of Sophiaâs stares, didnât sign up to be the girl Sunghoons convinced heâs in love with.
You just wanted to go back to your life before. When you were still just in the background with your select circle. You wanted to go back to watching Sunghoon from afarâto being the girl heâd never look twice at.
Because this? This was too much for you.
And you know none of it is his fault, but that almost just makes it worse. He has no idea how much all of this is really hurting you. How much it breaks your heart every time he looks at you like you mean something to him.
The wind hits your face when you step outside, neon lights of the stadium lighting up the parking lot around you. You finally let out a breath, eyes glassy and lips chapped. Maybe youâre being dramatic, but you really donât care.
â[Y/N]!â Yunjin calls, jogging slightly to catch up with you. Her jackets hanging off her arms awkwardly, purse dangling from her elbow. âWhere are you going?â She presses, grabbing your bicep gently and forcing you to a stop. âWhatâs going on?â
You force your gaze to the ground, shoving your hands in your pockets. âIâm going home,â You tell her, voice raw. âThis was a mistake. I shouldnât have come. If I had known he was still with Sophiaââ
âWoah, hold on,â Yunjin interrupts you. Jungwon approaches then, his blonde hair blowing over his forehead awkwardly. âDid you not hear Sunghoon? Theyâre broken up.âÂ
You scoff, rolling your eyes. âTheyâre always broken up.â
Yunjins lips pull in tight, annoyance flashing in her eyes. âIs this because she was here?â She asks you, tone serious and deadly. "You know you don't need to care about whatever it is her and her friends think."
Itâs rare for her to speak to you so seriously, always the one looking towards humor to lighten up situations. So when she does, you tend to listen.
âSophia is a bitch, plain and simple. Sunghoon is not. And heâs actively trying to prove to you that he wants you, and youâre not letting him.â She insists.
You pull your arm from her grip at that, eyebrows knitting together. Does she seriously think anything Sunghoon is doing he actually means? If that were the case, you wouldn't even be in this situation.
âYunjin, he doesnât know what heâs doing!â You spit, tone harsher then you mean it. You donât mean to aim your anger towards her, but she just keeps pushing and pushing until you finally explode. âDonât you get it? He doesnât feel like that towards me.â Your voice breaks, eyes brimming with tears. âHe doesnât feel anything towards me.â
Jungwon swallows, his eyes downcast. He was usually good in situations like this, usually the one to take the lead and get you laughing again, but now he canât even meet your eyes.
Yunjin reaches for you again, sympathy written all over her face, but you pull away. You donât want her comfort right now, even though you know it comes from a place of love.
You suck in a shaky breath, forcing your gaze onto the sidewalk in front of you. The pavement is wet from rain earlier in the day, collecting in small puddles below your feet. âIâm just going to go home, okay? Tell Sunghoon Iâm sorry.â
â[Y/N]âŠâ Yunjin mumbles, but youâre already walking away, arms wrapped around yourself and bottom lip trembling.
Is it pathetic to be crying over a stupid boy and a mean girl? Maybe. But you also know that having feelings is human, and sometimes, when the time is right, itâs okay to cry.
And you think right now is one of those times.
You donât cry hard. Not full, chest-heaving sobs, just occasional hiccupsâa steady stream of tears flowing down your cheeks that you stain your sleeves with every time you wipe at them.
Your apartment is cold when you enter, the air brushing harshly against your face. You shrug your jacket off and toss it onto the couch, padding over to your room with exhaustion sinking into your bones.
You peel off your clothesâthe top Yunjin had insisted you wear for Sunghoon suddenly feeling suffocating and tight. It isnât often you let yourself wallow in self-pity like this, but tonight was going to have to be an exception.
You change into a stained t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants with a rip in the knees and collapse onto your couch. You wonder if Sunghoon said anything when he noticed you werenât there. Was he disappointed? Or had he finally realized it wasnât you he should be chasing after?
Your heart hurts at the thought, aching and heavy in your chest.
It isn't fair to him that you feel like this. It isn't fair to you that he's unknowingly playing with your heart. The entire thing is a bad dream you wish you could just wake up from.
You barely register the knock at your door at first, too stuck in your head while trying to pretend youâre paying attention to whatever sitcomâs playing on the TV.
But then it comes again, not harsh, just louder. More insistent. Like whoeverâs on the other side is desperate to see you.
You roll your eyes, wrapping your blanket around your shoulders and forcing yourself to pad over. âYunjin,â You sigh, clicking the lock and swinging the door open. âI donât want to talk to you.â
But it isnât Yunjin standing on the other side. Itâs Sunghoon.
His black hair is a mess, bangs covering his eyes in a way you know canât be comfortable, a pair of black-rimmed glasses resting against his nose. Heâs not wearing his jersey anymore, but the black compression shirt he wears under it is still there, a pair of gray sweatpants laying dangerously low on his hips.
He looks dangerously handsome without even trying.
Your breath catches before you can stop it, gaze falling down his body like youâre commiting it to memory. Youâre both silent, just staring at eachother, waiting for the other to cut through the tension first.
It shouldnât hurt seeing him right now as much as it does. You donât have any claim on him. He loves Sophia, youâve known that from the start.
So why does it feel like tonight was just one big slap in the face? Like the universe was reminding you of exactly what your place with him really is?
Sunghoon swallows, eyes shaky as they try to search your own. You donât let him though. You know if you look him in the eye right now, youâll break, and thatâs the last thing you want him to see.
âYou left,â He whispers, tone low. You can hear the hurt seeping through his voice, but itâs masked by a weird kind of warmth. Like even though you hurt him, he canât physically be mad at you.
You think thatâs probably a side effect.
You shift your weight uncomfortably, twiddling your thumbs in front of you. You canât look at himâtoo scared of what youâll find if you do.
âSunghoon,â You start, voice trembling. âYou donât want me.â You don't say it like a question, instead it's a statement.
His fingers tighten into fists at his sides, knuckles going pale. âWhy do you keep assuming you know what I want?â He asks.
You shake your head, âYouâre just confusedââ
âStop,â He interrupts, taking a small step towards you. âStop saying that when I know I've never been more clear headed in my life.â
You stiffen, unsure of how to respond. You know for a fact he has no idea what heâs doing or talking about. And thatâs what makes it hurt the most. He genuinely believes he loves you, and fuck, youâd give anything for it to be real.
His hand reaches out, but he hesitates and drops it back to his side. "Let me prove it to you, okay? Just like I said I would. No games. No Sophia. Just me and you.â
You force your gaze up then, eyes narrowed. You shouldnât say yes, not when your heart is already on the brink of collapse. But Sunghoons staring at you like heâll break into pieces if you say noâlike the thought of you rejecting him is too much to handle.
You lean against the doorframe, lips twisting slightly. âI don't know,â You attempt, âitâs already so late and I look a messââ
âPlease,â he breathes out, voice wrecked. âStop thinking so hard and let me show you how much you mean to me.â
Your knuckles tighten until your fingernails dig into your palms, forming little crescent-shaped marks into the soft skin. Everything inside of you is telling you to say no. To tell him to go home and lock himself in his room until Beomgyu figures out how to fix this.
But thereâs still that small part of youâthe part that wonders if maybe he really did mean every sweet word that fell from his perfect lips. If maybe, just maybe, all of this was real.
And that part of you wins.
Sunghoon doesnât let you changeâjust ushers you into your jacket and leads you with a hand on your lower back out of your apartment and back towards the rink.
You donât notice thatâs where youâre heading at first, not until the lights outside the parking lot come into view. Your stomach twists at the memory of your last conversation with Yunjin and Jungwon, but you push it away. Youâd fix things tomorrow.
âWhy are we here?â You ask, glancing up at the raven-haired boy. His palm hasnât left your back since you started walking, almost like he was staking his claim there. Imprinting the shape of him into your skin like itâs second nature.
He shrugs, mischief flashing in his smile. âYouâll see.â
Youâve never seen the stadium empty before, but now that you are, it makes you realize just how daunting it really is. The lights pointed at the rink are still on, reflecting off of the ice and glinting across its surface. You can see the slight scuff marks and dents from numerous skates, small puddles forming in their wake.
Sunghoon jogs in front of you, pulling out a set of keys and opening the gate that the hockey players use to get onto the rink. He holds an arm out to you, gesturing for you to come over to him.
You do so cautiously, arms wrapped around yourself. The ice from the rink makes the air frigid, crawling up your spine like a garden snake. Menacing, but not dangerous.
âI donât have any skates.â You mumble.
Sunghoon smiles, reaching out and wiggling your hand out from where it rests under your arm, âThatâs okay,â He says softly, intertwining your fingers. His hands are large, this is something youâve always known. Itâs hard not to notice when he makes his pencil look like a fucking mini-brand every time he writes down his notesâbut now you realize just how much they dwarf your own. âWe don't need them.â
He pulls you onto the rink then, and feet immediately slip on the slick ice. You yelp when you feel your foot begin to slide from beneath you, back arching and spare arm flinging to your side, but Sunghoon grips your hand and pulls you to his chest like heâd been expecting it.
You huff when your face meets his chest, heat crawling viciously up your neck from embarrassment. Sunghoons chest vibrates with laughter against your cheek, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your head and pull you closer to him.
âFinally falling for me?â He teases.
If only he knew.
You scoff and cautiously step away from him, tightening the muscles in your legs so you donât slip again. âYou wish.â You say, meaning for it to come out harsh, but instead it sounds soft. Playful. Everything it shouldnât be.
He rolls his eyes and drags you to the middle of the ice, careful not to tug too hard or walk too fast, instead matching his pace with yours.
You look around at the thousands of seats surrounding you, the blinding lights on the ice. There isnât even anyone here, and you still feel slightly intimidated. It makes you wonder how heâs able to deal with all of it so efficiently.
He stops suddenly, forcing you to as well. For a split second, you think he almost looks nervous.Â
He sucks in a breath, brown eyes finding your own. You just raise your brows, staring at him expectantly. You assume he mustâve brought you here for somethingâitâs just whatever that is that puts you slightly on edge.
âDo you remember that glass duck you carried around at the beginning of the year? The one with the weird monocle and pink jacket?â He asks, releasing your hand and shoving it into his coat pocket. You can see something round in there, you just have no idea what it is.
You frown. You do remember that duck. Youâd found it on your trip with Yunjin to Europe over the summer in some rundown antique shop. It was stupidly overpriced and honestly kind of ugly, but youâd fallen in love with it for whatever reason. Maybe because it was a little different then the other ducks, with a weirdly shaped beak and slightly bigger beady eyes. But it was perfect to you.
At least, it was until Jungwon accidently broke it on Halloween weekend. Heâd drunkenly slammed into you and knocked it loose from its place on your bag, and it ultimately shattered as soon as it hit the floor. You remember youâd been devastated and refused to talk to Jungwon for a week after, but that was it. You hadn't really thought twice about it for a while now.
But, how did Sunghoon know about it? Why was he asking you? Youâd never talked about it with himâhell, you barely said two words to him back then.
Your chin lowers slightly in suspicion, âI do, yes. Why?â
He swallows, and you can see his free hand twitch. âWell, I saw it break at that party on Halloween. And you looked so sad. AndâŠI really hated it. So,â He takes a breath, finally revealing whatever it was he had in his pocket. âI fixed it.â
You blink. Once. Twice. Heâs holding out the duck to you, cracks from where it'd shattered all over its little glass body but ultimately put back together.
It takes you a second to fully process whatâs going on, but once you do your lips part in a gasp and you take it from him. You hold it up to your face, cradling it in your hands. âHow did youâwhat? Why? I-I donât understandââ Youâre talking so fast you barely even understand yourself, but Sunghoon just laughs, and you notice the way his shoulders slowly relax in relief.
He shrugs, like this is any other day and he didnât just reveal to you heâd fixed your most prized possession. âI didn't want you to lose it,â He admits, taking a careful step towards you. âYou donât deserve to lose things you love.â
You glance up at him then, and you realize just how close he really is. The last time youâd been in this position heâd placed a soft kiss on your hairline, and although your heart feels like itâs skipping a beat, itâs not out of fear this time.
Itâs something more dangerous, something you shouldnât be allowing yourself to feel. Not with his condition. You glance back down to the glass duck, hesitation gnawing at your stomach.Â
Ultimately, you know that what you feel for Sunghoon is not returned. But this... this changes things. Heâd taken the time all those months ago, before the experiment was even thought of, and fixed something youâd deemed unfixable simply because he didnât want you to be sad. Usually, youâd think that meant something.
But isnât that also just the kind of boy he is? Kind, golden-hearted Park Sunghoon. Campus golden boy. Star hockey player. Everything you could never have.
âSunghoon,â You breathe out shakily, still holding the duck in your palm. âThank you.â
Although you're feeling conflicted about where he really stands with you, you know you're overall grateful. You've never had someone do something so kind for you simply because they can.
He doesnât respond, just gives you a shy smile. Itâs the first time youâve seen him look so bashful. Itâs cute. âIt wasnât any problem.â
You hum, tapping your nails against the duck's glass tail. âCan I ask why you needed to bring me here to give me this?â You question, a teasing lilt to your voice.
He shrugs, âItâs more romantic here then in the middle of your living room.â
You laugh aloud at that. For once, the mention of romance with him doesnât make you want to throw up and die all at the same time. Instead, it leaves you feeling warm and fuzzy and all the things you know are going to hurt you in the end.
Because while this entire illusion is going to be over at some point, right now, in this moment, Sunghoon is in love with you. And youâre starting to wonder just how wrong itâd be to let him.
Your heart is heavy in the morning as you fidget with the duck. Itâs hanging off your purse again, safely locked into place with a keychain. Youâd asked Jungwon and Yunjin to meet you for coffee so you could talk, and both had agreed easily.
You guys never really did well with bad blood. Any arguments you had were always resolved fairly quickly, because otherwise it would simmer until you thought too hard about it and ended up doing something you regretted.
And you know you owe them an apologyâYunjin, especially. Sheâd only been trying to help, and youâd spat venom at her like sheâd done something wrong. You didnât want to be like that, and it was important to you that she knew how sorry you were. That they both knew.
They arrive together, steps slow as they approach the table youâd saved. You shoot them a sad smile, unsure of just how angry they were.
They sit next to each other across from you, sharing a glance that makes your stomach churn. You suck in a breath, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. âIâm sorry,â You start, choosing to skip the awkward pleasantries and getting straight to the point. âYou guys didnât deserve that. At all. And Iââ
âStop,â Yunjin sighs, not letting you finish. Your heart drops, immediately assuming she's about to end your friendship. But she doesn't--instead, she points between herself and Jungwon and says with a quiet finality, âWe should be the ones apologizing.â
You raise a brow at that, spine straightening in your seat. âWhat? Noââ
âYes,â Jungwon interrupts now, his eyes full of concern. âYou were rightfully upset with everything going on, and we pushed it aside simply because we didnât understand how you were feeling.â He sniffs, head tilting to the side slightly. âI didnât realize how hard this must all be for you. Having the guy you like constantly telling you heâs in love with you, and then not even know if he means it? Itâs unfair to you.â
Youâre silent, a wave of relief and guilt crashing over you at once. Youâre relieved that your emotions are being validated, but you also feel guilty that they think they need to apologize to you when you yourself are struggling with what you should feel. Before last night, you would've agreed with them wholeheartedly, but now you werenât sure. You glance down at the figurine hanging from your bag once, heart filling with so much warmth you think it may burst.Â
âYouâre right,â You murmur, leaning back in your chair. âIt is unfair, but Iâm starting to wonder if maybeâŠmaybe I was wrong.â
Yunjinâs eyes widen, confusion written all over her face. âWhat?â
You smile softly, reaching for your purse and spinning it around so they can see the once-broken glass duck. They both study it for a moment, and you watch as recognition flashes in their eyes.
Jungwon frowns and looks back at you. âI thought I broke that ugly thing?â
âItâs not ugly,â You scoff, snatching your bag back and carefully unclipping the little duck from where it hangs. You place it in the middle of the table with a small shrug. âHe fixed it.â
The three of you stare at it, studying the cracks the run along itâs surface.
âWhat do you mean he fixed it?â Yunjin asks.
âI mean,â You sigh, âHe saw it break on Halloweekend, and took it upon himself to fucking glue it back together.â
A beat. And then, âAre you serious?â
You donât laugh, even though you want to. It is entirely ridiculous, but it happened. Youâve spent the last twelve hours mulling it over in your mind, and you can only come to one conclusion.Â
Maybe Sunghoon noticed you more than you thought.
And if that were true, what did it mean now?
You manage a soft smile, picking at the skin around your fingers mindlessly. âYep,â You hum, popping the P. âGave it to me last night.â
Yunjin squeals, gripping Jungwon's bicep and shaking him. He huffs and rips his arm from her grip. âQuit!â He hisses.
Yunjin just ignores him, her full attention on you. âI know I shouldnât be feeding into this anymore, but that,â She gestures towards the duck, âThat is more than some stupid experiment.â
You sigh, voice small when you say, âI know. I justâŠI donât know what the right thing to do is anymore.âÂ
And for the first time, youâre starting to feel like youâre finally being honest with yourself.
âWell,â Jungwon shrugs, leaning back in the booth. The waitress comes around and drops off three milkshakes, vanilla for yourself, and chocolate for Jungwon and Yunjin. âMaybe it wouldnât hurt to try it out.â
Your eyebrows furrow, âTest it out?â You repeat, taking a small spoonful of whipped cream and stuffing it into your mouth. You'd always been a sucker for ice cream.
Jungwon nods, âThereâs a party tomorrow night to celebrate the hockey team's win last night. Sunghoon will obviously be there, and maybe you can test out what he does when itâs not just the two of you.â
Yunjin sucks in a sharp breath, âBut,â She draws, âSophia will be there too.â
Jungwon snaps his fingers, âMy point exactly.â
You arenât really understanding where heâs trying to go with this. âSo what?â
Jungwon continues, âWe donât really know if heâs still under the influence of the experiment,â He explains, nodding towards the duck, âthat changes things. So, I think we should see if his feelings are real or not at the party.â
Your lips twist in thought, âHow do you plan to do that?â You push. It's not that you don't understand what he's trying to say, it's just hard for your head to fully wrap around it.
He smiles then, that same mischievous smile heâd given you all those weeks ago when heâd initially suggested this whole disaster, and itâs then that you know you shouldnât listen to anything that comes out of his mouth.Â
âSimple,â He shrugs, taking a sip of his milkshake. âWe ask.â
Your lips part to respond, but your phone ringing in your pocket interrupts you. Beomgyuâs name flashes across the screen, bold white letters that usually bring you comfort, but strangely are now doing the opposite.
You clear your throat, âHello?â
Beomgyuâs voice sounds from the other side, exhausted and groggy, but heâs got that spark he always does when he says, âI did it.â
You glance up at Yunjin and Jungwon, stomach twisting low. âDid what?â
âI figured it out,â He swallows, âIâve got the cure or whatever weâre calling it.â
And while it should be relief that floods your chest, instead what youâre met with is a cold pinch of disappointment.
Youâd never been one for parties. Even now, dressed in some slim black dress Yunjin picked for you, a vial of something you arenât even sure works in your purse, youâre reminded just why you donât like them.
Theyâre overcrowded, filled with college students all looking to either pass out drunk or find someone to fuck until they forget why they were even there in the first place. It wasnât your crowd, and youâd found peace with that a long time ago.
And yet, you're still here.
Beomgyu nudges your shoulder, eyes searching around the crowd of sweaty bodies. He wasnât one for parties either, but when you explained to him just why you were coming, he insisted on joining. Of course, Yunjin and Jungwon had been ecstatic and you had to explain to them that you were not coming just to have a good time.
You were coming to find out the truth, and that was it.Â
âAre you sure heâs here?â Beomgyu asks.
You nod, âHe texted me earlier and invited me. Said heâd meet us here.â
Sunghoon had been slightly surprised but happy when you confirmed you already planned to come. Heâd told you he might get a little busy with people trying to talk to him, but heâd make sure to try and come find you at some point. You'd scoffed, in disbelief that you seemed to have to schedule a time to talk to him. You knew he was popular, but people here seriously treated him like some celebrity and not a normal college student.
Yunjin smiles next to you, plucking a drink from the countertop. She tips it back against her mouth and chugs it, wiping off the small droplet that spills from her lips.
Beomgyu makes a disgusted face, âYou donât even know where that came from.â
âDoes it matter?â She asks, grabbing another one and shoving it towards you, âIt all ends up in someone's stomach.â
You push her hand away and take a cautious step back. âIâm good, thanks.â
She just shrugs like sheâd been expecting that and hands it to Jungwon, who happily accepts it. âSuit yourself.â
You donât respond, instead unknowingly floating closer to Beomgyu. Your eyes rake along the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of a familiar head of black hair, but instead youâre met with the one person you didnât want to see.
Sophia is wearing a soft baby pink skirt and a white top that make her look like the picture of innocence, lips red and tempting. The guy sheâs flirting with clearly isnât immune to her strategy, because his eyes keep falling down to her soft neckline like heâs hoping heâll suddenly develop x-ray vision.
Normally, the sight of her wouldnât bother you. It really shouldnât considering you havenât interacted with her at all outside of the hockey incident. But, for some reason, all you can see when you look at her is Sunghoon.
Sunghoon looking at her like sheâd hung the moon and stars. Sunghoon dragging her to his games. Sunghoon fixing things for her simply because he didnât want her to be sad. Sunghoon telling her he loves her.
You have no right to feel it, but jealousy curls deep in your stomach.Â
You recognize the boy sheâs talking to. Jay, The hockey teams co-captain, and Sunghoons roommate. The same roommate who youâre assuming slept with Sophia.Â
You donât know any of the detailsânever thought it appropriate to ask, really. But you do know that if Sunghoon saw this, heâd probably be pissed. You wonder if thatâs why sheâs flirting with him so openly, because she wants Sunghoon to see. You wouldnât put it beneath her.
The night continues like that, with you and Beomgyu hanging around awkwardly while Yunjin and Jungwon drink until their vision goes blurry. You keep catching glimpses of Sophia, and each time sheâs talking to a different guy. A different pawn, actually.
You haven't even seen Sunghoon once, which is kind of strange considering this party is kind of for him. Youâd even texted him, a quick "you here?" and had gotten no reply.Â
The antidote feels heavy in your purse for reasons you canât exactly explain. You were going to give it to him tonight no matter what, youâd already decided that. Even if you found out that this entire thing meant more to him then you thought it did, you were going to give it to him. Your heart flutters in your chest at the thought, forcing yourself to bite back a smile.
You know you shouldnât get your hopes up, but itâs hard. The duck had to be proof that this whole thing wasnât just a massive fuck upâmaybe it was exactly what youâd needed to finally lead the both of you to each other.
And then, as if itâs fate throwing it in your face, you see Sunghoon.
Heâs laughing at something someone's saying, his cheeks flushed and hair falling over his forehead like heâd deliberately placed it there. He looks goodâbut when does he not?Â
You nudge Beomgyu (Yunjin and Jungwon are too busy on the dance floor) and nod your head towards the black-haired man.
Beomgyu exhales lowly and grips the strap of your bag. âNo matter what he says, he has to drink this.â He insists, âI know it might be easier to keep up with the lieââ
âI know,â You interrupt, placing your hand atop his. You give it a light squeeze, âNo matter the outcome, he has to drink it.â
Beomgyu physically exhales and then shoots you a small smile, âFor what itâs worth,â He murmurs, âI donât think you have anything to worry about.â
âYeah,â You reply, âNeither do I.â And you really mean it.
Sunghoon doesnât notice you approach at first, not until you push past one of his friendsâHeeseung, you think his name isâand his attention snaps to you.
The look he gives you isnât one youâre used to seeing from him. Itâs softer. Like light rain on a warm day. Like the beginning stages of a love that lasts a lifetime.
Every other time itâs been strong. Fierce. Like a house fire at its peak. But nowâŠnow it makes your heart melt just like it did when youâd seen him for the first time three years ago.
âHi,â You breathe.
âHi.â He replies.
His friends have dispersed now, leaving just you and him in the sea of bodies. The moonlight filters through the windows, reflecting across his face in a way that really should be illegal.
âYou came,â He says after a moment, but he doesnât sound surprised.
âI did.âÂ
The air crackles between you in a way it never has before. Real and raw and entirely strange. It should scare youâit does scare youâbut you lean into the feeling. Because if thereâs one thing youâve learned the past couple of weeks, itâs to embrace the fear.
You reach into your purse and pull out the vial. Itâs small, with a few drops of a see-through pink liquid that you donât think anyone should ever be drinking.
âI need you to do something for me,â You tell him, voice shaking slightly. Embrace the fear, you remind yourself. âI need you to drink this.â You say, pushing the vial towards him.
His eyes flicker down to it, and then back up to yours, and for a moment you think he looks guilty.
âLook, [Y/N]ââ
âHoonie!â Your blood feels like it goes cold. Sophia approaches from behind you, shoving past and making her way in front of you like werenât even there.Â
âI got your text,â She grins, voice sweet. But you know she knows what sheâs doing. You know sheâs doing it on purpose to upset you, but youâre not going to give her that satisfaction. âI knew it was only a matter of time before you came to your senses.â
Oh.
Your eyes widen slightly, something mean twisting in your stomach. Your heart feels heavy in a way that physically hurts. Of course. The experiment mustâve worn off, and he was trying to figure out the best way to tell you that he hadnât meant anything heâd said. Thatâs why the air between the two of you had been so different.
You look at the antidote in your hand, and suddenly it feels pointless. Beomgyu did all that work just for it to wear off on its own. But youâd promised that youâd get him to drink it no matter what, and you werenât planning on breaking that.
Sunghoon shakes his head, âSophia, thatâs not why I texted you.â He practically spits, âStop trying to spin this into something you know itâs not.â
She looks genuinely taken aback for a moment but recovers swiftly. âIâm not trying to do anything,â She laughs, but thereâs no humor in it. âYouâre the one who asked me to meet you, yes?â
His eyes flicker to yours, like heâs begging you to hear him out before you jump to conclusions. âI did, butââ
âThen what else am I supposed to assume? Unless,â She turns back to you then, finally acknowledging the fact that youâre there. The sneer on her face when she looks at you is nearly enough to make you feel small. âYou didnât want to say it in front of your rebound.â
Sunghoon visibly bristles, âSheâs notââ
But you've heard enough. âItâs fine,â you say, not letting him finish. You manage a small smile, but it feels like poison against your skin. âI just need you to drink this so we can make sure everything goes back to normal without any hiccups.â
You push it back towards him, but he refuses to take it. â[Y/N], just let me explain.â He begs.
âYou donât need to explain to me.â You reply, and you mean it. Youâd done the exact thing youâd been afraid of since the beginning, and that wasnât his fault. It wasnât his fault that youâd taken everything too seriously despite knowing it was all manufactured by your own hands. Heâd just been an accidental victim. âJust drink it and then we can pretend none of this ever happened.â
When you let your eyes meet his, it hurts so bad you think youâll collapse right there and then. He looks genuinely devastated, eyebrows pulled taut and lips parted. But you canât for the life of you understand why. He was getting what he wanted, right? He was getting Sophia back. He was getting his life back. And so were you.
So why does it feel like nothing will ever be the same again?
He looks like heâs going to protest again, but holds back. Whether itâs for his own sake or yours, you arenât sure.
He takes the vial from you with shaky hands, unscrewing the cap and swallowing it down in one gulp. He doesnât make a face, even though youâre sure it canât taste pleasant.
Once itâs done, you donât bother saying bye. You just nod at him and turn on your heel, ignoring the smirk you can practically feel growing on Sophiaâs face.
Sunghoon got what he wanted. So did you. Thatâs all that should matter.
But you still canât stop the tears from flooding your eyes.
You don't look for your friends, you just get out of there as fast as possible. You knew this would happen, it was exactly why you'd been so worrued at first. And you did exactly what you said you would, you got too involved. You let his words seep through the cracks in your walls instead of strengthening them.
And now you weren't sure they'd ever be fully put back together again.
You spend the next few days locked away in your dorm. You skip class, even though you know you shouldnât, and spend your time watching reruns of New Girl and eating bowls of Lucky Charms.
Usually, hiding away for a few days and letting yourself marinate in your ugly helps. But itâs been days since the party, and the ache in your chest hasnât subsided at all.
Sunghoon tried to text you once, just to check up on you since you hadnât shown up to class, but you didnât respond; just shut off your phone and shoved it in between the couch cushions.
Youâd known this would happen when it started. Knew youâd end up hurt, and the worst part was that it wasnât even anyoneâs fault. There was no one you could shift blame onto; no one you could justify being angry with.
Itâd all just spiraled out of control before you could fix it.
The following Monday you finally decide to suck it up and go to class. You werenât going to let a boy get in the way of your schooling, even if the thought of seeing him made you sick to your stomach. (Also because Yunjin had threatened to call your mom if you didnât show up again, and you really didnât want to have to deal with that.)
Your feet drag when you get there, head hanging low. Youâre expecting Sunghoon to have gone back to his spot before, but when you look up, heâs still in the chair next to yours. He looks different. Tired, almost. Like he hasnât gotten proper sleep in days. You doubt you look any better.
You approach cautiously, hoping and praying that he wonât try and say anything to you. Does he even remember everything that happened? Was memory loss a symptom? You werenât really sure, and you werenât that interested in finding out.
You feel his eyes on you when you sit down, pulling out your computer and crossing one leg over the other. Youâre hoping you look the picture of casual, not like your heart was just unknowingly crushed by the boy next to you.
Sunghoon, for what its worth, doesnât talk to you for the majority of the lesson. Just shakes his leg anxiously and sneaks not-so-subtle glances your way. He keeps biting his bottom lip like he wants to say something, but stops himself before he can. Truthfully, it takes everything in you to not look at him. Itâd be so easy to look into those brown eyes and remember everything heâd saidâto remember every almost-kiss and every i love you that spilled from his lips like oil spilling into an endless clear blue sea.
Itâd be so easy to pretend that nothing had changed between you. That the last two weeks had never happened and things were still how they were beforeâwhen he was the moon and you were the star blinking just for him, hoping for just a sliver of attention.
But, you know things will never be the same.Â
You barely even register the lesson ending, not until you feel Yunjin at your side. She mustâve known youâd need her support right now, and that much you can appreciate.
âYou good?â She mumbles, glancing over at Sunghoon. The lecture hall has begun to clear out now, only a few stragglers remaining. Everyone must be ready to get out of this weather.
You nod, but itâs not sincere. âYeah,â You manage, stuffing your laptop into your bag. It clinks against the glass duck softly, and your heart twists again. âIâm all good.â
Yunjin gives you a look that says she doesn't believe you, but she doesn't push. You stand, starting to make your way down the stairs and finally away from himâbut he stops you.
â[Y/N].â
You almost donât hear him at first, but youâd recognize that tone anywhere. The same one heâd used when he asked you to come to the rink with him. Insistence teetering on the edge of pleading, but there's something that underlines it. Something youâve been recognizing within yourself a little too much lately.
You make the mistake of turning to look at him, and your breath catches in your throat. That look in his eyes is one youâve seen before, the same one youâd convinced yourself meant nothing.
Pure, unfiltered, love.
Except now there isnât any experiment to fall back on.
âCan weâŠâ He glances back at Yunjin and clears his throat. âCan we talk?â
Everything inside of you screams at you to say noâto turn around and ignore the way your body feels like itâs being pulled towards him. Like the world has tilted on its axis and he is your only source of gravity.
Against your own will, you hear yourself say, âOkay.â
Youâve only ever felt genuine fear three times in your life.Â
That time in the second grade when your dad thought itâd be funny to take you on a roller-coaster despite your fear of heights, and youâd cried so hard you ended up throwing up onto the lady in front of you. Then, there was the time youâd accidently switched up a water bottle and literal acid your freshman year of college and watched as your professor drank one of the liquids (Itâd been the water, thank God). And, of course, the time you watched Sunghoon drink your experiment.
But now, standing in some empty corridor with Park Sunghoon, you think you might have to add this to the list.
Embrace the fear, you remind yourself.
He doesnât say anything for a long moment, just stares at you with this unreadable look in his eyes. His hands are shoved in his coat pockets, posture slightly slumped. He doesnât look like the put together golden-boy youâd fallen in love with. He looks more vulnerable; more like a person instead of an idea.Â
He sniffles and juts his chin towards the duck hanging off your bag, âYou arenât scared itâll break again?â He asks softly.
You glance down at the cracked glass, reaching out and holding it between your fingers. âI guess I wasnât worried,â You mumble, âBecause last time it shattered someone put it back together.â
You hear his breath catch at that, and he takes a small step towards you. Heâs close enough now that you can smell his cologne, can feel the ghost of his lips on the crown of your head.
âDo you know why I fixed it?â He asks.
You swallow, having to lift your head slightly to see him. âBecause youâre a nice person, Sunghoon.â You murmur, forcing yourself to take a small step back. Enough distance that his presence doesnât feel like itâs consuming your very soul. âYou wouldâve done it for anyone.â
He breathes out a disbelieving laugh, âThatâs not true.â
âWhat do you mean?â
His eyebrows knit together, âI know youâre smarter than that.â Even though his words are harsh, his tone is soft. Like he canât even conceptualize the concept of being upset with you. Like it's an emotion heâs never even experienced.
Heâs right, you are smarter than that. But last time you let yourself believe, youâd ended up exactly where you knew you would beâwith a broken heart and tear-stained cheeks.
âYou donât understand,â You manage, voice breaking slightly. âYou donât feel that for me. I know you donât.â
âHow do you know that?â
You pause, bottom lip finding itâs way between your teeth. âYouâve been with Sophia for so long, and Iâm just-just me. Sheâs beautiful and popular and I spend more time watching fucking Harry Potter with my friends then I do actually socializing andââ
Sunghoon cuts you off, voice level. âExactly.â
You blink. âWhat?â
âSure, Sophia is popular and objectively beautiful, but she isnât you.â
It takes you a moment to fully process what heâs saying. But still, all you can find in yourself to manage is a quiet, âWhat?â
He takes another step closer, enclosing in on your personal space like he's always belonged there. âShe isnât you.â He repeats.
Youâve only felt genuine fear four times in your life. But only once has it ever melted into something so genuineâsomething so raw and real that your heart has felt like it was bursting at the seams.
âThat night Jungwon shattered your duck, you said something. Do you remember what it was?â
You shake your head softly. All you remember from that night is how upset youâd been that itâd happened and trying to find it in yourself to forgive Jungwon.
Sunghoonâs lips twitch softly, âYou said you loved it because it was different. You said you didnât care that it was a little strange on the outside, because you knew it had a good heart.â
You donât even remember those words coming out of your mouth. Honestly, you donât even remember Sunghoon being close enough to hear them.Â
âI think thatâs when I fell in love with you,â He admits quietly. âI didnât know it at first, but it was there. Everytime you sat down in class and tried not to laugh at something Yunjin said, everytime I saw you and Jungwon studying at the library, I felt it.â He sucks in a breath, âAnd then I drank the experiment.âÂ
You shudder at the memory, lips twisting slightly in discomfort. Youâre expecting him to say that it made him realize his feelings for you werenât actually thereâthat this was all just an elaborately cruel way to reject you.
But then, without even blinking, he says, âBut it didnât work.â
Your world stops for a moment. Thereâs no way thatâs possible. Youâd seen him with your own two eyes acting like a fool to get your attention. Constantly following you around, texting you late into the night, tucking your hair behind your earâall things heâd done because the experiment gave him the confidence to. But, if that wasnât true and the experiment hadnât worked then that meant that all of it had been real. Thereâd never been any pretend. Thereâd never been any accidents.Â
Itâd all been real.
Your eyes widen, hands gesturing in front of you. âBut that doesnât make any sense.â You insist, âYou were acting like youâŠâ Love me. The words linger in the air, like mistletoe teasing you.
You think at first, part of you still didnât believe that he loved you even with him standing here pouring his heart out to you. It just didnât make any sense in your head. But now it was undeniable. It was a burning truth that had forced its way into the light without so much as apologizing.
âBecause I do,â He murmurs, âAnd maybe it was stupid to go about it this way. I wonât argue with you on that. But, can you blame me? Do you know how hard it was to approach you?â
You scoff, âMe? What about you? And what about Sophiaââ
He shakes his head, âThatâs done. Has been for a long time now. Thatâs why I texted her at the party, I wanted to make sure she finally got it through her head that there was nothing there.â
âOh.â
Sunghoon chuckles, voice deep and soft. âYeah,â he mumbles. âOh.â
You look up at him now, into those swimming pools of chestnut. His pupils are slightly dilated, light reflecting off of his irises in a way that looks serene. The air around you fills with a soft tension, one that youâd have to focus on to even really notice.
You donât miss the way his eyes glance down at your lips, silently asking for a permission youâd given him years ago.
He leans in closer, breath warm against your lips. âI really want to kiss you right now,â He murmurs. Your skin tingles when his fingers brush the apple of your cheek, before cupping it softly.
You lean into him, reaching a hand up to cover his own. âWhatâs stopping you?â
He smiles, a big toothy grin that shows off his canines, and then leans forward slowly.
It isnât really a kiss at first, more like he's just lingering there, letting your breaths intermix. His hand travels from your cheek to the side of your neck, gently holding you in place.
And then he surges forward, mouth moving against yours like heâs trying to memorize you. Heâs gentle, holding you like youâre something fragileâlike heâs terrified youâll disappear if he pushes too hard.
He pulls away slowly, grinning from ear to ear like heâs just won the lottery. âYou have no idea how bad I've wanted to do that.â
You giggle, heat crawling up your stomach and swirling around your cheeks. âMaybe you should do it again just to make sure it sticks.â
Sunghoon doesnât hesitate then. His hand finds your waist and pulls you into him, lips colliding with yours in a way that makes your head spin. You think colors swirl behind your eyes, but you canât find it in yourself to care.
âI love you,â Sunghoon murmurs against your lips, âI love the way your nose scrunches when youâre focused,â He kisses the tip of your nose. âI love how kind you are even when people donât deserve it,â Another one to your cheek. âI love that youâre unapologetically you.â
Your heart stutters, laughter bubbling out of your chest uncontrollably.Â
âYou sure it isnât because you accidentally drank a love potion?â You tease, reaching a hand up to tangle in the baby hairs at the nape of his neck.
He huffs, finally pulling away so he can get a good look at you. âI donât think Iâd need a love potion to find my way to you.â He says, voice so sincere it nearly makes tears spring to your eyes.
So, yeah. The thing about Biochemistry is that itâs extremely difficult and sometimes shows you that maybe you should let your curiosity remain exactly thatâcuriosity.
But sometimes, if youâre lucky, it can lead you to exactly where youâre supposed to go.
Sunghoons hand traces down your arm until it finds your hand, and he easily intertwines your fingers like he was always supposed to fit there. âLet me take you home?â
For the first time, you see no reason to argue. No reason to protect your heart or turn him away. So, without a single protest, you say, âOkay.â
You arenât sure exactly how it happened. One minute Sunghoons walking you home, smiling like a kid in a candy store, and the next heâs kissing you like heâll die if he isnât touching you. Your apartment door shuts softly behind you, leaving just the two of you in your space.
You remember the last time heâd been in here, how heâd kissed the crown of your head with tender care. Heâd seemed nervous then, like the action was scandalous. Now, it was nearly the opposite.
He isnât rough, no, heâs deliberate. Fingertips tracing across the curve of your waist, teasing against the hem of your shirt. He kisses you like youâre the oxygen he needs to survive, like he's an addict and your lips are his fix.
It steals your breath away and breathes the air into your lungs all at once.
âTell me to stop and I will.â He grunts against you, hands tugging at your waist and pulling you closer against him until youâre flush against his body.Â
âSunghoon,â You gasp when you feel the growing bulge in his pants brush against your thigh. âDonât you ever stop.â
Thatâs all it takes before heâs tapping your thigh once and lifting you into his arms. His hands take up half your thighs, kneading the skin as he carries you to your bedroom. Youâre giggling the whole way there, hearts in your eyes and cheeks flushed.
He places you down on the bed gently, your hair fawning out around you like a halo. He sucks in a breath and crawls over you, eyes trained on your face. His knuckles brush your cheek, and you lean into it on pure instinct.
âYouâre so beautiful,â He murmurs, voice tender. âCanât believe youâre letting me love you.â
You smile, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek. âThereâs no one in this world for me except for you, Park Sunghoon.â
He grins, burying his face in the nape of your neck like heâs embarrassed. âYeah?â
âYeah,â You answer, not even having to second guess yourself. âIâm so in love with you it hurts.â
He whines at your words, lips tracing across the skin of your neck, the length of your jaw, the space behind your ear, tongue darting out occasionally to mark you as his.
He tugs gently at your shirt and you arch your back so he can pull it over your head and toss it across the room, but it gets stuck on your elbow and he has to tug it loose. You laugh when it finally comes off, your hair falling in places it isnât supposed to.
Sunghoon giggles and pecks your lips. âYouâre making this difficult," he teases.
You just shrug and settle back down, ignoring the way his fingers trail over your bare stomach and pop open the button of your jeans. âI have to make you work for it.â
He smirks, devilish and no longer with any of that boyishness heâd had earlier. âYeah, baby?â He whispers, voice husky. âWant me to beg you to let me taste you?â
Your breath hitches, bottom lip finding its way in between your teeth. Suddenly, nothing is funny anymore.Â
He unzips your jeans and slowly drags them down your legs, tossing them to the floor and out of sight. âWant me to beg you to let me fuck you?â He continues.
You whimper, the sound escaping you without your permission. Youâd be lying if you said the idea of Sunghoon on his knees for you doesnât make something burn deep in your belly, but the thought of admitting that to him make your nerves spike with embarrassment.
He chuckles, sinking down to his knees until his face is level with your cunt. You canât help but squirm in place, because even though your panties still cover you, you feel completely exposed. If you wouldâve known this was going to happen today, you wouldâve worn something much cuter. Not your days of the week pantied and an old bra that was a pathetic excuse for lacy.Â
Sunghoons breath ghosts against your growing slick, and you know your panties are already damp. âYou gonna let me touch you, baby?â He asks.
You nod your head insistently, hips searching for any kind of relief. He just chuckles and places a hand on your tummy to hold you down. âNeed to hear you say it.â He murmurs. You can feel his lips brushing against your core, his nose nudging in the junction of your hip. Heâs so close to giving you what you want, but he wonât. Not until he hears it coming from your own lips.
âPlease,â You gasp. Your own voice sounds so needy, completely foreign to your own ears. âWanâ you to touch me, Hoon.â
He groans, but immediately obliges. He doesnât devour you at first, just lets his tongue lick small little kitten licks over your panties. You jump at the feeling, but he uses his spare hand to grip your hip and hold you down.Â
Heâs messy with it, even when heâs being gentle. He licks you open until youâre teary eyed and your panties are so drenched they look nearly see-through. He just sighs dreamily, like heâs enjoying some five-star meal and not like heâs eating you out like his life depends on it.
Pretty soon though you get over feeling everything without actually feeling it, because yes, it feels fucking insaneâbut you want to actually feel his lips against your bare folds. Want to feel him suck against your clit while his fingers get you ready to take him. Itâs just actually admitting that thatâs the hard part.
âSunghoon,â You whine, hips stuttering slightly. âStop teasing me.â
He pulls off of you, tongue darting out to lick his lips. âIâm not teasing you, baby.â He chuckles, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the skin of your hip.Â
You huff, âYou are.â
He raises a brow and begins to stand, and your stomach immediately drops. âYou want me to stop then?â
âNo!â You cry, shaking your head furiously. âGod, no, donât-donât stop.â
He nods slowly, finding his place on his knees in front of you once again. âThen be a good girl and tell me what you want.â
It shouldn't be as embarrassing as it is. Youâre a twenty-something year old woman with a sparkling GPA and enough experience under your belt that asking for something like this should be easy. But Sunghoons looking at you so tenderly, his hair a slight mess and eyes fucked out without even having been touched, and youâre finding it difficult to get the words out.
âI wantâŠâ You suck in a shaky breath, forcing your gaze to the ceiling. âI want you to eat me out. Properly.â
He grins and presses a chaste skin to the inside of your thigh. âSee?â He hums, âthat wasnât so hard was it?â
You don't bother giving him a response, because heâs already pulling your panties off your legs and plunging back in like a man starved. His lips wrap around your clit and suck the bud into his mouth, causing your back to arch and a loud moan to fall from your lips.
He doesnât stop after that, licking and sucking with such expertise you wonder how Sophia could ever want anything else. She had all this and genuinely thought she was going to get better? What a fucking joke.
âS-Sunghoonââ You gasp, fingers tightening into fists in his hair. He groans when you tug lightly, and you swear you see his hips roll against nothing.Â
The hand on your belly travels down until he reaches your fluttering hole, gently pushing his middle finger inside of you. The stretch isnât intense, more like just a subtle pressure between your hips, but itâs drowned out by the stimulation against your clit.
His fingers arenât abnormally large, but they are long. So long he finds your g-spot with ease and curls his finger against it until you swear youâre seeing stars. You let out a choked whimper, hips stuttering against him.
He seems to take that as a good sign because heâs slipping another finger inside now, intensifying the stretch and making your eyes roll back. His fingers move in tandem with his tongue, licking and thrusting until your vision starts to blur at the corners. Youâre close, you know itâcan feel it tightening deep in your stomach.
âGonna-gonna cum, fuck, mâcummingââ
Sunghoon hums, and the vibrations are exactly what you need to reach your peak. Your back bows off the bed, mouth falling open and eyes squeezing shut. You release with a silent cry of his name. He fucks you through it, and you can feel his eyes on you as he does. Watching the rise and fall of your chest, the way your legs shake slightly with aftershocks. Heâs studying this image of you, fucked out and empty-headed, like heâs committing it to memory.
When he finally pulls away your vision is slowly starting to come back to you. You barely register him maneuvering to come up next to you until you watch him rid himself of his shirt and you come face-to-face with the hard plains of his chest. His skin is soft and milky, the soft lines of his abs rising and falling as he takes in breaths of air.Â
You reach for him and he complies, falling over you until youâre chest to chest. You donât waste any time before youâre kissing him again. You can taste the saltiness of your own slick on his lips, but you donât careâinstead, you kiss him deeper.
His tongue slips until your mouth, brushing against your own. Itâs wet and gross and fucking perfect. âSunghoon,â You manage between pants, âFuck me.â
A beat passes as his eyes find yours, âYeah?â
You nod, and thatâs all the answer he needs. He wastes no time ridding himself of his pants and lining himself up with your entrance. He pushes in slowly, taking in every expression you make like heâs scared heâll hurt you. And, yeah, heâs big. Like, bigger than anything youâve ever taken. But the stretch is also perfect, filling you so completely your eyes nearly roll back.
âFuck, youâre warm,â He mumbles, words slurring together. He sounds drunk on you.Â
When he bottoms out, you swear youâre seeing soundwaves and hearing colors. His tip nudges against that spot in you perfectly, curved at just the right angle.
He takes a moment to let you adjust, but you can tell heâs holding himself back. His fingers drip the sheets with effort, bottom lips in between his teeth. You roll your hips once, testing the waters, and the pleasure that floods through you forces a moan out of the both of you.
âDonât do that,â He says breathily, voice on the verge of collapse. âFuck.â
It takes a second, but his hips slowly start to push into yours. His thrusts are shallow at first, just little pushes that help you to accommodate his size, but itâs not long before they turn rougher.
He pulls out halfway just to slam back in, and your breath actually gets ripped from your lungs. Stars swim behind your eyes as he finds his pace, âFuck,â You breathe.
Sunghoon gasps, burying his face in your neck. âI love you,â He groans, âFuck, I love this pussy. I love the way you sound. Love the way you fucking feel. Youâre perfect,â He babbles.
You part your lips to reply, but all that comes out is a sob when he thrusts particularly hard. You tighten instinctively around him, and he falters for a split-second before heâs finding his tempo again.
He fucks you like youâve been denying him for years, like heâs spent every night dreaming of this. Tears of pleasure begin to streak across your cheeks; each he kisses away without so much as a hum.
Itâs so intimate, so perfect, so full of love that you donât even notice youâre approaching your climax until it crashes over you.
âFuck, just like that,â Sunghoon whimpers, reaching down and rubbing light circles over your clit. âYouâre so perfect. Such a good fucking girl. My good girl.â And then heâs releasing inside of you, hot spurts of cum painting your insides.
He stays inside of you after he comes, both of you panting hard, sweat and fluids leaking from your bodies. He eventually pulls out and lays down next to you, his arm across your middle.
Youâre silent for a moment, collecting your thoughts. You just had Sex with Park Sunghoon. Not only that, but Park Sunghoon is in love with you. Heâd said it enough times tonight for you to finally really believe it.
âYou okay?â He asks softly, reaching up and tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. The gentleness in which he treats you now is such a stark contrast to the brutalness of which he just fucked you that you nearly laugh.
âYeah,â You hum, voice a bit raspy. âIâm perfect.â
Sunghoon grins and pulls you into him. He kisses you again, but there arenât any intentions behind it. Instead, itâs slow and sweet, like heâs hoping to convey every emotion heâs ever felt into the kiss.
âGood,â he says, pulling away slightly. âBecause Iâm going to remind you of how much I love you as much as I can.â
You laugh, âAre you asking to fuck me again?â
He shakes his head, âNo,â He whispers, âIâm asking if I can make love to you again.â
And it doesnât take much for you to say yes.
Youâve been dating Park Sunghoon for nine months and fourteen days. Nine months of hockey games, late night study session, and weekly dates (all of which he insisted he pay for). Nine months of surprise gifts, of sweet words, and daily reminders of just how lucky you are to have him.
Yunjin groans next to you, typing away furiously on her phone. âI canât believe this is happening again!â She whines.
âI told you that a man you met on snapchat quick add wasnât going to end up the love of your life.â Beomgyu sings knowingly, shoveling popcorn in his mouth.
âFor what it's worth, he really wasnât even that cute.â Jungwon adds.
She shoots him a glare, âShut up, you donât know what youâre talking about. Jiung was fucking beautiful and now heâs ghosting me!â
You shiver slightly, watching Sunghoon glide on the ice. Heâs instructing his teammates to do something; you arenât really sure. Heâd tried to explain the rules of hockey to you months ago, but your brain was very clearly made for science and not sports.
âTry not to worry about it, Yunjin,â you say sympathetically, placing a comforting hand on her back. âYou just havenât met your person yet.â
She scoffs, gesturing at your shirt. âEasy for you to say when youâre already practically married to, like, the most perfect guy on the planet!â
You glance down at what youâre wearingâa blue jersey with the number 23 sprawled in the middle. Sunghoons hockey number.
You would argue with her, maybe try to make her feel better, but your eyes lock with Sunghoons across the rink for just a moment, and you stop yourself.
Because, well, sheâs right. You did get lucky. You glance down at the duck hanging off of your bag, the very thing that had unknowingly started this entire thing.
âYeah,â You shrug, âYouâre right.â
And when you go home that night, listening to Sunghoon ramble about scoring the winning goal, you know that there's nowhere else you'd rather be.
thank you guys so much for reading đ„Č this story took everything out of me but iâm mostly happy with how it came out. ily guys <3
FINALLYYY read this (heetaki pls donât bma đ„čđ„č) and WOWWEEEEE
god bless the united states of sunghoon
ur smut makes me wet LMAOAOOAOAO đđ straight face im deadass
remember when i said imperfect for you as ur debut fic was like having given taken as ur debut song?? well this is like having drunk dazed as your second ever title track.
canât wait to see ur next goon material aka tamed dashed
Pairings: Autistic! Jake x Caretaker! fem! reader
Wordcount:32k
Summary:Hired to help a brilliant, autistic young man navigate a world that is far too loud, you, a newly graduated social worker learns to speak his unique language of logic, LEGOs, and quiet routines. As you become the one permanent variable that makes the static in his mind finally stop, the strict boundaries of your job description slowly blur into a profound, life-changing connection.
Warnings:Caretaker/Client Relationship (Blurring of Professional Boundaries), Autism Spectrum Representation, Sensory Overload & Severe Meltdowns, Ableism & Public Bullying, Mild Self-Harm (Frustration Stimming/Hitting Head - quickly stopped by Yn), Panic Attacks/Hyperventilating, Emotional Angst (Self-Doubt/Feeling "Broken"), Hurt/Comfort, Protective Reader, Extreme Fluff, Touch-Starved Jake, Slow Burn, First Time/Virginity Loss (Jake), Smut (M/F)(FULL CONSENT Iâm not a weirdo đ), Sensory-Focused Intimacy, Emotional Overstimulation (Happy Tears).get those tissues ready for the absolute softest boy.
A/N: can you tell I love writing for jake because I can. I did a lot of watching videos with people that have autism and this fic came to mind, how we all should treat people even if theyâre different from us the same because theyâre trying too! But Iâm such a sappy girl.Anyways Like always Please Like, Reblog and Comment! They are very appreciated.
[Masterlist]
The diploma on your wall was still crooked. It had been hanging there for three weeks, a piece of expensive cardstock in a cheap black frame that declared you were now a Bachelor of Social Work. It was supposed to feel like a victory lap. Instead, it felt like the starting gun of a race you weren't sure you were qualified to run.
You were twenty-two years old. You had a head full of theoryâsystems theory, behavioral psychology, crisis intervention modelsâand absolutely zero real-world experience. The imposter syndrome wasn't just a whisper in the back of your mind; it was a scream.You sat at your small kitchen table, staring at the file folder the agency, New Horizons Support Services, had couriered over that morning.
Client Name: Jake Sim.
Age: 23.
Diagnosis: Autism Spectrum Disorder (Level 1/High Support Needs during sensory events). Notes: History of high caregiver turnover. Client experiences acute sensory overload. Rigid adherence to routine is required. Previous workers reported difficulty establishing rapport."High caregiver turnover." That was the phrase that stuck. In the social work world, that usually meant the client was "difficult"âaggressive, non-verbal, or physically demanding.But looking at the photo clipped to the inside of the file, you didn't see "difficult." You saw a boyâno, a young manâlooking away from the camera. He wasn't smiling. His hair was a fluffy, dark brown mop that seemed to be trying to swallow his head. He was wearing a hoodie that looked three sizes too big. He didn't look aggressive. He looked⊠retreating. Like he was trying to fold himself into a shape that the world wouldn't notice.You closed the file. You drank your lukewarm coffee. You adjusted your blazer, which felt too stiff and too "adult," and grabbed your keys. "Okay," you whispered to the empty apartment. "Don't mess this up." The house was in a quiet suburb, the kind with manicured lawns and basketball hoops in every other driveway. It was a beige two-story with a wrap-around porch.
You parked your beat-up sedan on the street, checking your watch. 8:55 AM. Five minutes early. "On time is late, early is on time," your practicum supervisor used to say. You walked up the path, your heels clicking loudly on the pavement. You made a mental note to wear sneakers next time if you got the job. Click-clack sounds could be a sensory trigger. Think, Y/N. Think.
You rang the doorbell.It opened almost immediately, revealing a woman who looked like she hadn't slept a full eight hours in a decade. She was beautiful, with the same dark eyes as the boy in the photo, but there were deep lines etched around her mouth."You must be Y/N," she said. Her smile was warm, but her eyes were scanning you, assessing you. It was the look of a mother bear who was tired of fighting off wolves but was ready to do it again if she had to. "Hi. Yes, I am," you said, extending a hand. "Itâs so nice to meet you, Mrs. Sim."
"Sarah, please," she shook your hand firmly. "Come in. Take your shoes off at the door, if you don't mind. We try to keep the outside noise⊠outside."
You stepped into the foyer. It was cool and smelled faintly of lemon pledge and lavender. It was aggressively tidy. Not a speck of dust, not a stray shoe.
"So," Sarah said, leading you toward the kitchen. "You've read the file?"
"I have."
"Forget half of it," she said bluntly. She leaned against the granite island, crossing her arms. "The agency writes those reports to cover their liability. They make him sound like a list of symptoms. 'Sensory processing disorder.' 'Social deficits.' It makes him sound broken." She looked at you, her expression fierce. "Jake isn't broken. Heâs just⊠on a different frequency. Heâs brilliant. Heâs funny, in his own way. But he feels everything. Imagine if you couldn't turn down the volume on the world. Thatâs Jakeâs life. Every light is a spotlight. Every sound is a siren." You nodded, listening intently. "I understand. My goal isn't to 'fix' him, Sarah. Itâs to help him navigate the volume."
Sarah softened. She let out a long breath, her shoulders dropping. "The last girl⊠she treated him like a toddler. She used that high-pitched 'baby voice.' Jake hated it. Heâs twenty-three. Heâs a grown man. He just needs help with the logistics of being a grown man."
"I promise," you said seriously. "No baby voice."
Sarah smiled, a real one this time. "Okay. Heâs in the living room. Itâs his⊠sanctuary. Heâs having a good morning, so heâs building. Just⊠go in slow. Let him come to you. If you push, heâll shut down."
"Got it."
"Good luck," she whispered. You walked down the hallway. The floorboards were carpeted here, muffling your footsteps. The house was unnaturally quiet. No TV, no radio, no hum of appliances. You reached the archway of the living room and stopped.The room was large, with heavy blackout curtains drawn halfway, filtering the morning sun into a soft, hazy glow. The furniture was pushed to the perimeter of the room.The center of the floor was occupied by a city.There were thousandsâliterally thousandsâof LEGO bricks. But they weren't scattered. They were organized into plastic trays by color, size, and function. Grey plates. Blue pins. Technic beams.
And sitting in the middle of it all was Jake.
He looked exactly like the photo, but realer. Vivid. He was sitting cross-legged, hunched over a massive, half-built grey structure. He was wearing a faded brown hoodie with fraying cuffs, the hood down, revealing that fluffy hair that curled slightly at the nape of his neck.He was muttering. A low, rapid-fire stream of words.
"...clutch power on the 2x4 is insufficient for the torque... need to reinforce the sub-frame... bag twelve, bag twelve, where is the axle connector..."
You took a breath. You stepped into the room.
"Hi, Jake," you said softly. He didn't flinch. He didn't look up. He didn't acknowledge you existed. His long, elegant fingers continued to snap pieces together with a rhythmic click-click-click. You remembered your training. Parallel play. Don't force interaction. Join the space. You walked over to the sofa, which was a safe ten feet away from his construction zone. You sat down slowly. You placed your bag on the floor. You didn't pull out your phone. You just sat there, hands in your lap, watching him. Minutes ticked by. Five. Ten. Most people would have been awkward. They would have cleared their throat or tried to start small talk about the weather. But you found yourself strangely captivated. There was something hypnotic about the way he worked. He wasn't playing. He was engineering. He would pick up a piece, rotate it, inspect it for flaws, and then place it with the precision of a surgeon.
He was beautiful. That was the unprofessional thought that popped into your head. He had a strong jawline, soft lips that were currently pursed in concentration, and eyelashes that were unfairly long. Fifteen minutes in, he paused. He held a long, grey Technic beam in his hand. He frowned. He looked at the instruction bookletâwhich was thick enough to be a phone bookâthen back at the beam. "The inventory is incorrect," he said. He didn't look at you. He spoke to the air. But it was an opening.
"Is a piece missing?" you asked, keeping your voice low and level.Jake stiffened slightly. He turned his head slowly, like a wary deer. For the first time, you saw his eyes. They were big. That was the only word for them. Big, dark, liquid brown eyes that held a depth of innocence that hit you right in the chest. They were "puppy eyes" in the truest senseâguileless, open, and slightly fearful.He looked at you. He blinked. He looked at your feet. He looked at your hands. Then, finally, he looked at your face.
"Itâs not missing," he corrected you. His voice was smooth, deep, and sounded very matter-of-fact. "Itâs the wrong molding variant. This is a 32523, but the instructions call for a 32524. The friction ridges are different. If I use this, the stabilizer fin will wobble." He held the piece out, not to you, but in your general direction.
"That sounds frustrating," you said. "A wobble would ruin the structural integrity."
Jakeâs eyes widened a fraction. He pulled his hand back. "Yes. Structural integrity is the primary variable. Most people don't care about the wobble."
"Well, if you're building the UCS Millennium Falcon," you said, gesturing to the box you recognized in the corner, "you want it to be perfect. Itâs a collector's item."
He froze. He turned his body fully toward you now, abandoning the LEGOs for a second. "You know the model number?" he asked. It was a test. "75192," you said. "Released in 2017. Itâs the biggest set they ever made, right?"
You thanked your lucky stars for your younger brother, who had begged for this set for three Christmases in a row.Jake stared at you. He was processing this data. New girl. Not loud. Not baby voice. Knows the Falcon.
"It was the biggest," he corrected gently. "Until the Art World Map. But the World Map is just tiles. Itâs 2D. The Falcon is 3D engineering. Itâs superior."
"I agree," you smiled. "Maps are boring compared to spaceships."
The corner of his mouth twitched. A micro-smile. It was there and gone in a second, but you saw it. "I'm Jake," he said. He looked at your name tag, which you had clipped to your blazer. "You are Y/N."
"I am."
"Are you going to tell me to clean this up?" He gestured vaguely to the chaos on the floor. "The last one... Jenny. She said it was a tripping hazard. She made me put it in bins before I was done." The distress in his voice was subtle, but clear. He remembered the disruption of his routine. "No," you said firmly. "I am not going to make you clean it up. Itâs not a mess, Jake. Itâs a system. I can see you have the plates sorted by size." Jake let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since you walked in. His shoulders slumped, the tension draining out of him.
"It is a system," he whispered, relieved. "Sorted by function, then color."
He picked up the grey beam again. He looked at it, then at you.
"Do you want to... inspect the sub-frame?" he asked. "Itâs very dense."
It was an invitation into his world.You stood up and walked over. You didn't rush. You sat down on the floor, crossing your legs, keeping a respectful distance.
"Show me," you said.For the next two hours, Jake Sim taught you about the physics of plastic bricks. He showed you how the internal technic frame supported the weight of the outer shell. He explained the concept of "SNOT" (Studs Not On Top) building techniques.
He didn't make eye contact often. mostly he looked at his hands or the model. But every now and then, when he was explaining a particularly clever bit of engineering, he would look up at you to see if you were following. And when he saw that you were listeningâreally listening, not just nodding politelyâhis face would light up.It wasn't a loud happiness. It was a quiet, glowing satisfaction."You're a good listener," he said abruptly, around 11:30 AM. "Thank you, Jake."
"Most people stop listening after the first sentence about gear ratios."
"I like gear ratios," you lied. Well, a half-lie. You liked him talking about gear ratios.
"Okay," he said. He turned back to the pile. "I'm hungry now. It is Tuesday. Tuesday is grilled cheese."
"Do you want me to make it?"
He paused. He looked anxious. "Do you know the cut?"
"Diagonal?" you guessed. He nodded vigorously. "Diagonal. It tastes better. The surface area of the crust is distributed more evenly."
"I can do diagonal." You went to the kitchen. Sarah was sitting at the table, pretending to read a magazine, but she was clearly listening to the silence in the living room. She looked up as you entered. "Heâs... talking," she said, sounding stunned. "I heard him talking."
"He was telling me about the Falcon," you smiled, grabbing the bread. "Heâs brilliant, Sarah. He knows more about engineering than I know about anything."
Sarahâs eyes welled up. She blinked them back quickly. "He likes you. He usually ignores them for the first week. Or hides in his room."
"I think we're going to get along just fine."You made the grilled cheese. You cut it diagonally. You placed it on a plate (blue, his favorite color, according to the file).
You brought it to him. He ate it sitting on the floor, wiping his hands meticulously on a napkin between bites so he wouldn't get grease on the LEGOs.
When the shift ended at 3 PM, you felt exhausted but exhilarated. You gathered your bag."I have to go now, Jake," you said.He didn't look up from bag thirteen. "Okay."
"I'll be back tomorrow."He paused. He placed a brick. Then, without looking up, he spoke."Bring sneakers," he said.
"Sneakers?"
"Your shoes," he pointed to your heels you put back on without looking. "They go click-clack. It echoes. Sneakers are quieter. Stealth mode."
You smiled. "Stealth mode. Got it. Sneakers tomorrow."
The morning sun was hitting the pavement differently today. Yesterday, it had felt like a spotlight of judgment; today, it felt like a gentle invitation.You parked your sedan in the same spot, checking the time. 8:50 AM. You were establishing your own routine: ten minutes early, park, breathe, enter. Consistency was the currency of trust, and you intended to be rich in it. You looked down at your feet. Gone were the stiff, "professional" black heels that pinched your toes and echoed like gunshots in a quiet hallway. In their place were a pair of white Converseâclean, soft-soled, and silent. You had spent twenty minutes the night before scrubbing a scuff mark off the toe, irrationally worried that a smudge might disrupt the visual harmony of Jakeâs morning. "Stealth mode," you whispered to yourself, grabbing your bag. You walked up the path. You made a conscious effort to step lightly, rolling from heel to toe. The silence was noticeable. You felt less like an intruder and more like a ghost, slipping into the ecosystem without disturbing the wildlife. Sarah opened the door before you could ring the bell. She was holding a mug of coffee with two hands, looking slightly more awake than yesterday, though the tired lines were still etched deep around her eyes. She wore a soft grey cardigan wrapped tight around her frame. She looked down immediately. She saw the sneakers. A small, genuine smile touched her lipsânot the polite, strained smile of yesterday, but something softer. A crack in the armor.
"You listened," she said, opening the door wider. "He asked for sneakers," you said simply, stepping into the cool, lemon-scented foyer. "I figure he knows his ears better than I do."
"Youâd be surprised how many people argue with him on that," Sarah murmured, closing the door with a soft click. "They say, 'Oh, you'll get used to the noise.' As if he can just will his neurology to change."
"I'm not here to argue with him, Sarah. I'm here to work with him."
"I'm starting to believe you." She gestured toward the kitchen. "Heâs eating. Itâs a... process. Keep your voice low. Morning transitions are hard. His brain is still booting up." You followed her down the hallway, your rubber soles making no sound against the hardwood. The house was still unnaturally quiet, a sanctuary of stillness against the chaotic world outside. When you entered the kitchen, the scene was almost tableau-like in its precision. The kitchen was bathed in natural light, but the blinds were tilted just so to prevent any glare. At the round wooden table sat Jake.
He was wearing a different hoodie todayâa navy blue one, equally oversized, the sleeves pulled down over his knuckles. He was hunched slightly over his plate, his focus absolute. On the plate were two scrambled eggs and three strips of bacon. But "scrambled eggs and bacon" didn't quite do justice to what you were seeing. The eggs were a uniform yellowâno brown spots, no runny bits. They were separated perfectly from the bacon. The bacon itself had been cut into precise, one-inch squares.Jake held his fork in his right hand. He didn't shovel the food. He speared one square of bacon, lifted it, inspected it for a brief second, and then ate it. He chewed rhythmically. He swallowed. He took a sip of water from a clear glass (no ice, you notedâice clinks). Then, and only then, did he spear a forkful of eggs.
It was a ritual. A sequence.
"Hi, Jake," you said, pitching your voice to a soft murmur, staying near the doorway.
He paused mid-chew. He didn't look up immediately. He finished chewing, swallowed, and took his sip of water. Then, slowly, he turned his head. His hair was messy from sleep, sticking up in tufts in the back, giving him a disarmingly boyish look. His eyes were heavy, blinking slowly as they found you. He looked at your face. Then, immediately, his gaze dropped to the floor. He stared at your white Converse for a long, intense five seconds. You stood perfectly still, letting him inspect the data.
"White," he said. His voice was raspy with sleep, deeper than it had been yesterday.
"White," you agreed. "And rubber soles. No clicking."
He nodded onceâa sharp, decisive chin dip. "Stealth mode active."
"Active," you smiled. He turned back to his eggs. "Acceptable." Sarah let out a silent breath beside you. She touched your elbow gently and tilted her head toward the sunroom adjacent to the kitchen. It was close enough to see him, but far enough to talk without hovering over his plate. You followed her, sitting on a wicker chair while she perched on the edge of a loveseat. She watched her son eat with a mixture of fierce love and terrified vigilance. "Okay," Sarah whispered, turning to you. "Lesson number one: The morning sets the algorithm."
You pulled a small notebook out of your bag. "I'm listening."
"Jakeâs energy is a battery," Sarah explained, keeping one eye on the navy-hooded figure at the table. "Most of us start the day at 100%. We spend energy, we get tired, we sleep. Jake starts the day at maybe... 60%. Just existing costs him energy. The lights, the texture of his sheets, the smell of the coffee Iâm drinkingâit all costs him."
You wrote down: Baseline energy lower. High sensory tax.
"If breakfast goes wrong," Sarah continued, her voice tight, "if the eggs are slimy, or the bacon is burnt, or the spoon is the wrong weight... he loses 20% right there. Then he starts the day in a deficit. And a deficit means a meltdown is almost guaranteed by noon."
"So the routine isn't just about being picky," you said, realizing. "Itâs about conservation."
"Exactly," Sarah nodded, looking grateful that you got it. "Heâs controlling the variables he can control, because the rest of the world is completely out of control for him. That plate?" She pointed to his breakfast. "Thatâs safety. He knows exactly what the bacon will taste like. He knows the texture of the eggs. Itâs predictable. Predictability is safety." You watched Jake spear another square of bacon. The deliberate nature of it made sense now. He wasn't just eating; he was grounding himself for the day ahead. "Tell me about the food," you asked. "I noticed he cut the bacon before he started." "Texture and size," Sarah said. "He has trouble with proprioceptionâknowing where his body is in space, and sometimes, manipulating utensils while chewing is too much multitasking. If the food is big, he worries about choking. Or getting grease on his face. He hates having a dirty face. It feels like burning to him."
"So we keep it bite-sized," you noted. "Clean face, no unexpected textures."
"And no mixing," Sarah added quickly. "The eggs cannot touch the bacon. If the syrup from a waffle touches the sausage? The whole meal is ruined. Itâs contaminated."
"Separation is key."
"Yes." Sarah took a sip of her coffee, her eyes darkening slightly. "The last aide... she thought it was 'silly.' She tried to mix his corn and mashed potatoes to 'save space' on the plate. He flipped the table." You looked at the calm, quiet boy eating his squares of bacon. It was hard to imagine him flipping a table. "He felt bad about it for weeks," Sarah whispered, seeing your expression. "He cried for two days. He kept saying, 'I broke the plate, Mom. Iâm bad.' Heâs not violent, Y/N. Heâs never hurt a fly on purpose. But when the sensory overload hits... itâs like a power surge. His body just explodes to get the feeling out."
"I read about the meltdowns in the file," you said gently. "But the file called them 'behavioral outbursts.'"
Sarah scoffed. "Behavioral implies heâs doing it to get something. To manipulate. Heâs not. Itâs a system crash. Itâs pain. Imagine someone blasts an airhorn in your ear while flashing a strobe light in your eyes and scratching a chalkboard. Thatâs what a disrupted routine feels like to him. The screaming, the rocking? Thatâs him trying to survive the input." You looked at Jake again. He had finished his food. He was now wiping his mouth with a napkin. Once. Twice. Fold. Wipe again. "What do I do if he crashes?" you asked. "You don't talk much," Sarah said firmly. "Thatâs the biggest mistake people make. They try to talk him down. 'Calm down, Jake. Use your words, Jake.' He can't use his words. His language center shuts off. Talking just adds more noise."
"So... silence?"
"Presence," Sarah corrected. "Quiet, heavy presence. He responds to deep pressure. You saw the weighted blanket yesterday? He lives under that thing when heâs stressed. If heâs spiraling, don't touch him lightlyâlight touch feels like bugs crawling on him. But a firm squeeze? A hand on his shoulder, pressing down? That tells his brain where his body is. It anchors him." You wrote down: No light touch. Deep pressure. Silence > Words. "Heâs an empath, you know," Sarah said suddenly, her voice softening. You looked up. "The file said he has 'social deficits.'"
"The file is garbage," Sarah waved a hand dismissively. "He struggles with social cues. He doesn't understand sarcasm or hidden agendas. But emotions? He absorbs them like a sponge. If you are stressed, he will be stressed. If you are sad, he will be devastated. He can't filter out other people's feelings. Thatâs why he withdraws. Itâs too loud emotionally." She looked at you pointedly. "So, you have to be calm. Even if youâre panicking inside, you have to be a rock on the outside. If you bring chaos into this house, he will shatter." It was a heavy responsibility. You were twenty-two. You were barely an adult yourself. But looking at Sarahâs exhausted face, and Jakeâs solitary figure at the table, you felt a steel rod of determination form in your spine.
"I can be calm," you promised. "I can be a rock." Just then, the chair scraped against the floor in the kitchen. Jake stood up. He picked up his plate and glass. He walked to the sink, rinsed them both, and placed them in the dishwasher. Then, he turned and walked toward the sunroom. He stopped in the doorway, his hands shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie. He looked at his mom, then at you. "Breakfast is complete," he announced. "Good job, honey," Sarah said.
Jake looked at you. His eyes were clearer now, the sleepiness gone, replaced by that keen, observant intelligence you had seen yesterday. "Are we going to the living room?" he asked you.
"We can," you said, standing up. "Or we can do something else. Whatâs the plan for Wednesday?"
Jake frowned slightly. "Wednesday is... mid-week. The energy is medium." He tapped his fingers against his thigh. "I want to disassemble the sub-frame of the Falcon. I dreamed about a better anchor point for the hyperdrive."
"Disassembly," you nodded. "Sounds like a plan."
He turned to leave, then paused. He looked at your feet again.
"They really are quiet," he murmured, almost to himself. "Like a ninja." Then he disappeared down the hallway. Sarah let out a laugh, a short, breathy sound. "A ninja. Thatâs high praise. He likes ninjas. They have discipline."
"I'll take it," you smiled.
"Go on," Sarah shooed you gently. "I'm going to actually take a shower without worrying the house is burning down. You have the conn."
"I have the conn," you repeated. You walked down the hallway, your sneakers silent on the carpet. You found Jake in the living room, exactly where you left him yesterday. He was kneeling beside the massive LEGO structure. He didn't look up when you entered, but his shoulders didn't tense up either. He knew you were there. He accepted you were there.You walked over to your spot on the sofa and sat down.
"So," you said softly. "The hyperdrive anchor. What was wrong with the old one?"
Jake picked up a section of the ship. He rotated it, his eyes narrowing in concentration. "It was too rigid," he said. "If the ship moves, the stress fractures the connector. It needs flex. The universe has flex. Ships should too."
"Thatâs a good philosophy," you noted. "Flexibility prevents breaking."
He looked up at you then. A long, steady look. "Yes," he said. "
People break because they don't flex. They are rigid about the wrong things."
You felt a chill go down your spine. For someone who supposedly struggled with social concepts, he had just nailed the human condition in two sentences.
"I'll try to be flexible, Jake," you said. "Good," he said. He handed you a small bucket of grey pins. "You can sort these. By length. The short ones go on the left."
It was an order, but it was also an inclusion. He wasn't just letting you watch; he was letting you help. You took the bucket. You slid off the sofa and sat on the floorâkeeping a respectful three feet of distance.
"Short ones on the left," you repeated. You worked in silence for twenty minutes. It was a comfortable silence. The only sounds were the click-click of his building and the soft rattle of your sorting.
"Y/N?"
"Yeah, Jake?"
He didn't look up. He was fitting a gear into place.
"Thank you for the shoes," he said. His voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the room. "The clicking... it hurts my teeth. It makes my spine feel itchy."
"I didn't know," you said. "I'm sorry about yesterday."
"You didn't know the variable," he said simply. "Now you have the data. You updated your software."
"I did."
"That is efficient." He paused, then added, "Jenny never updated her software. She just wore the loud shoes every day." Your heart broke a little for him. You could imagine him sitting here, day after day, his spine "itching" from the sound, unable to articulate why he was so agitated, while a well-meaning but oblivious support worker clattered around him. "I will always try to update my software, Jake," you vowed. "If something hurts, you tell me. Iâll fix it."
He looked at you. He studied your face, your eyes, your posture. He was looking for the lie. He was looking for the condescension. He didn't find it. "Okay," he said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single, red 2x4 brick. He held it out to you. "This doesn't belong in the Falcon," he said. "The Falcon is grey and beige. This is red. Itâs an anomaly." You reached out and took the brick. It was warm from his pocket. "What should I do with it?"
"Keep it," he said, turning back to his work. "Itâs a good color. High saturation. But it needs to be somewhere else. You can hold it."
You closed your hand around the red brick. It felt like a token. A peace offering. A key. "I'll keep it safe," you said.You spent the rest of the morning sorting pins and listening to him explain the difference between torque and horsepower. You watched the way his hands moved, so sure and graceful. You watched the way the sun caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes.You thought about Sarahâs warning: He feels everything.You looked at the boy who was building a spaceship to escape to a galaxy far, far away, and you thought, I will make sure this room is safe enough that you don't have to leave.By lunchtime (grilled cheese, diagonal cut, blue plate), you had learned more about thermal exhaust ports than you ever thought possible.
But more importantly, when you put the plate down in front of him, he didn't just stare at the food.He looked up. He gave you a micro-smileâa tiny quirk of the lip.
And as he took his first bite, you realized that the crooked diploma on your wall didn't matter. The textbooks didn't matter. This mattered. The quiet boy, the blue plate, the silent shoes, and the fragile, beautiful bridge you were starting to build, brick by brick.
The warm, soapy water in the kitchen sink was turning a pale, creamy orangeâthe remnants of the roasted tomato bisque you had served for lunch. You moved the sponge in slow, rhythmic circles against the bottom of the ceramic bowl, the motion meditative. Three months. It had been ninety days since you first walked into this house with your squeaky dress shoes and your imposter syndrome. Ninety days of learning that "on time" meant ten minutes early, that "quiet" meant silent, and that the world was a cacophony that Jake Sim fought to tune out every single minute of his life. Sarah had left an hour ago. It was a milestone, really. For the first two months, she had hovered. She was a ghost in the peripheryâfolding laundry in the next room, "checking emails" at the dining table while you and Jake were in the living room, watering plants that were already drowned. You didn't blame her. The stories she had told you about previous support workers were horror shows of incompetence and impatience. But last week, she had looked at you, then looked at Jake, who was calmly explaining the aerodynamics of a LEGO helicopter to you, and she had exhaled. A long, heavy breath that released years of tension.
"I'm going to the grocery store," she had said today, pulling on her coat. "Alone. And then... I might go to the library. I might be gone for three hours."
"Go," you had smiled, handing her keys. "We have the conn."
"You have the conn," sheâd repeated, a small, terrified smile on her face.
And she had left. Now, it was just you, the soup bowls, and the faint sounds of explosions coming from the living room. You rinsed the bowl, placing it in the drying rack. You wiped your hands on the towel, taking a moment to scan the kitchen. It was spotless. Jake liked spotless. Clutter was "visual noise." If a spoon was left on the counter, he wouldn't say anything, but he would stare at it, his brow furrowed, his internal processor snagging on the anomaly until you moved it.You thought about the lunch you had just shared. Tomato soup. Pureed. No chunks. You had learned the hard way about Jakeâs dietary landscape. It was a map filled with landmines.
No surprises. That was the golden rule. A piece of onion in a smooth sauce was a betrayal. A crunch in a soft food was a systemic failure. And the colors... that was a fascinating chapter in your education. Jake hated white foods. You remembered the "Cauliflower Incident" of Month Two. Sarah had been sick, so you tried to make dinner. You mashed cauliflower, thinking it was a healthy alternative to potatoes. You put a scoop on his blue plate. Jake had looked at it like it was radioactive waste. He had pushed his chair back, his breathing hitching.
"Itâs a ghost," he had whispered, his eyes wide with genuine distress. "It has no data. Itâs blank."
"It's cauliflower, Jake," youâd said gently.
"Itâs deceptive," heâd countered, his voice trembling. "It looks like nothing, but it tastes like wet earth. Itâs lying to my eyes." He hadn't eaten it. He hadn't eaten anything that night until you brought him a glass of milk. Milk was the exception. You had asked him why, fascinated by the logic. "Milk is structural," he had explained, drinking it down in three large gulps. "It builds bone density. Calcium is a metal. Itâs not food; itâs construction material. Therefore, the color is irrelevant."
Logic. It was always about logic. You smiled to yourself, folding the dish towel. You checked the clock. 1:15 PM. Transition time. You walked out of the kitchen, your worn-in Converse making zero sound on the hardwood. You moved like a shadow, a skill you had perfected to avoid startling him.You stopped in the archway of the living room.The blackout curtains were drawn, creating a twilight effect that Jake preferred. The only light came from the massive 65-inch TV screen, which was currently exploding with red and blue light. Spider-Man: No Way Home. Again. Jake was sitting on the floor. He never sat on the couch when he was watching Spider-Man. He needed to be grounded, literally. He sat on the plush rug, his legs crossed, his posture rigid with focus. And he was wearing the pajamas. It was 1:15 PM on a Tuesday, but Jake was wearing a matching set of flannel pajamas covered in little Miles Morales masks. He had three sets. One with the classic logo, one with the Venom symbiote (which he only wore when he was moody), and this one.
He loved them because they were "high-tensile cotton," soft but durable, with no tags. He loved them because Peter Parker was his hero. You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms, just watching him.It was... cute. There was no other word for it. He wasn't just watching the movie; he was participating in it. He held a small LEGO minifigure of Spider-Man in his left hand. Every time Tom Holland shot a web on screen, Jakeâs left hand would twitch, mimicking the thwip motion. It was a subtle stim, a way of processing the action. You knew why he loved Spider-Man. He had told you, in bits and pieces, over the last three months. "He has to wear the suit," Jake had said once, tracing the logo on his pajama shirt. "Because the world is too loud. The suit dampens the input. It holds him together."
"And the Spidey Sense?" you had asked. "Overload," Jake had replied, his voice serious. "When the air changes pressure. When he hears everything at once. He has to learn to dial it down. That is... relatable." Peter Parker was a boy who was overwhelmed by his own senses, who had to hide his true self to survive, who was awkward and nerdy but deeply good. Of course Jake loved him. Jake was him, just without the radioactive spider bite. On the screen, Spider-Man was swinging through New York, the camera panning dizzyingly. Jake rocked slightly back and forth, syncing his vestibular system with the movement on screen.You waited for a quiet moment in the dialogue before speaking. You never interrupted an action sequence. That was a rule. The scene changed to Peter and MJ talking on a roof. "Does the mask fit today?" you asked softly. Jake didn't jump. He knew you were there. He had probably heard your breathing change when you entered the room.
He turned his head slowly. His hair was a chaotic, fluffy halo around his headâhe had shampooed it this morning, and it always got extra floofy on wash days. His big brown eyes blinked at you behind his glasses. "The mask is theoretical," he said. His voice was that familiar, soothing baritone. "But the pajamas are optimal. The flannel is at peak softness."
"They look very comfortable," you said, walking over and sitting on the sofa behind him. You didn't sit on the floor with him unless invited. "Is that the bridge scene?"
"It is the preamble to the bridge scene," Jake corrected gently. He turned back to the TV, but he leaned back slightly, resting his shoulders against the front of the sofa, right between your knees. It was a small gesture, but it meant the world. It meant you are safe. You are part of the furniture. I can rest on you. You resisted the urge to reach out and run your fingers through his hair. You knew he liked head scratches, but only when he initiated. Unexpected touch was "bugs." Initiated touch was "grounding."
"I made a discovery today," Jake said, his eyes still glued to the screen.
"Oh?"
"The soup," he said. "The viscosity was different."
Your heart skipped a beat. "Different bad or different good?"
He paused. He tapped the LEGO minifigure against his knee three times. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Different... efficient," he decided. "You roasted the tomatoes longer. The caramelization added depth. It reduced the acidity. It was... surprisingly pleasant."
You let out a breath. "I'm glad. I tried a new recipe."
"It is approved," Jake said. "You may add it to the rotation."
"Noted. Roasted tomato bisque: Approved." He went quiet for a moment, watching Peter Parker awkwardly try to explain his feelings to MJ. "Peter is bad at talking," Jake observed. "He is," you agreed. "He gets nervous."
"He has too many variables in his head," Jake said, twisting the LEGO figure. "He wants to say 'I like you,' but his brain is saying 'villains, aunt may, geometry, web fluid.' The output gets jammed."
"Does your output get jammed, Jake?" you asked softly.
He went still. The rocking stopped. He turned his head around to look up at you, craning his neck. His face was upside down from your perspective. His eyes were wide, searching yours. "Sometimes," he whispered. "With you."
Your breath caught. "With me?"
"Yes." He blinked. "Usually, with people, the output is jammed because I don't have the script. I don't know what they want me to say. Itâs... static."
He paused, thinking hard, his brow furrowing.
"But with you," he continued, "the output jams because... there is too much data. I want to tell you about the soup. And the LEGOs. And the way your shoes don't make noise. And the way you smell like vanilla and oats. It all tries to come out at once. And I get... stuck."
He looked so earnest, so frustrated by his own inability to verbalize the torrent of thoughts in his head.
"Thatâs okay," you said, your voice thick with emotion. "You don't have to say it all at once. You can just give me one piece of data at a time."
He seemed to consider this. He righted his head and turned back to the TV.
He reached into the pocket of his Spider-Man pajama pants. He pulled something out.
He held his hand up over his shoulder, blindly offering it to you.
"Data point one," he said.
You reached out and opened your hand. He dropped a small, plastic object into your palm. It was a LEGO piece. A translucent blue "power blast" piece that came with the Spider-Man sets. It was meant to look like energy or webbing.
"Itâs a web," he explained, staring at the screen. "It connects things. It holds things together when they are falling." You closed your fingers around the small, sharp plastic. It was better than a diamond ring."Thank you, Jake," you whispered. "I love it."
"Itâs polycarbonite," he added practically. "It won't break."
"Neither will we." He hummedâthat happy, vibrating sound that meant he was content. He leaned harder against your legs. "Do you want a snack?" you asked after a few minutes of comfortable silence. "Itâs 1:30." Jake stiffened. The snack question. It was always a gamble. "No sweets," he said immediately. "Sugar makes my teeth feel fuzzy sometimes. It makes my brain go bzzzzzt." He made a chaotic hand gesture. "No sweets," you promised. "I was thinking... pretzels? Or cheese cubes?"
"Cheese cubes," he said decisively. "Cheddar. Sharp. Cut into 1x1 centimeter blocks."
"I can do that."
"And... maybe milk?"
"Milk is structural," you recited his rule back to him.
"Correct," he said. "Milk is structural."
You stood up to go to the kitchen. Jake turned to watch you go.
"Y/N?"
"Yeah, Jakey?"
He looked at you, really looked at you, with that puppy-dog innocence that masked a profound, deep-feeling soul.
"Sarah is gone," he stated.
"She is."
"And the house is not on fire."
"Nope. No fire."
"And I am not screaming."
"You are definitely not screaming."
He nodded, a slow, satisfied movement. "This is a successful variable test."
"I think so too."
"Okay. Cheese cubes now."
He turned back to the movie, lifting his LEGO Spider-Man in the air to help Peter Parker swing across the screen. You walked to the kitchen, clutching the translucent blue LEGO piece in your pocket like a talisman. You opened the fridge and pulled out the block of sharp cheddar. You got the knife. You cut the cheese into precise, measured cubes. You thought about the last three months. You thought about the crooked diploma on your wall that you used to feel unworthy of. You didn't feel unworthy anymore. You didn't feel like a social worker "managing a case."
You felt like a web. You were holding him, and he was holding you, and together, you were swinging through the chaos of the world, one quiet, comfortable afternoon at a time. You put the cheese on the blue plateâmaking sure none of the cubes were touchingâand poured the milk. "Coming through," you whispered to the empty kitchen. "Stealth mode active." You walked back into the living room, where the boy in the Spider-Man pajamas was waiting for you, safe in the sanctuary you had built together.
The six-month mark didn't arrive with fireworks. It arrived with a quiet, steady hum of competence. You were no longer the nervous grad with the squeaky shoes. You were Y/N, the keeper of the routine, the translator of the static, the one who knew that if the humidity was above 80%, Jakeâs hair would frizz and the sensation would make him irritable unless he wore his hood up. You knew him. You knew the specific cadence of his breathing when he was happy (slow, deep) versus when he was anxious (shallow, catching in his throat). You knew that he categorized people by color auras he imagined for themâSarah was a soft yellow, you were a "protective blue." Sarah trusted you completely now. She had started taking yoga classes on Tuesday mornings. She had gone to lunch with a friend. She was reclaiming pieces of her life because she knew that when she left the house, you had the conn. "We need apples," Jake announced one Tuesday morning. He was standing in the kitchen, staring at the fruit bowl. It contained three bananas (too ripe, brown spotsâhe wouldn't touch them) and one orange. Zero apples. "We do," you agreed, closing the dishwasher. "Honeycrisp. No bruises."
"The Gala ones are mealy," Jake said, a shudder running through his shoulders. "Mealy is... bad texture. It feels like wet sand."
"Honeycrisp it is." He looked at you then. He was wearing his "going out" clothes: dark jeans that were soft and worn-in, and a grey hoodie that didn't have logos. He looked calm. His hands were steady at his sides. "I can assist," he said. You paused. "You want to come to the store?"
"Yes." He nodded once, firmly. "I have calculated the variables. It is Tuesday. The store is statistically less crowded at 10:00 AM. I can select the apples myself. To ensure quality control."
It was a big step. You hadn't taken him to the grocery store in two months. The last time had been... okay, but tense. He had gripped the cart handle so hard his knuckles turned white."Are you sure?" you asked gently.
"I am operating at 90% battery," he stated confidently. "I have my hoodie. I am prepared."
"Okay," you smiled, grabbing your keys. "Letâs go on a mission."
The drive was easy. You played his favorite playlistâlo-fi hip hop beats with no lyrics. He tapped his fingers against his thigh in time with the rhythm, looking out the window at the passing trees. "The leaves are changing," he noted. "Entropy."
"Itâs pretty though."
"It is acceptable decay," he conceded. You pulled into the parking lot of the massive supermarket. It wasn't too full, just as he predicted. Tuesday mornings were for retirees and stay-at-home parents. You turned off the engine.
"Okay," you said, unbuckling. "Game plan. In, apples, maybe some of that specific cheddar you like, and out. Fifteen minutes max."
"Stealth mission," Jake whispered. You got out of the car. Jake got out.
He reached into his hoodie pocket. And froze. He patted his left pocket. Then his right. Then his jeans. He turned to look at the backseat of your car. "Y/N," he said. His voice wasn't calm anymore. It had a sudden, sharp edge to it.
"What is it?" You walked around the car to him.
"My headphones," he said, staring at the empty backseat. "I... I put them on the table. By the door. I didn't pick them up."
Your stomach dropped. The headphones. The Sony noise-canceling over-ear ones. His shield. His buffer against the world. He never left the house without them.
"Oh, Jake," you said, scanning the car quickly, hoping they had just fallen. But you knew. You had seen them on the console table when you grabbed your keys. You had been so focused on making sure you had your wallet that you hadn't done the equipment check. "I forgot them," he whispered. He looked at the looming sliding glass doors of the supermarket. Suddenly, the building didn't look like a store. It looked like a monster's mouth.
"We can go back," you said immediately. "Itâs a ten-minute drive. Weâll go get them."
Jake shook his head. He was clenching his fists at his sides. "No," he said. He looked at you, his brown eyes wide and pleading. He wanted to be brave. He wanted to show you he could do it. "No. Itâs Tuesday. 10:00 AM. Low crowd density. I can do it. I have to flex."
"Jake, you don't have to flex on this. The store is loud."
"I can do it," he insisted, his voice rising slightly. "If we go back, we lose the window. The crowd density increases after 11:00. We are here. I am capable."
He looked so determined. He pulled his hood up over his head, tightening the strings until only his nose and eyes were visible.
"Hood up," he muttered. "Muffled." You hesitated. Every instinct in your social worker brain said abort mission. But every instinct in your heart wanted to support his autonomy. He was an adult. He was telling you he could handle it. "Okay," you said, your voice low. "But the secondâthe secondâyou feel the static getting too loud, you squeeze my hand three times. And we leave. We leave the apples, we leave the cart, we just go. Deal?" "Deal," he said. "Three squeezes. Emergency exit." He took a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks. "Letâs execute." The mistake became apparent the moment the automatic doors whooshed open. You had forgotten how aggressive a grocery store is. You filtered it outâyour brain ignored the hum of the freezers, the beep of the scanners, the squeak of cart wheels, the generic pop music playing over the PA system. But for Jake, without his headphones, there was no filter.
He flinched as we stepped onto the linoleum. The air conditioning blasted him, a physical wall of cold air.
"Okay?" you checked, moving close to his side.
"Buzzy," he muttered, keeping his head down. "Lights are... flickering. 60 hertz cycle."
"We'll be fast," you promised. "Produce is right here."
You steered him toward the apples. He kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched up to his ears. He was making himself small.
"Honeycrisp," you said, grabbing a plastic bag. "Help me pick three good ones."
He focused on the task. The task was a lifeline. He inspected the apples with intense scrutiny, turning them over in his hands.
"Bruise," he whispered, rejecting one. "Soft spot."
He found three perfect apples. He placed them in the bag gently.
"Good," he said. "Done."
"Okay. Cheese next? Aisle four."
"Aisle four," he repeated. "Dairy. Cold."
You started walking. The store was indeed mostly empty, but 'mostly' isn't 'completely'.
A cart rattled past us. One of the wheels was stuck, making a rhythmic thud-squeak-thud-squeak sound.
Jake winced. He pressed his shoulder against yours. You leaned back into him, offering your solidity.
"Almost there," you murmured.
We turned into Aisle Four. And thatâs when the variables shifted. An employee was restocking the yogurt. He was tossing the plastic containers onto the shelf. Clack. Clack. Clack. At the other end of the aisle, a price scanner beeped loudly. BEEP. And then, the intercom crackled to life. "Price check on register three. Clean up in aisle nine." The voice was distorted, loud, and metallic. It echoed off the high industrial ceilings. Jake stopped walking. "Jake?" you whispered.He didn't answer. He was staring at the yogurt cups. His breathing had gone shallow. In-in-out. In-in-out. "Too many," he whispered. "Too many layers."
"Okay," you said instantly. "We're done. Letâs go."
You reached for his hand.But then, the final variable dropped. A woman turned the corner into the aisle. She was pushing a stroller. Inside the stroller was a baby.
The baby wasn't just crying. It was shrieking. It was that high-pitched, piercing wail that evolution designed to be impossible to ignore. It cut through the air like a jagged knife.Jake gasped. It sounded like he had been punched in the stomach.
His hands flew out of his pockets and slapped over his ears, pressing the fabric of his hood tight against his head. "No," he whimpered. "No no no."
"Jake," you said, stepping in front of him. "Look at me. Eyes on me." But the baby screamed again. A sharp, fluctuating cry. Jakeâs knees buckled.
He didn't fall; he crumbled. He dropped straight down to the cold linoleum floor, curling into a tight ball. He tucked his head between his knees, his hands clamped over his ears so hard his knuckles were white. "Make it stop," he keened. It was a high, thin sound of pure distress. "Itâs needles. Itâs needles in my ears."
The woman with the stroller stopped. She looked at the grown man curled on the floor. She looked at you.
"Is he okay?" she asked, her voice loud, concerned but intrusive.
"He's fine," you said, your voice sharp, protective. "Please, just keep moving. The noise." She looked offended, but she pushed the stroller away. The crying faded, but the damage was done. Jake was rocking now. Fast. Forward and back. Forward and back. Thump. His head hit his knees. Thump. "Jake," you said, dropping to your knees beside him. You abandoned the cart. You didn't care about the apples. "Jake, I'm here. I'm right here." He couldn't hear you. The static had swallowed him. He was in the red zone. System failure. You saw the panic in his posture. He was hyperventilating, gasping for air that felt too thick to breathe. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a relentless strobe to his overloaded brain.You knew what you had to do.You moved in. You sat on the floor behind him, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling his back against your chest.
You wrapped your arms around his chest, over his arms, locking your hands together.
And you squeezed. "Deep pressure," you whispered into his hood. "I've got you. I am the shield." You squeezed him with everything you had. You compressed his ribcage, grounding him. He fought it for a second, his body rigid and trembling, radiating heat. He let out a sobâa broken, terrified sound. "Hurts," he choked out. "Everything hurts."
"I know," you murmured, resting your chin on top of his hooded head. "I know, baby. Transfer it to me. Give me the noise." You started to rock with him. You synchronized your movement with his. Forward. Back. Forward. Back.People were staring. A manager was walking over, looking concerned.You held up one hand, palm out. Stop.
The manager paused. He saw the way you were holding him. He nodded once and backed off, diverting traffic away from the aisle. Thank god for small mercies.
"Breathe with me," you commanded softly, pressing your sternum against his spine. You took a deep, exaggerated breath. In. You held it. Out. Jake struggled. His breath was catching in jagged hiccups. "Focus on my arms," you said. "Feel how heavy they are. Feel the floor. The floor is hard. You are here. You are Jake. I am Y/N."
"Y/N," he gasped. It was a lifeline.
"Thatâs right. I'm right here. I forgot the headphones, Jake. Iâm so sorry. I messed up. But Iâve got you now." He was shaking violently, the adrenaline crash hitting him.
We sat there on the floor of Aisle Four for what felt like an eternity. It was probably ten minutes. Slowly, the rocking slowed. His hands, still clamped over his ears, loosened their grip slightly.
"Static," he whispered. "Itâs... lowering."
"Good. Keep breathing."
"The baby?"
"Gone. The baby is gone."
He slumped back against you, his weight fully supported by your chest. He was exhausted. A meltdown burned energy like a marathon. "I fell down," he whispered, shame creeping into his voice. "You sat down," you corrected firmly. "You did what you needed to do to survive the input. That is valid."
"People are looking."
"Let them look. Theyâre just jealous of how good I am at hugging."
He let out a weak, watery huff of laughter. It was a tiny sound, but it broke the tension. "Okay," you said, loosening your grip just a fraction. "Can we move? Or do we need more time?"
"Car," he said immediately. "I want the car. The bubble."
"Okay. We're going to the car. Do you want to walk, or do you want me to help you?"
"Help," he whispered. "My legs are... jelly. The signal is weak."
"I've got you."
Standing up was an ordeal. You had to hoist him up, his arm draped heavy over your shoulders. He kept his head down, eyes squeezed shut, hiding inside his hood.
You left the cart with the apples and the cheese. You didn't look back.
The walk to the exit was a gauntlet, but you moved fast. You glared at anyone who lingered too long with their gaze. Move along, your eyes said. This is my person.
When the automatic doors whooshed open, the humid, real air hit you. It was better than the recycled freeze of the store.
You got him to the passenger side. You opened the door. He practically collapsed into the seat. You ran around to the driver's side and got in. You locked the doors. You didn't start the car. You just sat in the sudden, blessed silence of the sedan.
Jake pulled his knees up to his chest, curling into a ball on the seat. He pulled his hood down further. "I failed," he said. His voice was muffled and thick with tears.
"No," you said, turning to him. "No, you didn't."
"I did," he insisted, a sob breaking through. "I said I could do it. I said I could flex. But I broke. The baby cried and I broke." He turned his head to look at you, and your heart shattered. His face was wet with tears, his eyes red and swollen, looking at you with such profound disappointment in himself. "I wanted to be good for you," he whispered. "I wanted to show you I could be normal." You unbuckled your seatbelt. You reached across the console. You couldn't hug him fully, so you put your hand on his knee and squeezed hard. "Jake," you said fiercely. "You are good. You are so good. You don't have to be 'normal.' Normal is boring. Normal is overrated."
"But I ruined the mission. No apples."
"Screw the apples," you said. "Jake, look at me."
He blinked at you. "This was my fault," you said. "I forgot the headphones. I am the support worker. It is my job to check the equipment. I sent you into a construction zone without a hard hat. Of course it hurt. Thatâs not you failing. Thatâs physics."
"Physics?"
"Yes. If you pour too much water into a cup, it spills. The store poured too much noise into your ears. You spilled. Thatâs just cause and effect."
He sniffled, processing this logic. "So... I didn't malfunction?"
"No. Your sensors were just overwhelmed. And you know what? You signaled. You didn't scream at the lady. You didn't throw the yogurt. You sat down. That was control."
He wiped his nose on his sleeve. "It felt like dying."
"I know," you softened. "I know it did. And I am so, so sorry I let that happen to you."
He looked at your hand on his knee. He reached out and covered it with his own. His hand was cold and clammy. "You squeezed me," he said softly.
"Always."
"You blocked the noise. You felt like... a wall."
"I will always be your wall, Jake." He looked up at you then, and the look in his eyes was so open, so raw, it took your breath away. It wasn't the look of a client looking at a worker. It was the look of a man looking at his safe harbor. "I don't like it when you're sad," he whispered, reaching up to touch your cheek. You hadn't realized you were crying until he brushed a tear away with his thumb. "I'm not sad," you lied, your voice wavering. "I just... I hate seeing you hurt."
"I'm okay now," he said. "The static is gone. You're here."
He leaned his head across the center console, resting it awkwardly on your shoulder. It wasn't comfortable, the gear shift was digging into his side, but he needed the contact.
"Can we go home?" he asked. "To the blanket?"
"Yes," you sniffed, resting your cheek on his head. "Home. Blanket. And Iâm ordering pizza. No cooking tonight."
"Pizza," he agreed. "Pepperoni. Symmetrical distribution."
"Symmetrical distribution," you promised.
You started the car. The engine purred to life. As you drove out of the parking lot, He reached over and took your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. He squeezed three times.
Thank you
It was the signal you had established for "emergency exit," but in the quiet of the car, with the sun filtering through the trees, it felt like it meant something else entirely.
You squeezed back three times.
You're WelcomeÂ
You drove home in silence, hand in hand, the apples forgotten, but the trust between you stronger than any reinforced concrete. You had weathered the storm. You had survived the spill. And you knew, with absolute certainty, that as long as you had the conn, he would always be safe.
The plan for New Yearâs Eve was simple, safe, and delightfully boring. You were going to wear your ugliest, most comfortable sweatpants, order an obscene amount of pad thai, and binge-watch the new drama that had dropped on Netflix. You had bought a bottle of cheap sparkling cider (because champagne gave you a headache) and planned to be asleep by 12:05 AM. You were looking forward to the silence. After 9 months of working as a support specialistâa job that required hyper-vigilance, constant emotional regulation, and a lot of noise managementâsilence was a luxury.
Then, at 9:45 PM, your phone buzzed.
Caller ID: Sarah Sim.
Your stomach did a little flip. Sarah never called after hours unless something was wrong. You answered immediately, pausing the drama where the lead actors were staring longingly at each other in the rain. "Sarah? Is everything okay?"
"Y/N, I am so sorry," Sarahâs voice was breathless, pitched high with stress. In the background, you could hear the distinct panic motion. "I hate to do this to you on a holiday. I really, really hate it."
"Sarah, breathe. Whatâs going on?"
"Itâs my sister. Linda. She slipped on some ice in her driveway and... well, it looks like she broke her hip. Sheâs at the ER, and her husband is out of town on business, and the kids are..." She trailed off, a jagged sound of frustration escaping her. "I have to go. Iâm preparing to go there now. But I can't take Jake. The ER waiting room on New Year's Eve? It would be a nightmare. The sirens, the people, the smell of antiseptic... heâd spiral before we even checked in."
"Say no more," you said, already standing up and reaching for your keys. "Iâm coming over."
"Are you sure? Itâs New Yearâs. You must have plans. Youâre twenty-three, you should be out at a party."
You laughed, grabbing your coat. "My plans involved noodles and pajamas, Sarah. Iâm not missing anything. Iâll be there in twenty minutes."
"Thank you," she sobbed, a sound of pure relief. "Thank you. Heâs... heâs anxious. The fireworks have started early in the neighborhood. Heâs got his headphones on, but heâs pacing."
"Iâve got him," you promised. The drive to the Sims' house was a gauntlet of festive chaos. Even though it wasn't even 8:00 PM yet, the suburbs were alive. You saw teenagers running on lawns with sparklers, and every few minutes, a distant pop-pop-pop of firecrackers echoed off the houses.
You gripped the steering wheel tighter. You knew exactly what those sounds were doing to Jake. To him, a firecracker wasn't a celebration. It was a sonic assault. It was unpredictable, sharp, and threatening. It was a breach of the peace he worked so hard to maintain. When you pulled into the driveway, Sarah was already standing on the porch. The front door was open behind her, spilling warm yellow light onto the snow-dusted concrete. She had her purse over one shoulder and her car keys clutched in her hand like a weapon. She looked exhausted, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing a coat over what looked like lounge clothes.
"You made good time," she said as you walked up the path, your sneakers silent on the pavement.
"Traffic was light," you said. "Go. Go take care of your sister. Don't worry about anything here."
"Heâs in the living room," Sarah said, glancing back at the house. "He ate dinnerâchicken nuggets, oven-baked, no sauce. Heâs... rigid tonight. The noise is getting to him. He keeps checking the windows."
"I'll handle it," you assured her. "We'll build a fort if we need to. We'll turn up the white noise."
She squeezed your arm, her eyes wet. "You're a lifesaver, Y/N. Happy New Year."
"Happy New Year, Sarah."
She hurried to her car, and you watched her back out before you turned to the house. You took a deep breath, shaking off the cold and the residual stress of the drive, and stepped inside.The transition was instant. The outside world was a cacophony of wind and distant explosions. Inside, it was a sanctuary. The air smelled of lemon and old books. It was warm.You locked the door behind you, turning the deadbolt with a soft click. "Stealth mode active," you whispered to yourself, toeing off your shoes and leaving them on the mat.You walked down the hallway. The house felt different at night. The shadows were longer, the silence heavier. You could feel the tension in the air, a static charge that radiated from the living room. You reached the archway.
The blackout curtains were drawn tight, sealing the room against the flashing lights outside. The only illumination came from the TV screen. Jake was sitting on the couch.Usually, he sat on the floor with his LEGOs, or in his recliner. But tonight, he was curled up in the corner of the sofa, knees pulled to his chest.
He was wearing a blue hoodie you hadn't seen before. It looked incredibly soft, a velvet-touch fabric that caught the light of the TV. His pajama pants were a dark plaid flannel. He had his big Sony headphones on, but they were slightly askew, as if he had been adjusting them frequently.He was watching Big Hero 6. The scene where Baymax and Hiro are flying over San Fransokyo at sunset. It was a quiet, visually stunning scene.
He didn't hear you come in.
You stood there for a moment, just watching him. He looked small. He was a grown man, broad-shouldered and tall, but curled up like that, protecting his vital organs from the invisible threat of the noise, he looked like the boy in the file photo from six months ago.You stepped into his line of sight, moving slowly so you wouldn't startle him.Jakeâs head snapped up. For a second, there was fear in his eyesâa deer-in-headlights look. Then, recognition flooded in. His face transformed. The tension in his jaw released. His shoulders dropped three inches.
His eyesâthose big, expressive, puppy-dog eyes that had hooked you from day oneâlit up. It wasn't a dramatic smile; it was a softening. A light turning on in a dark room. He pulled his headphones down around his neck.
"Y/N," he said. His voice was rough, like he hadn't spoken in hours.
"Hi, Jake," you said softly, walking over to the couch. "Your mom had to go help her sister. So you're stuck with me tonight."
"I am not stuck," he corrected immediately, uncurling his legs. "This is an upgrade. Mom is stressed. Her aura is jagged yellow. You are blue. Blue is calm."
You smiled, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch, giving him space but close enough to be an anchor. "I'm glad I'm blue. How are you holding up? Itâs loud out there." Jake frowned, looking toward the curtained window.
"The explosions are irregular," he murmured. "There is no pattern. Pop. Then silence. Then boom. My brain tries to predict the next one, but it can't. Itâs a broken algorithm."
He picked at the fuzz on his blue hoodie. "I hate the sound. It vibrates in my teeth."
"I know," you said sympathetically. "Itâs the worst kind of noise."
"But..." He hesitated. He looked at the TV screen, where colorful lights were dancing. "I like the data. I like the chemistry."
"The chemistry?"
"Strontium carbonate," he said, listing it like a fact from a textbook. "That makes red fireworks. Barium chloride makes green. Copper chloride makes blue. Itâs just burning metal. It should be beautiful. Physics is beautiful."
He looked at you, his expression wistful and sad. "I want to see the chemistry. But I can't handle the physics of the sound wave."
Your heart gave a little tug.You thought about the parking lot downtown. The one on the hill that overlooked the river. It was a popular spot, but if you stayed in the car...
An idea formed."Jake," you said slowly. "What if I told you there was a way to see the chemistry without feeling the sound wave?" He tilted his head. "That is impossible. Light and sound travel together. Well, light is faster, but the sound always arrives."
"Not if we're in a bubble," you said. "My car. Itâs insulated. If we drive to the lookout, park, roll the windows up tight, turn on the heater, and put your headphones on... youâd see them through the windshield. But you wouldn't hear the boom. Or at least, it would be a tiny thud. Not a bang."
He stared at you. You could see the gears turning behind his eyes. He was calculating the risk. "The car is a Faraday cage," he whispered. "For sound."
"Exactly. A shield." He looked at the window, then back at you. He trusted you. You had established that over six months of grilled cheese sandwiches and LEGO builds. You were the one who saved him in the grocery store. You were the one who brought the frozen peas for his headache.
"Can I bring my blanket?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And the headphones?"
"Non-negotiable."
He took a deep breath. He stood up. He smoothed down the front of his soft blue hoodie.
"Okay," he said. "Letâs go to the bubble."
The preparation for the expedition was precise.
Jake put on his shoes (velcro, no laces to trip on). He grabbed his grey weighted blanket. He put his headphones on, checking the battery life (84%âacceptable). He grabbed a small bag of pretzels, just in case he needed to chew to regulate his jaw tension.
You walked him to your car. The cold air bit at your cheeks. Somewhere down the street, a firecracker went offâa sharp CRACK. Jake flinched violently, stopping in the middle of the driveway. His hands flew to his ears over the headphones.
"Hey," you said, stepping in front of him, blocking his view of the street. "Eyes on me. Look at my coat. Look at the buttons." He focused on your coat. He breathed in. He breathed out.
"Car," he gasped.
"Car," you agreed.
You got him inside and slammed the door. You ran to the driver's side and got in. You immediately cranked the heater and turned on the radio to a classical stationâlow, steady cello music. "Status?" you asked, looking at him. He was adjusting his headphones. He pushed the noise-canceling button. The world outside muted.
"Status green," he said, though his voice sounded far away to himself. "The seal is tight."
"Okay. We're moving."
The drive to the lookout took twenty minutes. The traffic was light; most people were already at their parties. You drove carefully, avoiding potholes, keeping the ride as smooth as possible. Jake sat in the passenger seat, clutching his weighted blanket to his chest. He watched the streetlights pass by, counting them under his breath.
"You look nice," he said suddenly. You glanced at him, surprised. You were wearing sweatpants and a puffy coat. You had zero makeup on. "I look like a marshmallow, Jake."
"No," he said seriously. "Your face is... nice. And you look calm. You always look calm. It makes the inside of the car feel slow."
"Slow is good?"
"Fast is scary. Slow is safe. You feel safe."
You felt a flush rise to your cheeks that had nothing to do with the heater. "Thank you, Jake. You look nice too. That hoodie looks very soft."
He looked down at his chest. He rubbed the fabric. "It is velvet-fleece blend. Sarah bought it. I usually only wear hoodies with zippers, but this one... the texture is superior. It feels like a cat."
"A cat hoodie. I like it." You reached the lookout. It was a large paved lot on a bluff overlooking the River. Across the water, the city skyline was lit up. There were other cars parked there, facing the river, their engines idling, mist rising from their tailpipes.
You found a spot near the edge, away from a truck that was blasting bass-heavy music. You put the car in park. "We have arrived," you announced.
Jake leaned forward, peering through the windshield. The view was panoramic. The dark water reflected the city lights, creating a shimmering mirror.
"The vantage point is optimal," he noted.
"We have about fifteen minutes until midnight," you said, checking the dashboard clock. 11:45 PM.
"Fifteen minutes," Jake repeated. "900 seconds."
He leaned back, relaxing slightly. He pulled the weighted blanket up so it covered his chin, leaving only his eyes and nose visible. He looked like a cozy, anxious turtle. "Y/N?"
"Yeah, Jake?"
"Why are you here?"
The question caught you off guard. "What do you mean?"
"Itâs New Year's Eve," he said. "The social convention is to be at a gathering. Drinking ethanol. Counting down with many people. You are twenty-three. The data suggests you should be partying." He turned his head to look at you. His eyes were searching yours in the dim light of the dashboard.
"I didn't want to be at a party," you said honestly. "Parties are loud. And the floor is usually sticky. And you have to talk to people you don't know."
"You don't like loud?" Jake looked surprised.
"Not really. I do it for work, but... I like quiet. I like slow."
"Like the car."
"Like the car." You turned in your seat to face him fully. "And besides... Iâd rather be here. With you." Jake went still. He stared at you. You could see him processing the statement, turning it over in his mind, looking for the hidden meaning.
"With me?" he whispered. "But I am... work."
"No," you shook your head gently. "You stopped being just work a long time ago, Jake. We're friends. Right?"
He blinked. "Friends."
"Yes. And I like hanging out with my friend. Especially when he teaches me about strontium carbonate." A slow, shy smile spread across his face. It started at the corners of his mouth and reached his eyes, crinkling them. He snuggled deeper into his blanket. "Friends," he tested the word. "That is... acceptable. Highly acceptable."
He looked back out the windshield. "Sarah says friends don't get paid to hang out."
"Well, tonight I'm not getting paid," you lied (technically the agency would bill for this, but the sentiment was real). "Tonight Iâm just Y/N."
"Just Y/N," he echoed. "And just Jake."
"Just Jake."
The dashboard clock clicked to 11:59 PM.
"One minute," you said. "Sixty seconds."
Jake tensed up. He pressed his hands over his headphones, ensuring the seal was perfect. "The bubble holds," he whispered to himself.
"The bubble holds," you confirmed.
Across the river, in the city center, a single flare shot up into the sky. A white streak against the black. Thenâbloom. A massive golden sphere exploded in the air. It was huge, glittering, and silent. Inside the car, you heard nothing. Just the cello music and the heater. Jake flinched visually when the light exploded, his shoulders jerking up. He waited. He braced himself for the boom.
One second. Two seconds. No boom. Just a soft, dull thud that vibrated vaguely in the floorboards, barely noticeable. Jake let out a breath. His shoulders dropped.
Another one went up. Red this time. Strontium carbonate. It burst into a heart shape.
Jake leaned forward. He pressed his hands against the dashboard. His eyes went wide. "Red," he breathed. Then came the finale. The sky erupted. Greens, blues, purples, golds. It was a chaotic, beautiful mess of chemistry and light. The river below caught the reflections, doubling the show.
You weren't watching the sky.
You were watching Jake.
The colored light from the fireworks washed over his face in wavesâblue, then red, then gold. His glasses reflected the explosions, making his eyes look like they held galaxies.
His mouth was slightly open in awe. The fear was completely gone, replaced by a childlike wonder that was so pure it made your chest ache. He wasn't the anxious young man in the grocery store aisle. He wasn't the client with the file. He was just a boy loving the lights.
He looked beautiful.
The soft slope of his nose, the messy hair falling over his forehead, the way his eyelashes caught the light. You felt a swell of emotion so strong it almost knocked the wind out of you. It wasn't just affection. It wasn't just protectiveness.
It was love. You had known it for a while, but here, in the quiet bubble of the car, with the new year raining down in sparks of fire, it felt undeniable.
Suddenly, Jake turned his head.
He caught you staring. Usually, when you were caught staring, you would look away. You would check your phone. You would pretend you were looking past him.
But tonight, you didn't. You held his gaze. The fireworks were still exploding behind him, framing his silhouette in halos of light.Jake looked at you. He saw the way you were looking at him. He didn't flinch. He didn't look down at his shoes.
He smiled.It wasn't his polite smile. It wasn't his nervous smile. It was an innocent, soft, intimate smile that said I see you seeing me, and I am okay with it.
He reached up and pulled one side of his headphones back, just an inch, breaking the seal.
"Happy New Year, Y/N," he said softly.
The cello music swelled. The heater hummed.
"Happy New Year, Jake," you whispered.
He didn't put the headphone back. He kept looking at you. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back up to your eyes. It was a fleeting glance, one he probably didn't even realize he made, but you saw it.
"The chemistry is beautiful," he said.
"Yeah," you breathed, looking right into his brown eyes. "It really is."
He held your gaze for another long second, the air between you thick and warm and incredibly soft. It felt like the start of something. Not a frantic race, but a slow, steady walk.Then, he turned back to the windshield as a massive blue weeping willow firework drifted down toward the water. "Copper chloride," he noted, sliding his headphone back into place. But he reached out his hand, the one not holding the blanket, and placed it palm-up on the center console.
It was an invitation. You reached out and placed your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours. His hand was warm. He squeezed three times.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
You squeezed back three times.
The fireworks ended. The smoke drifted over the river. The year turned over.
But in the quiet car, holding Jakeâs hand while he hummed a happy little tune under his breath, you knew the best part of the year had already begun. The new year didn't come in with a bang. It came in with a soft, steady warmth, wearing a blue hoodie and holding your hand.
March arrived with a slow, hesitant thaw, washing away the stubborn winter snow and leaving behind a world that felt raw, muddy, and ready to wake up.
It had been months since you first walked up the driveway of that quiet suburban home, a fresh-faced social work graduate clutching a file folder that tried to summarize a human being into a list of clinical symptoms. Back then, you had been terrified of making a mistake, of wearing the wrong shoes or breathing too loudly. Now, as the first hints of spring began to show through the living room windows, you navigated the complex, beautiful landscape of Jake Simâs life with a quiet, practiced confidence.
You were officially his support worker. But unofficially, you had become his translator, his anchor, and his closest confidante. The boundaries of your job description had blurred into a deep, unwavering affection. You weren't his girlfriendâyou strictly maintained your professional role, aware of the ethics and the fragile nature of his trustâbut the feelings you harbored for the twenty-four-year-old were a warm, heavy reality in your chest that you could no longer deny.
Over the winter, the walls Jake had built to protect himself from a world that was too loud, too bright, and too unpredictable had slowly begun to lower. He was more trusting now. The rigid, closed-off young man from the file was gone, replaced by someone who sought out your presence.
You knew him completely. You knew his dietary map so well you didn't even need to consult the notes Sarah had left you on your first day. You knew he despised the texture of anything "mealy," like certain types of apples or boiled potatoes. You knew he had a strict rule against white-colored foods because they felt "deceptive" to his brain, with the sole exception of milk, which he categorized as "structural calcium" rather than a beverage. You had even managed to successfully introduce new variables into his routine. It had happened on a quiet Tuesday in early March. You had taken a massive gamble and driven him to a small, dimly lit Mexican restaurant on the edge of town for a late lunch. Jake had been rigid in the passenger seat, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his gray hoodie.
"Spicy is a pain signal," he had informed you, his brow furrowed anxiously behind his glasses. "Capsaicin tricks the brain into thinking the tissue is burning. I do not wish to be tricked. My baseline for sensory input is already at capacity."
"I promise we won't get anything spicy," you had assured him, parking the car in the empty lot. "But they have chips. Corn chips. And I think youâll like the texture. They're uniform and crunchy." He had agreed to the mission, trusting you enough to step inside. The restaurant was practically deserted, which kept his anxiety at bay. When the basket of warm tortilla chips arrived, Jake had inspected one like a scientist examining a new element. He noted the uniform triangle shape. He took a tiny bite.
The loud, satisfying crunch made his eyes widen. He hummed, a low vibration of approval in his chest.
Then, you introduced the mild salsa. You explained that it was blended completely smoothâno hidden chunks of onion or tomato to surprise his palate. He had dipped the microscopic corner of a chip into the red sauce. He ate it. He blinked, processed the flavor profile, and dipped again, a little deeper this time.
"The acidity of the tomato cuts through the oil of the corn chip," he had observed, looking at you with a profound sense of realization. "It is mathematically balanced. It is... highly acceptable."Chips and smooth salsa had instantly become a staple. You started keeping jars of it in the pantry, and he would happily eat it as a snack while watching his shows.That same evening, the shift in his trust had become distinctly physical. You were sitting on the couch in the living room, the blackout curtains drawn, watching an animated movie.Usually, when you watched movies, Jake would either sit on the floor, grounded on the rug, or he would sit on the far end of the sofa, leaving a careful, deliberate two-foot gap between you. He wasn't big on physical proximity unless he was in the middle of a meltdown and needed deep pressure to ground himself.But that night, he had sat down on the sofa and looked at the gap. He looked at you. And then, he scooted over.He didn't press flush against you, but the gap shrank to a mere inch. You could feel the warmth radiating from his arm. When he leaned forward to watch a visually intense scene, his shoulder brushed against yours, and he didn't pull away.You had frozen, your heart doing a strange, fluttering tap-dance against your ribs. You didn't pull away, but you didn't push closer, either. You just sat there, hyper-aware of his presence, feeling incredibly honored that he felt safe enough to let his guard down and share your personal space.
A few days later, a new sensory challenge presented itself.
It was a rainy Thursday afternoon. The house was quiet, but Jake was not. He was pacing the length of the living room, his steps heavy and agitated. He kept reaching up to swat at the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders, and grimacing as if something invisible was attacking him. "Jake?" you asked softly from the kitchen counter, where you were organizing his schedule for the week. "Is your shirt tag bothering you? I can cut it out."
He stopped pacing. He looked at you, his brown eyes clouded with severe distress. He reached up and grabbed a handful of his dark, fluffy hair at the nape of his neck. It had gotten long over the winterâcurling over the tops of his ears and brushing against the collar of his hoodie. "Itâs not the shirt," he said, his voice tight and breathless. "Itâs my hair. Itâs touching me. Every time I turn my head, it feels like cobwebs. Constant, heavy cobwebs. It is distracting my processor. The input is overwhelming."
"Do you want me to ask your mom to make an appointment at the barber?" you suggested gently. The look of sheer, visceral terror that crossed his face made you instantly regret the question. The barber was a sensory nightmare for him. It meant the loud buzzing of electric clippers vibrating against his skull, the strong smell of chemical barbicide, the bright fluorescent lights, and the unpredictable, light touch of a strangerâs hands on his sensitive scalp."No," he breathed, taking a step back, his hands flapping slightly at his sides as he tried to regulate his rising panic. "No barber. The buzzing hurts my teeth. The cape is too tight on my throat. I can't. I can't go."
"Okay," you said instantly, keeping your voice low and soothing. "No barber. I promise, Jake. We won't go." You thought for a second, watching him scratch frantically at the back of his neck.
"What if... what if I did it?" you offered.
He blinked, his hands freezing. "You?"
"Me. Right here in the kitchen. No buzzing clippers, just regular scissors. We can take breaks whenever you need to. I won't tie a cape around your neck; we'll just use your favorite soft towel."
He considered this. His logical brain weighed the risk of a bad haircut against the immediate relief of getting the "cobwebs" off his neck. He looked at your hands. He trusted your hands."Do you have the data?" he asked skeptically. "Are you trained in cosmetology?"
"I don't have the data yet," you admitted with a reassuring smile. "But I have YouTube. Give me ten minutes to study the algorithm."
He let out a long breath, his shoulders dropping a fraction. "Okay. Ten minutes."
You set up a wooden dining chair in the middle of the kitchen linoleum. You found a pair of sharp styling shears Sarah kept in the bathroom vanity. You propped your phone up against the sugar bowl and watched a video titled How to Trim Men's Medium Length Hair - Scissors Only.When you were ready, Jake walked into the kitchen. He had changed into an old, faded t-shirt. He sat down in the chair, his posture rigid as a board. You draped his favorite plush bath towel over his shoulders, securing it loosely with a binder clip so nothing constricted his throat."Okay," you murmured, standing behind him. "I'm going to touch your hair now. Deep pressure, just like we always do."
"Deep pressure," he echoed, closing his eyes tightly.
You placed your hands firmly on his scalp, letting him feel the solid weight of your touch before you ran a comb through his dark waves. He shivered slightly, but he didn't pull away."I'm going to start at the back," you narrated, knowing that unexpected sensory input was his biggest trigger. "You're going to hear the scissors. They make a sharp snip sound."
Snip. Snip.
"It sounds like a metronome," Jake observed softly, his hands gripping the edges of the wooden chair seat. "A fast metronome."
"Just focus on the rhythm," you soothed, working meticulously.
You weren't a professional, but you were infinitely careful. You trimmed the heavy curls away from his collar. You cleared the bulk from the sides. Every time you had to fold his ear down to cut around it, you warned him first.
It took forty-five minutes. A barber would have been done in ten. But this wasn't about efficiency; it was about safety. He sat perfectly still for you, enduring the falling hair and the metallic snip of the blades because he knew you were on the other end of them."Alright," you said finally, stepping back and carefully brushing the loose trimmings off the towel. "I think we're done, Jake. The cobwebs are gone."
He opened his eyes. He reached a hesitant hand up to the back of his neck. He felt the smooth skin, the clean line of hair that no longer brushed his collar. He felt around his ears, marveling at the empty air.
A slow, brilliant smile broke across his face. He stood up, shaking off the towel, and turned to look at you."It is optimal," he breathed, running his long fingers through the top of his hair, which you had left perfectly fluffy. "The static is reduced. My head feels... lighter. The processing speed is back to normal."
"You look very handsome," you smiled, reaching out to brush a stray clipping from his shoulder."Thank you, Y/N," he said softly, holding your gaze for a long moment. "I trust your scissors."
The trust they shared spilled over into the following week.
It was a chilly afternoon, the kind that made the house feel like a cozy, insulated bubble. It was the perfect afternoon for baking. "Cookies," Jake had announced around 2:00 PM, pulling his favorite glass mixing bowl from the cabinet. "The barometric pressure is low. We need to introduce a superior olfactory variable. Vanilla and butter."
"Sugar cookies?" you asked, rolling up your sleeves and washing your hands.
"Cutouts," he specified, retrieving his plastic container of cookie cutters.
Baking with Jake was a science experiment. He didn't believe in "eyeballing" ingredients. Everything was leveled with the flat edge of a butter knife. The dough had to be chilled for exactly thirty minutes. You did the main workâmeasuring, mixing, and rolling the heavy dough out flat on the counterâwhile he stood close beside you, supervising the chemistry of it all.
When it was time to cut the shapes, Jake took over. He treated the rolled-out dough like a puzzle of spatial geometry. He had chosen the star cutter and a specific dinosaur cutter.
"The goal is optimization," he explained seriously, pressing the star into the very edge of the dough. "We must minimize the negative space between the shapes to reduce the need for re-rolling. Re-rolling introduces excess flour and toughens the gluten matrix."
"You are a cookie architect," you laughed, watching his precise, careful movements.
"I am maximizing yield," he corrected gently, pressing the dinosaur cutter down directly next to the star.
You took the filled trays and slid them into the oven. "Okay, timer set for twelve minutes." But variables happen. Your phone buzzed on the counterâit was a call from the agency about a sudden change in scheduling protocols. You answered it, stepping into the hallway so you wouldn't disturb Jake, who was focused on washing the mixing bowl. The coordinator on the phone was chatty, and you got pulled into a frustrating, complicated discussion about paperwork.
You didn't hear the oven timer go off over the sound of the phone call.
You smelled it first. The sweet, buttery scent of baking cookies suddenly turned sharp, followed by the undeniable, acrid smell of burning sugar.
"Oh, shoot!" you gasped, hanging up on the coordinator mid-sentence.
You ran into the kitchen, grabbed the oven mitts, and yanked the trays out. Smoke billowed into the air.You slammed the trays onto the stovetop. The cookies were ruined. The stars were a dark, unhappy brown, and the dinosaurs looked like they had been caught in a prehistoric meteorite strike. They were hard as rocks and blackened around the edges."Dammit," you sighed, your shoulders slumping in defeat. You felt a hot prickle of tears in your eyes. You were his support worker; you were supposed to be on top of things. You had ruined his perfectly optimized geometric dough because you were distracted.Jake turned around from the sink, drying his hands on a towel. He looked at the smoking trays. He looked at your face.
He saw the disappointment. He saw the way you were picking at your thumbnailâa nervous habit he had memorized over the last six months.
He walked up to the stove. He looked at the burnt, sad little dinosaurs.
He reached out and picked one up. It was still hot, but he barely flinched.
"Jake, don't, itâs going to taste like ash," you warned, reaching out to stop him.
He lifted the burnt cookie to his mouth and took a bite.
A loud, aggressive CRUNCH echoed in the kitchen. You winced, waiting for him to spit it out. You knew how sensitive his palate was. Bitter flavors were usually an instant, gag-inducing rejection.He chewed thoughtfully. He swallowed. He looked at the cookie, then looked at you.
"The structural integrity is phenomenal," he stated, his face completely serious.
"Jake, they're burnt."
"They are heavily caramelized," he corrected smoothly. "The Maillard reaction was simply allowed to progress further than usual. It adds a... bold, smoky complexity."
He took another bite. Another loud crunch.
"And the crunch is superior," he continued, holding eye contact with you. "Soft cookies crumble. These cookies are resilient. They require effort. I appreciate the effort."
He was overriding his own intense sensory aversions. He was eating a burnt, bitter cookie just to protect your feelings, to make sure you didn't feel like you had failed him. He was a total sweetheart, wrapping his rigid sensory needs around his care for you.Your heart melted right into the linoleum. You couldn't help yourselfâyou walked over and wrapped your arms tightly around his waist, pressing your face into his chest in a brief, fierce hug.
"You are the absolute sweetest guy in the world, Jake Sim," you mumbled against his shirt.He patted your back awkwardly but affectionately with his free hand. "I am just analyzing the data," he said, taking a third, agonizingly crunchy bite. "But thank you. They really are good."The emotional safety established on those quiet afternoons paved the way for something far more delicate.
It happened late one evening, a few days later. Sarah had gone to a late movie with a friend, leaving the two of you in the living room. The lights were dimmed, and the TV was playing softly in the background.
Jake was sitting on the couch, his knees pulled up to his chest, picking at a loose thread on the hem of his hoodie. He had been quiet for an hour, a heavy, contemplative silence that usually preceded a deep thought.
"Y/N?" he murmured finally. His voice was low, lacking its usual confident, factual cadence."Yeah, Jakey? I'm here."
He kept his eyes glued to the loose thread. "I had a birthday a few months ago. Before you started working here."
"I know," you smiled gently. "Your mom told me. You turned twenty-four."
"I am twenty-four," he repeated, rolling the number around in his mouth like it tasted strange and unpleasant. "You are twenty-three."
"Thatâs right. Youâre older than me."
He didn't smile. His brow furrowed deeply, and he stared down at his hands.
"Twenty-four is a prime integer for adulthood," he said softly. "I read articles online. At twenty-four, normal men are... doing things. They are driving on the interstate. They are navigating tax brackets. They are going to loud places and drinking ethanol. They wear suits that scratch their necks. They live alone."
He swallowed hard, the vulnerability in his voice jagged and painful to hear.
"I do not do those things," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I cannot drive on the highway because the cars move too fast and the input overwhelms my processor. I cannot do taxes. I wear pajama pants with cartoon characters on them. I spend hours sorting plastic bricks. I need Mom to help me make doctor appointments. I need you to help me go to the grocery store."He turned his head to look at you, his brown eyes swimming with a profound, deep-seated insecurity. It was the awareness of a man who knew he was out of sync with the timeline of the world, a man who felt like he was failing a test everyone else inherently knew how to pass.
"I feel... broken," he choked out, the word hitting the quiet room like a dropped glass. "Like I missed the manual on how to be an adult. And you... you have a degree. You fit in the world. I don't understand how you can stand being here with someone who is stuck on the wrong setting."Your heart cracked right down the middle. You shifted on the couch, turning fully toward him, and reached out to take both of his hands in yours. You held them tightly, anchoring him to the present moment."Jake, look at me," you said fiercely.He blinked, a single tear slipping down his cheek, but he met your eyes."There is no manual," you said, your voice steady and full of absolute conviction. "There is no 'normal' in adulthood. Everyone is just guessing and hoping they don't mess up."He sniffled, processing this. "But they do the normal things."
"Normal is a myth," you promised him. "You think because I have a degree I know everything? Jake, I had to Google how to fix a leaky pipe yesterday, and I still couldn't do it. I am terrified of making phone calls to strangers. I eat cereal for dinner three nights a week. Everyone has things they can't handle. Adulthood is completely new for everyone, and we're all just trying to survive the input."
You let go of one of his hands to reach up and cup his cheek, gently wiping the tear away with your thumb.
"You aren't broken, Jake. You are just you. You built a working replica of the Titanic from memory. You notice when the air pressure drops before the weather app does. You ate a burnt, charcoal cookie just so I wouldn't feel bad about my baking skills. Do you know how rare that kind of empathy is? How brilliant your brain is?"
He leaned into your palm, closing his eyes, a shaky breath escaping his lips.
"You don't have to like loud bars or scratchy suits to be a man," you whispered, maintaining your professional boundary but pouring every ounce of your care into your words. "You just have to be kind, and honest, and try your best. And you do that every single day. You don't have to fit into the rest of the world, Jake. Everything is new, and you just find where you fit most."
He opened his eyes. The fear was slowly draining away, replaced by a quiet, thoughtful relief.
"Find where I fit most," he repeated, testing the weight of the concept.
"Exactly. And you fit beautifully right here, just the way you are."
He let out a shaky breath, a small smile finally breaking through the sadness. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck, pulling you into a tight, grounding hug.
"You are my favorite variable, Y/N," he mumbled against your skin. "Thank you for the data." To prove your point that his interests were valid and wonderful, you stopped by a department store the very next morning before your shift. When you walked into the house, you handed him a plastic shopping bag. "What is this?" he asked, eyeing the bag suspiciously. "A reminder that what you like is perfectly fine," you smiled.
He reached in and pulled out a brand new, neatly folded package of pajama pants. They were dark navy blue, covered in small, minimalist red Spider-Man logos.
"I checked the tags," you said proudly. "They are tagless. And itâs a modal-cotton blend. Super soft." Jakeâs eyes lit up instantly. He rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, checking the friction coefficient.
"It is superior," he breathed, a wide grin stretching across his face, the insecurities of the previous night completely forgotten. "The texture is incredibly smooth. Thank you, Y/N."
"You're welcome, Spidey. Go test them out."
He hurried down the hall. When he returned, he was wearing the new pants, looking incredibly cozy and relaxed. He did a small crouch in the living room, testing the stretch of the fabric."Range of motion is uninhibited," he declared happily. "They are perfect."The final days of March brought the first true, undeniable breath of spring. The sun came out, warm and insistent, waking up the dormant life in the backyard.
It was a Saturday morning. You were standing at the kitchen sink, washing out your coffee mug, while Sarah sat at the island, looking over some mail. Jake had been outside in the backyard for twenty minutes, "patrolling the perimeter" in his new Spider-Man pajamas and a light jacket.
You watched him through the window. He was pacing the fence line, his hands in his pockets, enjoying the gentle breeze.Suddenly, he stopped. He knelt down in the grass, inspecting something on the ground. Carefully, with precise, deliberate movements, he pinched something between his fingers and plucked it from the earth.
He stood up and turned around, walking back toward the house with a determined stride.
When the back door opened, he walked straight into the kitchen, bypassing his usual routine of wiping his shoes exactly three times. He walked right up to you, holding his hand out, his fist closed around something delicate.
"I found anomalies in the grass," he announced.
He opened his hand.
Sitting in his palm were a half-dozen dandelions. They were bright, aggressive yellow, their stems slightly crushed from his firm grip.
"They are weeds," Jake explained, looking at you earnestly. "Most people apply herbicide to them to make their lawns uniform. But I researched them. They are the first food for bees in the spring. They are incredibly resilient. They grow through cracks in the driveway. They do not care if they belong; they just grow where they fit."
He held the messy, yellow bouquet out to you."I picked them for you," he said, his brown eyes locking onto yours. "Because you are resilient. And because you help me find where I fit."You stared at the bright yellow flowers.You were horribly, violently allergic to dandelions. The pollen made your throat itch, your eyes swell, and your nose run like a broken faucet. If you held them too close, youâd be sneezing for the rest of the day in absolute misery.You didn't hesitate for a microsecond.
You reached out and gently took the crushed, beautiful weeds from his hand. You would never, ever tell him."They are the most beautiful flowers I've ever seen, Jake," you said, forcing your breathing to remain shallow so you didn't inhale the pollen directly. "Thank you so much. I love them."
His chest puffed out slightly with pride. "They require water. A small vessel. Their stems are short."
"Iâll put them in a shot glass right now," you promised.
You turned around, grabbed a small glass from the cupboard, filled it with water, and arranged the dandelions carefully on the windowsill above the sink. As soon as his back was turned to grab a glass of water, you quickly turned your head and stifled a massive, aggressive sneeze into the crook of your elbow.
"Bless you," Jake said, drinking his water.
"Just dust," you lied smoothly, your voice thick as you quickly washed your hands with soap to remove the pollen. "Spring dust."
Sarah had watched the entire exchange from the kitchen island, her mail forgotten. As Jake wandered into the living room to adjust the volume on the TV, feeling successful and completely at ease, Sarah stepped closer to you.
She looked at the dandelions in the shot glass, and then she looked at you, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "You're allergic to those, aren't you?" she whispered, having seen you pop an antihistamine just yesterday when a neighbor mowed their lawn.
"Deathly," you whispered back, rubbing your itchy nose with the back of a clean hand.
Sarah let out a soft, watery laugh. She reached out and squeezed your arm, her grip tight and full of a mother's profound gratitude.
"He hasn't picked flowers for anyone since he was six years old," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "Before the world got too loud and he folded in on himself. I used to wonder if Iâd ever see that sweet, expressive little boy again."
She looked out toward the living room, where Jake was happily sitting on the couch, completely in his element. He wasn't hiding behind his hands or his headphones. He was just a young man, comfortable in his own skin, wearing the Spider-Man pajamas you bought him."Heâs not just surviving anymore, Y/N," Sarah said, looking back at you with fierce, unwavering respect and praise. "He is living. He is confident, and he is himself again. But heâs not doing it alone. He has you. You brought him back."
You looked at the dandelions, their bright yellow petals soaking up the sun in the window, stubborn and resilient against all odds. You weren't his girlfriend, and you were technically just doing your job, but looking at the life and light that had returned to Jake Simâs eyes, you knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
"I think we're just finding where we fit, Sarah," you smiled, your eyes watering from the pollen, but your heart completely full. "I really do."
April crept in with a deceptive warmth, bringing days that started crisp and ended bathed in golden, gentle sunlight. Over the past month, the trust between you and Jake had solidified into something unbreakable. The boundaries of your job title as his support worker had softened so completely that you often forgot you were on the clock. You were just Y/N and Jake, navigating the world together, one carefully calculated variable at a time.
Because he had been doing so wellâexpanding his safe foods, managing his sensory input, and initiating communicationâyou had planned a special outing.
There was a specialty hobby shop about twenty minutes away. It wasn't a big-box toy store with screaming children and blinding fluorescent lights; it was a quiet, dimly lit collectorâs shop. It smelled of old cardboard, modeling clay, and dust. More importantly, they carried retired, vintage LEGO sets. Jake had been talking about a specific, out-of-production Architecture set for three weeks. He had saved his own money for it, meticulously budgeting his allowance in a small notebook.
"The crowd density on a Thursday at 11:00 AM will be approximately 12% of peak capacity," Jake had announced that morning, standing by the front door.
He was prepared. He was wearing his noise-canceling headphones securely around his neck, ready to be deployed at a moment's notice. Underneath his unzipped, soft grey hoodie, he wore a subtle, vintage-wash Spider-Man t-shirt you had found for him online. It didn't have any scratchy tags, and the seams were flat.
"The math is solid," you agreed, jingling your car keys. "We have a clear window. Are you feeling good? Battery at 100%?" He closed his eyes for a brief second, running an internal diagnostic. "Battery is at 94%. I slept well. The eggs were uniform. I am ready to initiate the mission."
"Let's go get that set, Spidey."The drive was peaceful. You kept the radio volume low, playing a soft instrumental track that Jake liked because the time signature was mathematically consistent. He spent the drive looking out the window, his fingers tapping a complex, rhythmic pattern against his thigh. He was excited. It was a subtle excitement to anyone else, but to you, it was loud and vibrant.
When you pulled into the strip mall where the hobby shop was located, the parking lot was blissfully empty."Twelve percent capacity might have been an overestimation," you smiled, turning off the engine. "Looks like we have the place to ourselves."
Jake unbuckled his seatbelt, a small, proud smile on his face. "My calculations included a margin of error. Empty is an optimal variable."
You walked into the store together. The bell above the door chimedâa soft, pleasant ding that made Jake blink, but he didn't flinch. The shop owner, an older man reading a magazine behind the counter, offered a quiet nod and went back to his reading. It was perfect.
Jake immediately navigated toward the back corner of the store, where shelves were stacked high with pristine, sealed boxes.
You hung back a few feet, giving him space to explore his element. This was his territory. He moved down the aisle with absolute reverence, his eyes scanning the boxes, reading the piece counts and set numbers like they were lines of poetry.
"They have it," he whispered suddenly.You stepped closer. "The Architecture set?"
"Yes." He pointed to a high shelf. "Set number 21010. The Robie House. 2,276 pieces. It was discontinued years ago. The dark red brick count is unprecedented."
His hands started to move. It was a happy stimâhis fingers fluttering rapidly in front of his chest, a physical manifestation of the joy bubbling over in his brain. He bounced slightly on his heels, a soft, high-pitched hum of pure excitement vibrating in his throat."I have the exact funds required," he said, turning to look at you, his brown eyes shining with absolute delight. "This is... this is a highly significant acquisition."
"I'm so happy for you, Jake," you beamed, your heart swelling at the sight of his unbridled joy. "Let me help you get it down."
You reached up and carefully pulled the box from the top shelf, handing it to him. He took it as if it were made of glass, tracing the edges of the cardboard, his happy humming growing a little louder.
And then, the bell above the door chimed again.
You didn't think much of it at first. But then the voices carried down the aisle. Loud, booming, aggressively casual.
"Bro, I swear they sell Warhammer stuff here, just look."
Three guys turned the corner into the aisle. They were roughly Jake's age, maybe a year or two younger. College kids. They were wearing baseball caps backward, reeking of sharp, chemical body spray that immediately made your nose wrinkle. They were talking over each other, their voices echoing harshly in the quiet shop.
You saw Jake stiffen instantly. The happy humming cut off. His fingers stopped fluttering and clenched into tight fists around the edges of the LEGO box. He instinctively took a step back, pressing his shoulders against the shelving unit, trying to make himself smaller. He lowered his head, his hair falling forward to shield his eyes.
You casually moved, placing yourself slightly in front of him, creating a physical buffer between him and the newcomers.
The guys walked down the aisle, completely oblivious to the sudden tension. One of them, a guy in a bright red polo shirt, stopped to look at the shelf right next to where Jake was standing.
"Man, who drops three hundred bucks on plastic bricks?" the guy scoffed, laughing loudly. Jake flinched at the volume. His hands were shaking. He pulled the box tighter to his chest. He was trying to be invisible, but the movement caught the guy's attention.The guy in the red polo looked at Jake. He looked at the way Jake was hunched over, avoiding eye contact. He looked at the vintage Spider-Man t-shirt peeking out from the hoodie.Then, the guy smirked. He nudged his friend.
"Hey, check it out," he said, not bothering to lower his voice. "We got a real-life man-child over here. Hey buddy, aren't you a little old for the kids' aisle?"
The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp.
Jake froze entirely. His breathing hitched, catching in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut."Excuse me," you said immediately, your voice cold and sharp as a razor. You stepped fully in front of Jake, locking eyes with the guy in the red polo. "Back off."The guy raised his hands in mock surrender, letting out an obnoxious laugh. "Whoa, chill out. I was just making a joke. Didn't realize his mommy was here to defend him."
"I said, back off," you repeated, taking a step toward him, the protective fury blazing in your chest. You didn't care about professionalism. You didn't care about causing a scene. You only cared about the man trembling behind you. "Keep your mouth shut and walk away."The second friend sneered, looking Jake up and down. "Jeez, what's wrong with him? He's shaking like a weirdo. Does he need a diaper change or something?"
Snap.
You moved forward, jabbing your index finger hard into the second guy's chest. "If you say one more word to him, I am going to have the owner throw you out by your hair. You are pathetic, miserable little bullies. Walk. Away. Now."
Your voice wasn't yelling, but it was deadly. The guys looked at your face, realizing you were genuinely a second away from a physical altercation. The bravado faltered.
"Whatever, crazy bitch," the red polo guy muttered, rolling his eyes. "Place is a freak show anyway. Let's go."They turned and swaggered out of the aisle, laughing loudly to save face ,mimicking disabilities, their heavy footsteps echoing as the front door chimed and they left the store.The silence that followed was suffocating.You turned around instantly, your heart hammering. "Jake," you breathed, reaching out. "Jake, I'm so sorry, are you okay?"
He wasn't okay.He was staring blankly at the floor. His face was entirely devoid of color. The box he had been holding so carefully slipped from his numb fingers, hitting the linoleum with a loud, hollow thud.
"Jake?" you asked softly, not touching him, knowing better than to initiate contact when he was in shock.He didn't look at the box. He didn't look at you. He reached up with shaking, jerky movements and pulled his noise-canceling headphones over his ears. He turned around, completely ignoring the set he had saved up for, and began speed-walking toward the exit."Jake, wait!" you called, abandoning the box on the floor and jogging after him.You caught up to him just as he pushed through the front door. The bright April sun hit him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, his hands coming up to grip the edges of his headphones so hard his knuckles turned stark white.
"Car," he choked out, his voice thick, rough, and entirely monotone. "Take me to the bubble."
"Okay," you said instantly, unlocking the car with your fob. "We're going. We're going right now."
He practically dove into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut. He didn't put his seatbelt on. He pulled his knees up to his chest, curled into a tight, defensive ball, and pulled his hood over his head and his headphones. He was burying himself alive.
You got in, started the car, and drove.The twenty-minute drive back to his house was the longest of your life. The silence in the car wasn't the comfortable, companionable quiet you were used to. It was a heavy, toxic, suffocating silence. It was the sound of a mind tearing itself apart.You wanted to reach over. You wanted to pull over to the side of the road, wrap your arms around him, and squeeze the pain out of him. But his body language was a massive, neon DO NOT TOUCH sign. He was completely closed off. The static in his head had turned into a roar.
When you pulled into his driveway, you noticed Sarah's car was gone. She was at her yoga class. It was just the two of you.
Jake opened his door before you even put the car in park. He scrambled out, almost tripping over his own feet, and half-ran to the front door. You hurried after him, unlocking it quickly.He didn't take his shoes off. He walked straight down the hallway, into his bedroom, and slammed the door.
You stood in the empty, quiet living room, your heart breaking into a thousand jagged pieces.You gave him ten minutes. You knew he needed time to process the massive spike of negative data. You went to the kitchen, poured a glass of ice water, and tried to steady your own breathing. Your hands were shaking with residual anger at those boys. You wanted to drive back and key their car.
But anger wouldn't help Jake.
After fifteen minutes, you walked down the hall and stood outside his bedroom door. You listened.You didn't hear crying. You heard a rhythmic, dull thump. Thump. Thump.Your stomach dropped.It was a sound you had only heard once, during his worst meltdown months ago. He was hitting his head. Not hard enough to cause a concussion, but hard enough to try and physically jar the overwhelming thoughts out of his brain. It was a frustration stim.
You didn't knock. You opened the door.
The blackout curtains were drawn, plunging the room into darkness. Jake was sitting on the floor in the corner, wedged between his bed frame and the wall. He had his knees pulled up, his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. He was rocking violently forward and backward.
Every time he rocked back, the back of his head hit the drywall. Thump.
"Jake, stop," you said, your voice firm but laced with panic. You crossed the room in three strides.
You dropped to your knees in front of him and slid your hand between the back of his head and the wall. When he rocked back again, his head hit your soft palm instead of the drywall.He gasped, the unexpected texture breaking his rhythm. He opened his eyes, glaring at you through the darkness. His cheeks were wet, but he wasn't sobbing. He was hyperventilating, trapped in a spiral of pure, toxic shame.
"Get out," he rasped, his voice raw.
It was the first time he had ever told you to leave. It felt like a physical blow to the chest, but you held your ground. You kept your hand behind his head.
"I'm not leaving you, Jake."
"Get out!" he yelled, a sudden, desperate burst of volume. He grabbed your wrist, trying to pry your hand away from the wall. His grip was frantic. "You are off the clock! Go away! Go back to your adult life!"
"I don't care about the clock," you said fiercely, refusing to let him push you away. You slid closer, ignoring his attempts to push you back, and grabbed both of his wrists, holding them firmly against his chest. Deep pressure. "Look at me. Look at my face."
"No!" He squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away, trying to hide his face in his knees. "Don't look at me. I am... I am a freak show. I am a man-child."
He was echoing their words. The toxic data had infiltrated his system, overwriting all the confidence you had built together over the last six months.
"They were wrong, Jake," you pleaded, leaning in until your forehead was almost touching his. "They were stupid, miserable bullies who don't know anything about you."
"They were right!" he cried out, a ragged sob finally breaking through his throat. He stopped fighting your grip, his whole body slumping in defeat. "I am twenty-four years old! I wear a superhero shirt! I play with children's toys! I can't even go to a store without my mom or my... my paid caretaker to defend me!"
He pulled his hands out of your grip and buried his face in his palms, weeping openly. The sound of his heartbreak was agonizing.
"I thought I was doing good," he sobbed, his chest heaving. "I thought... I thought I was finding where I fit. But I don't fit anywhere. I am broken. The world looks at me and they see a joke. And you... you just pity me."
"Jake, no," you gasped, the tears finally spilling over your own eyelashes.
"You do," he insisted, his voice muffled by his hands. "You are beautiful. You are smart. You fix leaky pipes and drive cars and yell at scary men. You are a real adult. I am just your charity case. I am a job. You just pretend I am a man so I don't feel bad."
The absolute devastation in his voice, the deep-seated insecurity that had been completely laid bare by three cruel strangers, ripped through you. He didn't just feel humiliated; he felt unlovable. He felt like an imposter in his own life.
You didn't try to reason with him. You couldn't fight this level of emotional static with words alone.You moved. You uncrossed your legs and slid directly into his space. You didn't ask for permission. You wrapped your arms tightly around his trembling shoulders and pulled him forward, practically dragging him out of the corner until his chest hit yours.You wrapped your legs around his hips, trapping him in a tight, full-body embrace. You buried one hand in his dark, fluffy hair, pressing his head firmly against your shoulder, and wrapped your other arm tightly around his back. You applied as much deep pressure as your body could physically muster, crushing the space between you.
He stiffened violently, a gasp tearing from his throat at the sudden, overwhelming input. But he didn't fight it. He never fought your pressure.
"Listen to me," you whispered fiercely into his ear, your voice trembling with unshed tears and absolute conviction. "Listen to my voice. You are going to delete that data right now. Do you hear me?"
He let out a broken, hiccuping sob against your neck, his arms hovering uselessly at his sides.
"You are not a charity case," you continued, holding him tighter. "You have never been just a job to me. Those boys in the store? They are cowards. They tear people down because they have nothing interesting or beautiful inside their own heads. But you? Your brain is a masterpiece, Jake."
He shook his head weakly against your shoulder. "I'm a child."
"You are a man," you stated firmly, pulling back just enough to force him to look at you. You grabbed his face in both of your hands, your thumbs wiping away the hot tears streaming down his cheeks.
His brown eyes were wide, bloodshot, and utterly shattered, staring at you in the dark room. "A real man isn't someone who wears a scratchy suit and drinks at a bar," you told him, staring directly into his eyes, refusing to let him look away. "A real man is someone who is kind. Someone who is honest. A real man notices when I'm sad and gives up his favorite weighted blanket to comfort me. A real man eats a burnt, awful cookie just so I don't feel like a failure. A real man picks resilient yellow weeds for me because he knows I love them."He let out a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly against yours.
"You are the strongest, bravest, most incredible man I have ever met, Jake Sim," you whispered, your voice cracking. "And I don't pity you. I am in awe of you."
You didn't plan the next part. You didn't calculate the professional boundaries or the risk of sensory overload. You just acted on the overwhelming, desperate need to prove to him that he was loved exactly as he was.You leaned forward and pressed your lips to his.It wasn't a hesitant, chaste peck. It was firm, grounding, and full of every ounce of love and fierce protectiveness you harbored for him. You kept your hands cradling his face, anchoring him to the sensation.For one agonizing second, Jake froze. He went completely rigid beneath you. The new sensory inputâthe softness of your lips, the heat, the overwhelming intimacyâwas massive.
But then, he melted.
A soft, desperate whimper vibrated in his throat. His hands, which had been hovering uselessly, came up and gripped your waist with a frantic strength. He didn't know what he was doing, but his instincts took over. He pressed back into the kiss, his lips moving clumsily but eagerly against yours. He clung to you like you were the only solid thing left in a world that had suddenly turned to quicksand.
You kissed him until the shaking in his body finally, slowly began to subside. You kissed him until the frantic rhythm of his heart slowed to a manageable beat against your chest. When you finally pulled back, you kept your foreheads pressed together, both of you gasping softly for air in the quiet, dark room. Jake's eyes were closed. His eyelashes were wet with tears, but his face had lost that pale, terrified pallor. His hands were gripping your hips so tightly it almost hurt, grounding himself in your physical presence. "Did you mean it?" he whispered, his voice incredibly small, incredibly fragile. "I meant every single word," you promised, stroking your thumbs over his cheekbones. "You are my favorite person in the entire world, Jake. I don't want a 'normal' guy. I want you. With your Spider-Man shirts and your LEGOs and your beautiful, brilliant brain." He opened his eyes. The shattered glass look was gone. The insecurity hadn't vanished completelyâit never did, not instantlyâbut the toxic shame had been washed away by the absolute certainty in your voice and the lingering heat on his lips.
He swallowed hard. "I dropped the Robie House set."
You let out a wet, tearful laugh, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. "We can go back tomorrow. Or we can order it online. Whatever you want."
"Online," he decided immediately, his voice gaining a fraction of its usual factual cadence. "The crowd density in that store is heavily polluted with negative variables."
"Online it is." He took a deep breath, processing the massive emotional shift that had just occurred. He loosened his death-grip on your waist, moving his hands up to carefully, hesitantly wrap his arms around your back, returning the full-body hug. He rested his chin on your shoulder, burying his nose in your hair.
"You smell like vanilla and anger," he murmured into your neck.
You laughed again, burying your face in his soft hoodie. "I was very angry. I wanted to hit them."
"I am glad you didn't," he said seriously. "Assault is a felony. That would disrupt our routine."
"You're right. No felonies."
You sat there on the floor for a long time, tangled together in the dark. The sting of the outside world, the cruelty of strangers, was still there, but it was locked outside. Inside this room, inside the circle of your arms, he wasn't a man-child. He wasn't a broken algorithm.
"Y/N?" he whispered after a long silence.
"Yeah, Jakey?"
"When you kissed me... the static stopped completely."
"Yeah?"
"Yes. It was... highly effective. Superior to the noise-canceling headphones."
You smiled against his shoulder, your heart finally settling into a steady, peaceful rhythm. "Well, then I guess I'll just have to keep doing it. For medicinal purposes, of course."
"Agreed," he hummed, the vibration rumbling happily against your chest. "Frequent application is recommended." And as you held him in the dark, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours, you knew that no matter how loud or cruel the world got, you would always be his quiet place. And he, in all his honest, beautiful complexity, would always be yours.
The aftermath of that afternoon on his bedroom floor shifted the entire axis of your relationship. The kiss had been an impulsive, desperate act of protection on your part, meant to shock him out of a spiral of toxic shame. But for Jake, it had fundamentally rewritten his internal algorithm.
You had become his baseline. In the weeks that followed as April blossomed into a warm, gentle May, Jake became undeniably, profoundly clingy. It wasn't a demanding, suffocating kind of clinginess. It was a quiet, constant gravitational pull. He simply needed to be in your orbit.
Before, he had valued his solitary space. He would spend hours in the living room building LEGOs while you read in the armchair, comfortable but separate. Now, if you sat on the sofa, he sat on the sofa, his hip pressed firmly against yours. If you stood at the kitchen island cutting his grilled cheese or pouring his milk, he would stand right behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
He initiated touch constantly. It was never light or brushingâhe still hated the "spiderweb" feeling of gentle contact. Instead, it was firm and deliberate. He would reach out and wrap his long fingers securely around your wrist while you were talking to Sarah. He would drop his heavy head onto your shoulder while waiting for the microwave to beep. He would randomly press his palm flat against the center of your back as you walked down the hallway.He was seeking deep pressure, but more than that, he was seeking you. You were the variable that made the static stop, and he wanted that quiet safety as much as possible.
You didn't mind it. In fact, your heart swelled every single time he reached for you. You returned his affection in equal measure, leaning into his weight, squeezing his hand back, and resting your cheek against his fluffy, dark hair whenever he ducked his head into your neck.
Nothing was labeled. You hadn't sat down and had a formal discussion about being "boyfriend and girlfriend." You were just existing in this warm, safe bubble of mutual adoration, letting Jake process the new physical and emotional data at his own pace.
Sarah, of course, noticed the shift immediately.
It was impossible to miss. One Tuesday morning, you were standing at the stove, carefully stirring a pot of oatmeal (no lumps, perfectly smooth). Jake had padded into the kitchen wearing his tagless Spider-Man pajama pants and a soft grey t-shirt. Instead of sitting at his usual spot at the round table, he walked straight up behind you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in the space between your neck and shoulder, and let out a long, contented sigh that vibrated against your back.You had simply smiled, leaning back against his solid chest, and kept stirring. "Morning, Jakey. Did you sleep well?"
"Eight hours and twelve minutes," he mumbled into your skin, his arms tightening in a firm squeeze. "The humidity dropped. The sheets felt correct."
Sarah had walked in right at that moment, pausing in the doorway. She froze, a mug of coffee half-raised to her lips. She stared at the way her son, who had spent his entire life flinching away from unexpected contact, was willingly, eagerly anchoring himself to another human being.She caught your eye over Jakeâs shoulder. You offered her a soft, reassuring smile.Sarahâs eyes immediately filled with tears. She didn't say anything to disrupt his peace; she just pressed her lips together, gave you a shaky, incredibly grateful nod, and quietly backed out of the kitchen to give you both privacy.Later that afternoon, while Jake was in the backyard inspecting the growth of his beloved dandelions, Sarah sat next to you on the porch."I have never seen him like this," she whispered, watching him carefully step over a line of worker ants on the patio. "Heâs always been so guarded. Even with me, sometimes. His sensory threshold is just so delicate. But with you... itâs like he doesn't have a threshold at all. Youâre just part of him.""He makes it easy, Sarah," you said honestly, pulling your cardigan tighter against the spring breeze. "Heâs so honest. Thereâs no guessing games with him. I know exactly where I stand."
"You know he likes you, right?" she asked gently, turning to look at you. "More than just as a support worker. I know the agency has rules, but Y/N... I am his mother. And I have never, ever seen him look at someone the way he looks at you."
"I like him too," you admitted, the truth feeling warm and bright in the cool air. "I really, really do. Weâre just... taking it slow. I want him to figure out the feelings on his own timetable."
"Take all the time you need," Sarah smiled, her shoulders dropping in profound relief. "Just... thank you. For seeing him. For really seeing him."
The culmination of all those quiet, clingy weeks happened on a rainy Friday evening.
It was Movie Night. The blackout curtains were drawn, creating a cozy, insulated cave in the living room. The TV was glowing brightly with the saturated colors of Spider-Man: Far From Home.
Jake was sitting on the sofa. You were tucked seamlessly into his side. His arm was wrapped heavy and secure around your shoulders, and your legs were tangled together beneath his favorite fifteen-pound grey weighted blanket. The pressure of the blanket combined with the solid weight of his body pressing against yours was incredibly grounding.
On the screen, Peter Parker was awkwardly fumbling through a conversation with MJ in Venice, clearly overwhelmed by his circumstances and his desperate, clumsy desire to just tell her how he felt.
Jake was usually hyper-focused during Marvel movies, cataloging the physics of the web-shooters or the structural damage to the buildings. But tonight, he was distracted.
His fingers were tracing a repetitive, rhythmic circle on your upper arm. One, two, three. One, two, three. It was a self-soothing stim. He had been doing it for twenty minutes."Is the volume okay?" you whispered, tilting your head up to look at his profile. The blue and red light from the television painted sharp angles across his jawline."The volume is at level 14. It is optimal," he replied softly.
He didn't look down at you. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen, but his brow was furrowed in deep concentration. He stopped tracing circles on your arm.
"Y/N?" he murmured, his voice rumbling in his chest against your side.
"Yeah, Jake?"
"Peter's heart rate is elevated," he observed, watching the animated panic on Tom Holland's face. "He is experiencing a stress response. But there is no immediate physical threat. The elemental monsters are not present in this scene."
"No," you agreed softly. "There are no monsters. He's just stressed because he's trying to talk to MJ."
"Because he wants to give her the black dahlia necklace," Jake stated factually. "Because he likes her."
"Exactly. He likes her, and he's terrified of messing it up. Feelings can cause a stress response too, Jake. Adrenaline. Sweaty palms. A fast heart rate."
Jake went completely still. The slight, rhythmic bouncing of his foot beneath the weighted blanket stopped. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"I have been experiencing a stress response," he said. The admission was quiet, almost a whisper, as if he were confessing a systemic error.
Your heart did a tiny, nervous flip. You shifted slightly under the heavy blanket, turning your body more toward him. "Are you experiencing one right now? Is the environment too loud?"
"No," he said quickly, his grip on your shoulder tightening in a firm, reassuring squeeze. "The environment is safe. The blackout curtains are closed. The blanket is heavy. You are here. The variables are all controlled."
"Then what's causing the stress response, Jakey?"
He finally pulled his eyes away from the television screen. He looked down at you. His dark brown eyes were wide, intensely focused, and swimming with an emotion so raw and heavy it practically took your breath away.
"You," he said simply.
You froze. "Me?"
"Yes," he nodded, his expression deadpan but his eyes betraying a frantic, searching vulnerability. "I have been analyzing the data for weeks. Ever since... ever since the incident at the hobby store. When you kissed me. My baseline changed."
He pulled his hand away from your shoulder, bringing it up to rest flat against the center of his own chest, right over his heart.
"It feels heavy in here," he explained, his voice trembling slightly as he tried to articulate the abstract chaos inside his mind. "But it's not the bad heavy. Itâs not a meltdown. Itâs like... like when I put the weighted blanket on, but itâs on the inside of my ribs."He reached out and carefully took your hand, lacing his long, elegant fingers through yours. He squeezed firmly.
"When you are not here, the static comes back. When you leave to go to your apartment, I count the hours until 8:50 AM when your car pulls into the driveway. I check the window. And when I see you wearing your quiet white shoes... my heart beats very fast. Like Peter Parker." Tears immediately pricked the back of your eyes. The absolute, unvarnished honesty of his words was staggering. There were no games. There was no posturing. He was laying his entire internal processor bare for you to see. "Jake," you breathed, your voice thick.
"I didn't know how to categorize the data," he continued, his thumb rubbing firmly over your knuckles. "I read the diagnostic criteria for anxiety, but the symptoms didn't match perfectly. Because anxiety makes me want to hide. This feeling... makes me want to be exactly where I am. Sitting right next to you. With no gap between the cushions."
He looked back at the TV for a split second, pointing at Peter and MJ, who were now sharing a quiet, charged moment on the screen.
"Peter feels it," Jake said, looking back down at you. "He feels the heavy, fast thing in his chest. And he calls it love." A single tear spilled over your eyelashes, tracking hotly down your cheek. Jake saw it. He immediately let go of your hand, his face falling into a mask of panic. "You are leaking. I said the wrong thing. I processed the variable incorrectlyâ"
"No, no, Jake, look at me," you interrupted quickly, reaching up with both hands to cup his face. You held his cheeks firmly, applying the deep pressure he needed to stay grounded in the moment. "I'm not crying because I'm sad. I'm crying because I'm happy. Because it's a good heavy feeling."
He stopped pulling away. He leaned into your palms, his wide eyes searching yours for confirmation. "It is a good variable?"
"Itâs the best variable," you sobbed out a watery laugh, swiping your thumbs under his eyes. "You're saying you love me, Jake?"
"Yes," he said. He didn't hesitate. He didn't stutter. He looked at you with an innocence and a certainty that shattered every doubt you had ever harbored. "I love you. I love your quiet shoes. I love that you know I need the cheese cut into squares. I love that you fought those loud men for me. You are my safe place, Y/N. I love you."
Your heart took a massive, soaring leap against your ribs. You pulled his face down and pressed your lips firmly against his.
It was better than the first kiss. The first kiss had been born of panic and desperation. This kiss was born of absolute, undeniable clarity. Jake responded instantly, his hands coming down to grip your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He kissed you with that same meticulous, focused attention he applied to everything he cared about, learning the exact pressure and rhythm that made you sigh into his mouth.
When you finally pulled back, you were both breathless. Jakeâs glasses were slightly askew, and his cheeks were flushed a beautiful, vibrant pink.
"I love you too, Jake," you whispered, resting your forehead against his. "So much. My chest gets heavy when I look at you, too."
He let out a long, shuddering exhale, a massive weight lifting off his broad shoulders. He bumped his nose affectionately against yours. "Optimal," he whispered, a huge, gummy smile breaking across his face. You laughed, tangling your fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. "Since we both have the same data... does this mean you want to be my boyfriend?"
Jake paused. He blinked, processing the terminology. He tilted his head slightly.
"Boyfriend," he repeated slowly. "And you would be my girlfriend."
"If you want to be."
He thought about it. "Labels are useful. They categorize relationships so the boundaries are clear. A girlfriend is a primary, permanent variable."
"I would very much like to be a permanent variable, Jake."
His smile widened, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes. "Yes. I will be your boyfriend. That is... a very pleasing symmetry."
"It's perfect symmetry." He pulled you back against his side, wrapping his arm securely around your shoulders, tighter than before. He dragged the weighted blanket higher up over your chests, cocooning the two of you in the dim, flashing light of the television.
"Y/N?" he asked softly, resting his cheek on the top of your head.
"Yeah, boyfriend?" you teased gently. He hummed, a deep, happy vibration that rattled pleasantly against your ribs. "I do not need to buy you a black dahlia necklace like Peter Parker, do I? Because you do not like jewelry that clicks against the table. And glass is fragile."
You couldn't help the joyous laugh that bubbled out of you. "No, Jake. No glass necklaces required."
"Good," he said practically. "I will buy you more smooth salsa instead. It is a superior investment."
"I'd love nothing more." As Spider-Man swung across the screen, saving the city from chaos, you sat safely in the dark, anchored by the weight of the blanket and the boy who held you. There was no more static. There was no more confusion about where you fit into his life. You were dating Jake Sim, and as he pressed a firm, deliberate kiss to your hairline, you knew absolutely that you had found exactly where you belonged.
The transition from support worker to girlfriend wasn't just an emotional shift; it required a logistical one, too.
Two days after that rainy movie night on the couch, you walked into the drab, fluorescent-lit office of New Horizons Support Services and placed your ID badge on your supervisor's desk. You explained that you could no longer remain objective. You didn't give them the deeply personal details, but you told them enough: the professional boundary had dissolved, and it was no longer ethical for you to clock in and bill the state for the time you spent at the Sim household.
Your supervisor had sighed, citing "high turnover" again, but you didn't care. You walked out of that office feeling lighter than air.
You drove straight to Jakeâs house. When you walked through the front door, you weren't wearing your agency polo. You were just wearing a comfortable sweater and your quiet white Converse. Jake was sitting at the kitchen island, meticulously peeling an apple in one continuous ribbon. Sarah was at the stove, boiling water for pasta. "I quit my job today," you announced softly, standing in the archway.
Sarah froze, the wooden spoon pausing in the pot. She turned to look at you, panic momentarily flashing in her dark eyes. "You... you quit? Y/N, what happened? Did the agencyâ"
"No, Mom," Jake interrupted. He didn't look up from his apple, but his voice was remarkably steady, imbued with a quiet, undeniable pride. The apple peel fell to the cutting board in a perfect spiral. "She did not quit me. She quit the agency. It is a conflict of interest for her to be on the payroll." Sarah blinked, looking back and forth between the two of you. "Conflict of interest?"
Jake finally looked up. He set the paring knife down carefully. He walked over to where you were standing in the archway. He didn't hesitate, didn't check the room for variables. He simply reached out, took your hand in his, and intertwined his long fingers with yours. He gave your hand a firm, grounding squeeze.
"Y/N is my girlfriend now," Jake stated, looking at his mother with absolute clarity. "She is my permanent variable. We are dating."
For a full ten seconds, the kitchen was dead silent. The only sound was the rolling boil of the pasta water.
Then, Sarah dropped the wooden spoon. It clattered against the stove. She covered her mouth with both hands, a loud, wet sob escaping her throat.
"Oh, my God," she wept, the tears spilling over her cheeks in a flood of sheer, unadulterated joy. "Oh, Jakey." She crossed the kitchen in three quick strides and wrapped her arms around both of you, pulling you into a crushing, messy hug. Jake stiffened slightly at the suddenness of the contact, but he didn't pull away. He just patted his motherâs back awkwardly with his free hand, while keeping his other hand locked tightly in yours.
"I am so happy," Sarah cried into your shoulder, squeezing you tight. "I am so, so happy for both of you. Y/N, you... you are family. You were already family, but this... thank you. Thank you for loving him."
"I couldn't stop if I tried, Sarah," you whispered, wiping your own eyes.
From that day on, it wasn't a job anymore. You were just taking care of your love, and he, in his own brilliant, meticulous way, was taking care of you.
As the damp chill of spring gave way to the heavy, golden warmth of summer, Jake bloomed.The boy who used to flinch away from unexpected contact became entirely, wonderfully unabashed about seeking it from you. He didn't care who was watching. If he needed grounding, he took it.
You started going to the local metro parks together. It was a massive sensory step for himâparks were unpredictable. There were off-leash dogs, shouting children, and the sudden, sharp crack of baseball bats from the nearby diamonds. But he wanted to go, because he knew you liked the walking trails.
To manage the input, he wore his noise-canceling headphones, a pair of dark polarized sunglasses to cut the glare of the sun, and, most importantly, he held your hand.
Jakeâs hand-holding wasn't a casual, loose grip. It was a firm, deliberate anchor. He would press the palm of his hand flush against yours, locking your fingers together so tightly you could feel his pulse beating against your skin.
"Deep pressure," he would murmur, adjusting his grip as you walked down the shaded, tree-lined paths. "It keeps the static away. You are my tether."
"I've got you, Spidey," you would smile, swinging your joined arms gently.
One particularly warm afternoon in late June, a golden retriever slipped its leash and came bounding toward you on the trail, barking excitedly. Before you could even react, Jake stepped directly in front of you, placing his body between you and the dog. He was terrified of loud, unpredictable animals, his shoulders hitching up to his ears, but his first instinct was to shield you.
When the owner ran up apologizing and leashed the dog, Jake let out a long, shaky breath."You stepped in front of me," you said softly, rubbing his tense back as he watched the dog walk away.
"I am the boyfriend," he stated, his voice trembling slightly from the adrenaline, but laced with a fierce, protective logic. "The boyfriend protects the girlfriend from biological anomalies. It is in the protocol."
You had pulled him down by the strings of his hoodie and kissed him right there on the trail, surrounded by the buzzing cicadas and the summer heat. He had melted into the kiss instantly, his hands finding your waist, the fear of the dog entirely overridden by the overwhelming, consuming input of your lips against his.
Summer evenings in Jake's backyard became your sanctuary.
When the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple, pink, and deep, saturated orange, the temperature would drop to a comfortable coolness. The neighborhood would quiet down, and the sensory input of the world would finally dial back to a manageable hum.
One evening in July, you had brought a cheap, plastic bottle of bubbles from the grocery store.Jake had been sitting on the patio chair, watching the fireflies begin to blink in the grass. You sat on the grass in front of him, unscrewed the cap, and blew a stream of bubbles into the warm evening air.Jakeâs eyes went wide. He watched the translucent spheres float upward, catching the dying light of the sunset.
"They are perfectly spherical," he breathed, leaning forward, utterly captivated. "Surface tension forces the liquid into the shape with the least surface area. It is... mathematically flawless."
"They're pretty, aren't they?" you smiled, blowing another stream toward him.
He reached out and caught one on the tip of his finger. It didn't pop immediately. He brought it closer to his face, his dark eyes reflecting the shimmering, rainbow-colored surface of the soap film."Thin-film interference," he whispered, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "The light waves are bouncing off the inner and outer boundaries of the soap film. They are interfering with each other to create the colors. Magenta. Cyan. Yellow. It is chemistry and physics working together."
Pop. The bubble vanished, leaving a tiny drop of soapy water on his skin. He laughed. It was a rare, full-bellied sound that bubbled up from his chest, pure and bright.
"Do it again," he requested, his eyes shining.
You spent an hour blowing bubbles for him. He didn't just watch them; he analyzed them. He tried to catch them without popping them. He tracked their flight paths, calculating the wind currents. And every time he laughed, your heart swelled until you thought it might burst.He looked so beautiful in the fading light. He was stripped of all his anxieties, all his fears about fitting into the "normal" world. He was just a brilliant, joyful man marveling at the physics of a soap bubble.
When the bottle was empty, he slid off the patio chair and sat on the grass beside you. He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his head on your shoulder.
"That was a superior activity," he murmured, his breath warm against your neck. "The visual input was highly stimulating, but not overwhelming. It was... soft."
"We can get more tomorrow," you promised, resting your cheek against the top of his fluffy hair.
"Yes. But only the brand with the pink wand. The fluid viscosity was excellent."
You laughed, wrapping your arms around his chest and pulling him backward until you were both lying flat on the cool grass, looking up at the first stars pricking through the twilight. He rolled onto his side, throwing a heavy leg over yours and burying his face in your chest.
"I love you, Y/N," he whispered into the fabric of your shirt, his voice drowsy and content.
"I love you too, Jakey."
As the summer wore on, your integration into his daily life became seamless. You didn't just watch him build LEGOs anymore; you built them with him.
It was a profound level of trust. Jake was highly territorial over his LEGO sets. They were his system of order in a chaotic world. But one rainy August afternoon, he pushed the massive instruction booklet for the LEGO Rivendell set toward the middle of the coffee table.
"You may assemble the roof tiles," he announced, handing you a plastic sorting tray filled with hundreds of tiny, earth-toned pieces.
You took the tray, deeply honored. "Are you sure? I don't want to mess up the symmetry."
"I have observed your fine motor skills," he stated pragmatically, clicking a wall piece into place. "You are careful. You do not force the bricks if they resist. And... I like seeing your hands next to mine."
You spent four hours sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor. You learned the specific, satisfying snap of a perfectly placed tile. You learned not to talk when he was counting studs. It was an intimate, quiet language you developed together.
When you finished the Elven council ring, Jake stopped. He looked at the structure, then looked at you."We built this," he said, the realization settling heavily on him. "Together as a unit."
"We make a good team."He reached out and traced the edge of the plastic roof you had assembled. "My life used to be a solo build. I did not want anyone to touch my pieces because they always knocked them over. But you... you reinforce the structure. You make the build stronger."By the time the leaves began to turn the vibrant reds and oranges of October, months had passed since the kiss.And with the passage of time came the deepest intimacy of all: spending the night.
The first time it happened, it hadn't been planned. You had been watching a marathon of animated movies, and the heavy rain outside had lulled you to sleep on the sofa, your head pillowed on his chest.
When you woke up, it was 2:00 AM. Jake was still awake. He was sitting perfectly still, not moving a muscle, his arm wrapped tightly around you.
"Jake?" you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. "Why didn't you wake me up? Your arm has to be numb."
"My arm is numb," he confirmed softly. "But you were in the REM cycle of sleep. Your breathing was deep. Interrupting the REM cycle causes cognitive fatigue. And... I liked the weight of you. It is better than the blanket."
You had smiled sleepily, stretching your stiff back. "I should probably drive home."
Jakeâs grip on your waist tightened instantly. His heart rate spiked against your cheek.
"The roads are slick," he said, his voice rising in that familiar, anxious pitch. "The visibility is reduced by 60%. The statistical probability of an accident is elevated."
He looked down at you, his brown eyes wide and pleading in the dim light of the living room. "Please do not drive. The variables are unsafe. My bed is... it is a king size. There is room. You can sleep there."
You hadn't hesitated. "Okay. I'll stay."
Sleeping in Jakeâs bed was a sensory experience in itself. His mattress was firm. His sheets were 100% Egyptian cotton, washed in unscented detergent because artificial lavender made his nose itch.
When you climbed into the bed, wearing a spare oversized Spider-Man t-shirt he had given you, he immediately pulled his heavy, fifteen-pound grey weighted blanket over both of you."Is the weight acceptable?" he asked anxiously, hovering over you. "It can be crushing to neurotypical nervous systems."
"It feels like a hug," you assured him, settling into the pillows.
Jake climbed in beside you. He didn't leave a gap. He closed the distance immediately, turning on his side and wrapping himself around you like an octopus. He pulled your back flush against his chest, throwing his heavy arm over your waist and tangling his long legs entirely with yours.
He buried his face in the back of your neck. He took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of your shampoo.
"Optimal," he whispered into your skin.
You reached down and laced your fingers through his where they rested on your stomach. "Goodnight, Jake."
"Goodnight, Y/N."
You learned that Jake didn't move in his sleep. Once he found his anchoring position against you, he was dead weight. He slept deeply and heavily, his breathing a steady, soothing rhythm against your spine.
Waking up to him was even better.The first time you opened your eyes in his bed, the morning sun was filtering through the edges of the blackout curtains. Jake was already awake.He was propped up on one elbow, his chin resting on his hand, just staring at you. His hair was an absolute bird's nest of fluffy, chaotic curls sticking up in every direction. His face was soft, relaxed, completely devoid of the tension he carried during the day.
"You have a freckle on your left eyelid," he whispered, his voice deep and raspy from sleep. "I never noticed it before. It is very small. Exactly 1.5 millimeters."
You smiled lazily, reaching up to push a stray curl out of his eyes. "Good morning to you too, Spidey."
"You look different when you sleep," he observed, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Your facial muscles lose their tension. You look very peaceful. It made my chest feel heavy again. The good heavy."
"I was peaceful because I was sleeping next to you," you murmured, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt until his chest rested against yours.
He hummed happily, nuzzling his nose against your jaw. Waking up together became a staple of your weekends. You learned that he needed exactly ten minutes of quiet transition time before speaking about complex topics. You learned that he liked it when you traced light patterns on his bare back to help him wake up his sensory receptors.You learned that you had never, ever felt a love like this before.
It was a love completely stripped of games, manipulation, and societal expectations. It was a love built on raw honesty, calculated variables, and an intense, unwavering loyalty.
Now, exactly six months since that rainy New Year's Eve, you were sitting in the living room on a quiet Sunday afternoon.
The Thanksgiving break was approaching, and the air outside was biting and crisp. Inside, the fireplace was crackling.
Jake was sitting on the floor, leaning back between your legs as you sat on the couch. This was his favorite position. He called it "the grounding chair." You were running your fingers slowly and rhythmically through his dark hair, scratching gently at his scalp.He had his eyes closed, practically purring.
"The tactile input is superior," he murmured, his head tilting back against your knee to give you better access. You smiled, looking down at him. He was beautiful. He was so incredibly bright. You thought about the file you had read a year ago. Difficulty establishing rapport. Rigid. High support needs. They had missed everything that mattered. They missed the way his mind was a kaleidoscope of logic and empathy. They missed the way he noticed the iridescent colors in a soap bubble. They missed the fierce, protective way he would step in front of a strange dog for the person he loved.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, opening his eyes and looking up at you upside down."I'm thinking about you," you said softly, cupping his face in your hands.
"Is the data positive?" he asked, a small, teasing lilt in his voice. He was learning how to joke with you, understanding the cadence of playful banter.
"The data is overwhelmingly positive," you assured him, leaning down to kiss him upside down, like Spider-Man.
He smiled against your lips. He reached up, his long fingers wrapping gently around your wrists."I am operating at 100% battery," Jake whispered, looking at you with those deep, liquid brown eyes that held his entire, beautiful soul. "And you are the power source. I love you, Y/N."
"I love you too, Jake. Forever."
"Forever is a mathematical concept denoting infinite time," he stated, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I accept those parameters."
He closed his eyes and leaned back against you, completely at peace, and you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that your parameters were perfectly, infinitely aligned.
The seven-month mark of your relationship with Jake, the world outside the house had grown cold, brittle, and gray. But inside the house, the atmosphere was a saturated, brilliant gold.
You knew the exact rhythm of his breathing when he was relaxed; you knew the precise weight of the fifteen-pound blanket; you knew that when the world got too loud, you were the quiet room he retreated into.
It was a Friday night. The wind was howling outside, rattling the windowpanes with a chaotic, unpredictable rhythm that would have usually sent Jake into a spiral of sensory defense. But tonight, the blackout curtains were drawn tight, sealing the unpredictable elements away. The living room was bathed in the warm, colorful glow of the television screen.
You were having a movie night. It was a comedic, wildly colorful animation film about a chaotic family trying to save the world from a robot apocalypse. Jake had initially been skeptical of the plot's disregard for basic physics, but he had quickly become captivated by the vibrant, symmetrical animation style and the logical, deadpan humor of the familyâs pug.For the last hour, you had been spooning on the sofa.
It was a position that had required careful calibration over the last few months. Jakeâs sensory processing meant that light, feathery touches felt like crawling insects on his skin. But deep, firm pressure was his anchor. So, he lay behind you, his broad chest pressed flush and firm against your back. His heavy arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his hand splayed flat against your stomach, grounding you both. His long legs were tangled with yours beneath the plush velvet blanket.
He was incredibly warm, a human furnace radiating a steady, comforting heat through his vintage, tagless t-shirt.On the screen, the animated pug did something ridiculous, and a bright, bubbly laugh escaped your lips. Behind you, Jake laughed âa bright, resonant vibration in his chest that you could feel all the way down your spine. It was his version of a laugh, a happy, contented sound that meant his battery was operating at optimal capacity."The canineâs center of gravity is entirely disproportionate to its mass," Jake murmured into the shell of your ear, his breath sending a pleasant shiver down your neck. "It is impossible for it to run that fast."
"It's a cartoon, Jakey," you smiled, tilting your head back slightly to rest against his shoulder. "Physics take a holiday in cartoons."
"Physics never take a holiday," he corrected softly, his nose brushing against your hair. "But I will suspend my disbelief because the color palette is soothing."
You relaxed further into his hold, feeling utterly, completely safe. But after another ten minutes of lying in the exact same position, biology demanded a shift. Your left arm, which was tucked beneath your body and wedged against the cushions, was beginning to tingle uncomfortably.
"Jake," you whispered, squirming just a fraction. "My arm is falling asleep. The nerve is pinched."
"Paresthesia," he noted immediately, his grip on your waist loosening just enough to allow you to move. "You need to restore the blood flow."
"Yeah. Just give me a second."
You pushed backward against him to free your trapped arm, using your hips to gain leverage against the cushions. You shifted your weight, pressing your backside firmly against his lap to brace yourself as you pulled your arm free and rolled your shoulders. As you pushed your hips back into him, Jake made a sound you had never heard before. It wasn't his happy, vibrating hum. It wasn't the sharp, panicked gasp of a sensory overload. It was a low, breathy whimper that hitched in the back of his throatâa sound that was raw, involuntary, and entirely instinctual.
You froze. Before you could ask if you had accidentally hurt him, you felt it. Pressed flush against the soft curve of your backside, right through the fabric of your sweatpants and his soft flannel pajamas, was a distinct, solid ridge of heat.
He was hard.For a microsecond, the living room was dead silent, save for the cartoon explosions on the TV screen. You stopped breathing, your mind racing to process the new variable. Jakeâs body, however, didn't wait for his logical brain to catch up.
Driven by a sudden, overwhelming biological imperative, Jakeâs hips twitched. He pushed forward, pressing that hard, aching heat deliberately into your backside, seeking the friction.Another soft, ragged moan escaped his parted lips, hot against your neck. His heavy arm, which was still wrapped around your waist, suddenly tightened, his large hand gripping your hip with a frantic, desperate pressure.
"Jake?" you breathed, your heart doing a wild, erratic flutter against your ribs.
He jerked slightly, as if your voice had snapped him out of a trance. The physical pressure against your back remained, but his breathing had turned shallow and erratic.
"I... I apologize," he stammered, his voice thick and wavering. He tried to pull his hips back, a sudden wave of panic radiating from his tense muscles. "I did not calculate that reaction. The friction... when you moved... the sensory input was massive. It bypassed my primary processor." You didn't let him pull away. You reached down and placed your hand firmly over his where it gripped your hip, anchoring him to you.
"Jake, it's okay," you said softly, keeping your voice low and steady. "You don't have to apologize. It's just biology. It's a natural variable."
"My heart rate is elevated to 110 beats per minute," he whispered, his chest heaving against your back. "The blood flow has heavily redirected. The physical sensation is... it is loud, Y/N. It is very loud."
"Is it a bad loud?" you asked carefully. "Is it overwhelming like a meltdown, or... is it something else?" He went still, analyzing the internal data. He pressed his forehead against the back of your shoulder, taking a shaky breath.
"It is not a meltdown," he confessed, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate register. "It does not feel like the static. It feels like... gravity. Like I am being pulled toward the center of the earth. It is a very heavy, concentrated need. I want..." He swallowed hard. "I want to press against you again. The pressure felt... optimal."
Your pulse skyrocketed. You had navigated countless sensory challenges together, but this was uncharted territory. Over the last seven months, your physical intimacy had been limited to deep kisses, fierce hugs, and the quiet comfort of sleeping tangled together. You had let him set the pace, knowing that the intense vulnerability of sex could easily turn into a sensory nightmare if not handled with absolute care and trust.
But right now, his body was telling him what he needed, and he was trusting you enough to vocalize it.
You slowly turned over in his arms, shifting until you were facing him on the sofa.
His dark eyes were wide, blown out, and swimming with a chaotic mix of desire, confusion, and vulnerable trust. His chest was rising and falling rapidly under his t-shirt. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes, making him look devastatingly beautiful in the flickering light of the television.
"You can press against me, Jake," you whispered, reaching up to cup his face in both hands, applying the firm, grounding pressure he loved. "If you want to. We can explore this data together. But only if you feel safe."
He leaned into your palms, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. "I always feel safe with you. You are my permanent variable."
"Do you want to turn the TV off?" you asked. "To reduce the audio-visual input?"
He opened his eyes and nodded once, a jerky, decisive motion. "Yes. The flashing lights are distracting. I only want to focus on one input. I want to focus on you."
You reached for the remote on the coffee table and clicked the power button. The room was instantly plunged into a soft, velvety darkness, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of the streetlamp filtering through the edges of the blackout curtains. The silence in the room was profound, amplifying the sound of your mingled breathing.
"Is the dark okay?" you murmured, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones.
"The dark is good," he rasped, his hands sliding from your waist to grip your thighs. "It limits the variables. I can only feel."
"Okay," you breathed. "We're going to go very slow, Jake. If anything feels like too muchâif the texture is wrong, or the pressure changes, or the static gets too loudâyou just squeeze my hand three times. The emergency exit. And we stop immediately. Deal?"
"Deal," he agreed, his voice trembling slightly with anticipation. "Three squeezes."
You moved closer, swinging one leg over his hips so you were straddling him on the wide cushions of the sofa. You settled your weight down carefully.
The moment your center pressed directly against the hard ridge behind the zipper of his flannel pants, Jake let out a sharp, fractured gasp. His head fell back against the armrest, his eyes squeezing shut as his hands clamped down hard on your hips.
"Deep pressure," he groaned, his hips bucking upward instinctively to meet your weight. "Y/N... the pressure is... oh."
"I know, baby," you whispered, leaning down to press your lips to the erratic pulse beating wildly at the base of his throat. "I'm right here. Just feel it."
You began to move, establishing a slow, rhythmic rock against him. You knew better than to be unpredictable. He needed a pattern. Forward, back. Press, release. You created a physical metronome with your body, allowing his sensory processor to latch onto the predictability of the friction. Jakeâs response was breathtaking. Stripped of his anxieties and grounded by the heavy weight of your body, he surrendered completely to the sensation. His hands roamed over your back, mapping the curve of your spine with firm, deliberate strokes. He was learning the topography of your body in a whole new way. "I need..." he panted, opening his eyes to look up at you. "The barrier. The fabric is creating a secondary friction that is confusing my receptors. I want... skin."
"Okay," you said, your own voice thick with desire. "Let's remove the barriers."
You sat up, reaching for the hem of your sweater. You pulled it over your head and tossed it onto the floor, leaving you in just your bra. Jakeâs dark eyes widened, tracing the exposed skin of your chest and stomach. He didn't reach out with a light, tentative touch; he placed his large, warm palms flat against your ribcage, anchoring himself to your warmth.
"Symmetrical," he whispered, a breathless awe in his voice. "You are structurally perfect."
You smiled, a rush of pure affection warming your blood. You reached down and grabbed the hem of his vintage t-shirt, pulling it up and over his fluffy hair. His chest was broad and pale, his muscles tense and defined under the amber light.
You leaned down, pressing your bare chest flush against his.
The skin-to-skin contact was electric. Jake let out a long, shuddering sigh, wrapping his arms around you in a crushing, desperate hug.
"The thermal transfer is optimal," he murmured into your hair, his heart hammering against your breasts. "You feel like... you feel like the sun, Y/N."
"You feel amazing, Jake."
You reached down, your fingers fumbling with the waistband of your sweatpants. You shimmied them down your legs, kicking them off the edge of the sofa. Jake followed suit, his hands shaking slightly as he shoved his flannel pajama pants and boxers down, kicking them away with a clumsy urgency.
When you settled back over him, entirely bare against him, the reality of the moment hit him. It was his first time. Twenty-four years of guarding his body against a world that was too loud, too bright, and too sharp, and he was opening all the doors for you.
"Y/N," he whispered, his hands gripping your waist tightly. Panic flickered in the depths of his brown eyes, a sudden spike in his data processing. "I do not have the manual for this. I have read the biological mechanics online, but... the practical application... what if I malfunction? What if my rhythm is inefficient?"
You stopped moving. You cupped his face again, bringing your forehead down to rest against his."There is no manual, Jake," you promised him, repeating the words you had told him months ago when he felt broken. "There is no malfunction. This isn't a test with a pass or fail grade. This is just you and me, talking to each other in a different way. You just have to tell me what feels good, and Iâll tell you what feels good. We write our own code."
He blinked, processing the logic. "We write our own code," he echoed.
"Exactly. And I promise you, everything you do is perfect to me."
He let out a shaky breath, the panic subsiding. "Okay. Initiate the sequence."
You reached down, guiding his thick, incredibly hot length to your entrance. He was trembling beneath you, a fine, high-frequency vibration of pure anticipation.
"I'm going to go very slow," you whispered, locking your eyes with his. "Deep pressure. Ready?"
"Ready."
You sank down.The entry was a slow, deliberate stretch. You took him inch by inch, allowing his body to process the immense, overwhelming sensation of being enveloped.When you were seated fully at the base, you stopped.
Jakeâs reaction was instantaneous and profound. His eyes rolled back slightly, his jaw dropping open in a silent shout. His hands flew up, not to your hips, but to your back, pulling you down into a crushing, desperate embrace. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his entire body going rigid as he absorbed the data.
"Jake?" you whispered, your hands stroking his hair. "Are you okay? Is it too much?"
He shook his head frantically against your collarbone.
"No," he gasped, a wet, fractured sound tearing from his throat. "It is not too much. It is... everything. It is all the data in the universe at once, but it is organized. It is quiet. Y/N, you are so quiet."
He meant it as the highest compliment his brain could formulate. You were the only thing in his life that silenced the chaotic noise of the world.
He didn't wait for you to establish the rhythm. His instincts, buried under layers of logic and sensory defense, roared to life. He surged upward, his hips snapping off the cushions, driving himself deep inside you. You cried out, a loud, breathless sound of pleasure that echoed in the dark room. The sound was a positive variable for him. It fueled him.He began to thrust. It wasn't clumsy, and it wasn't hesitant. It was a firm, relentless, driving rhythm. He found the mathematical perfection of the friction and locked onto it. Up, down. Press, release. He held your hips in a vice grip, ensuring the angle never deviated, maximizing the sensory input for both of you.
"Jake... oh my god, Jake," you moaned, your hands bracing on his broad shoulders as you rode the incredible wave of his momentum.
"Is the depth acceptable?" he panted, his brow furrowed in intense concentration, sweat glistening on his forehead. "Is the velocity optimal?"
"It's perfect," you gasped, leaning down to capture his lips in a fierce, messy kiss. "Don't stop. You feel so good."
He growled into your mouthâa primal, masculine sound that sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core. The logical, quiet young man who meticulously sorted LEGO bricks was completely subsumed by the overwhelming, consuming fire of his love for you. The pleasure began to build, a tightening coil of heat that radiated outward. The sensory input in the room narrowed down to just himâthe smell of his clean sweat, the sound of his ragged breathing, the solid, heavy impact of his hips against yours. "I'm going to fall," he whimpered suddenly, breaking the kiss. His rhythm became erratic, frantic. His eyes squeezed shut, his head tossing back against the armrest. "Y/N, my system is overloading. The pressure is too high. It's too high!" He wasn't panicking; he was climaxing.
"Let it overload, Jakey," you cried out, feeling your own climax rushing forward to meet his. "I've got you! Just let go!"
With a final, desperate, upward surge, Jake broke.
A high, fractured whimper tore from his throatâa sound of absolute, overwhelming release. He froze, his body bowing upward off the couch, every muscle pulled taut as a bowstring. He buried himself as deeply inside you as physically possible, his hands digging into your lower back to anchor you to him as he flooded you with his warmth.
The intensity of his release pushed you right over the edge. You shattered around him, your internal muscles spasming and milking him dry, crying out his name into the quiet, dark room.For a long, endless minute, neither of you moved. You lay collapsed against his chest, your breathing ragged and out of sync.
Slowly, the tension drained out of Jake's body. He slumped back against the cushions, his arms wrapping limply but securely around your waist.
You lifted your head, your hair falling in a messy curtain around your face, and looked down at him.His eyes were closed. His chest was heaving. And tracing down the sides of his flushed, sweat-dampened cheeks were two steady streams of tears.
Your heart constricted in a sudden panic. You reached down, wiping your thumb across his cheek. "Jake? Baby, what's wrong? Why are you crying? Did it hurt? Was the static too loud?"He opened his eyes. They were bloodshot, wet, and incredibly bright.He looked up at you, reaching a trembling hand up to cover yours where it rested on his cheek. He turned his face into your palm, pressing a kiss to your skin.
"It didn't hurt," he whispered, a watery, brilliant smile breaking across his face. "The static is completely gone. There is no noise left in my head at all."
"Then why are you leaking?" you asked softly, using his terminology.
"Because my capacity is full," he explained, his voice thick with a profound, overwhelming happiness. "I processed the data of the physical connection, and I combined it with the data of my emotional attachment to you. The resulting sum was larger than my internal storage. It had to spill over."
He let out a shaky, joyful laugh, pulling you back down until your ear was resting right over his racing heart."I am crying because I am exactly where I belong," he murmured into your hair, wrapping his arms around you like a shield. "You are my favorite variable, Y/N. You are the only math that makes sense."You closed your eyes, a few happy tears of your own slipping onto his chest, and held your permanent variable as tightly as you could.
EpilogueÂ
The two years following that rainy autumn night unfolded with a rhythm that was entirely your own. Your relationship with Jake wasn't built on grand, unpredictable gestures or spontaneous cross-country road trips. It was built on the quiet, steady accretion of reliable data. It was built on Tuesday grilled cheese, the specific hum of the dryer on Thursdays, and the absolute certainty that when the world outside grew too sharp, you were each other's soft landing.
The seasons cycled âthe oppressive, humid summers fading into the stark, brilliant colors of autumn, giving way to the biting cold of winter, and melting back into the muddy hope of spring. Through it all, Jake continued to bloom.
He still wore his Spider-Man pajama pants. He still organized his LEGOs by size, function, and color. He still required a predictable morning routine to conserve his daily battery. He was still undeniably, beautifully Jake. But the fear that had once defined his interactions with the world had largely dissipated. He was anchored. He had found where he fit.
It was a Saturday morning in late May. The air was warm, and the morning sun was filtering through the kitchen windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the air.
You were sitting at the kitchen island, wearing one of Jake's oversized grey hoodies, nursing a mug of coffee. You were twenty-five now, working full-time at a local community center. Your imposter syndrome hadn't vanished completely, but you no longer felt like a fraud playing at being an adult. You had a handle on your life, mostly.
Jake was standing at the counter, completely absorbed in the meticulous preparation of his breakfast. Two scrambled eggs (uniform yellow), three strips of bacon (cut into one-inch squares). "The humidity is rising," Jake noted, spearing a piece of bacon with his fork. He didn't look away from his plate. "It is currently at 68%. By mid-afternoon, it will likely exceed my comfortable threshold. My hair will experience frizz."
"We can stay inside," you offered, taking a sip of your coffee. "We have the new Star Wars puzzle. The 3,000-piece one."
Jake paused mid-chew. He swallowed and took a deliberate sip of his water.
"No," he said, finally looking up at you. His dark brown eyes were serious, but there was a subtle, nervous energy thrumming beneath the surface. He was tapping his left foot against the linoleumâa sign of processing complex variables. "I have calculated a different trajectory for today. I require a change in routine."
You lowered your mug, intrigued. A voluntary change in routine was rare. "Oh? What's the new variable?"
"I would like to visit the city Park," he announced, his posture straightening slightly. "The one with the botanical gardens. The rhododendrons are currently in peak bloom. They are highly saturated in color."
"The Park on a Saturday?" you asked, verifying the data. "It might be crowded, Jakey. High density."
"I am aware," he said, reaching up to adjust the collar of his t-shirt. "I have packed my noise-canceling headphones. I have assessed my battery level. I am operating at 98% capacity. I believe I can manage the input. It is... important."
There was a weight to the word important that made your heart skip a tiny beat. You had learned to trust his self-assessments. If he said he could handle it, he meant it.
"Okay," you smiled warmly. "Let's go see the rhododendrons."
The drive to the Park was filled with the familiar, comforting silence of Jake's lo-fi hip hop playlist. He sat in the passenger seat, his fingers tapping a complex rhythm against his thigh. He was wearing his favorite soft, navy blue hoodie and a pair of clean, comfortable jeans.When you arrived at the park, it was, as predicted, relatively busy. Families were walking dogs, joggers were navigating the paved trails, and children were shouting near the playground.Jake immediately deployed his headphones, pulling them over his ears to muffle the auditory chaos. He reached out with his right hand, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead, and waited.You slipped your hand into his, intertwining your fingers tightly. Deep pressure. The anchor.
He squeezed your hand three times. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I love you.
You squeezed back three times.
I love you too.
His shoulders relaxed a fraction, and together, you began to walk down the main path toward the botanical gardens. The gardens were a stark contrast to the rest of the park. They were quieter, designed for contemplation rather than recreation. The air smelled of damp earth and blooming flowers.Jake led the way, navigating the winding stone paths with purpose. He stopped occasionally to examine a specific leaf structure or to identify a flower species under his breath."The Fibonacci sequence is evident in the petal arrangement of the Echinacea purpurpea," he murmured, pointing to a purple coneflower. "Nature relies heavily on mathematical efficiency."
"It's beautiful," you agreed, leaning against his side.He guided you deeper into the gardens, away from the main thoroughfare, until you reached a small, secluded clearing. In the center of the clearing was a large, ornate wooden gazebo, surrounded on all sides by massive, blooming rhododendron bushes. The flowers were a blinding, saturated magenta.The clearing was entirely empty.
Jake stopped walking. He pulled his headphones down so they rested around his neck.Â
The sudden exposure to the ambient noise of the park made him blink rapidly for a second, but he didn't put them back on.
He turned to face you.
His breathing had grown shallow. You could feel the slight tremor in his hand, which was still gripping yours tightly.
"Jake?" you asked softly, recognizing the physical signs of a stress response. "Is it too loud? Do you need your headphones?"
"No," he said, his voice hitching slightly. "The noise is acceptable. The variables are within manageable parameters."
He let go of your hand. You frowned, a sudden spike of anxiety hitting your chest. Jake never let go of your hand in a public place. It was his primary grounding mechanism.
He took a step back, putting a careful two feet of space between you. He reached his hands into the front pocket of his navy hoodie. He was searching for something.
"Y/N," he began, his voice taking on the formal, factual cadence he used when he was nervous. "I have spent the last two years analyzing the data of our cohabitation. I have observed the statistical probability of a successful, long-term human partnership."Your breath caught in your throat. Your heart began to hammer against your ribs like a trapped bird."The data indicates," Jake continued, his dark eyes locked intensely on yours, refusing to look away, "that relationships are prone to entropy. They break down due to poor communication, mismatched variables, and a lack of systemic maintenance."
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He pulled his hands out of his hoodie pocket. He was holding a small, square object made of dark, polished wood. It wasn't a standard velvet jewelry box. It looked distinctly handmade.
"However," he said, his voice softening, the clinical distance dropping away to reveal the raw, beating heart beneath. "My internal processor has run the simulation a thousand times. And in every single simulation, the variable that prevents the entropy... is you."
He took a step forward, closing the gap between you. He didn't drop to one kneeâhe knew that societal conventions didn't dictate the validity of an action, and the ground was dampâbut he held the wooden box out between you."You do not try to rewrite my code," Jake whispered, his eyes shining with an overwhelming, profound sincerity. "You learned my language. You understand that the static is loud, and you are the only thing that makes it quiet. You eat burnt cookies, and you do not make fun of my Spider-Man pajamas, and you provide optimal thermal transfer when I am cold."A tear slipped free from your eyelashes, tracking hotly down your cheek. You couldn't speak. You could barely breathe."I do not possess the vocabulary to adequately express the magnitude of my attachment to you," he admitted, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the small wooden box. "But I have learned that human tradition utilizes symbolic gestures to denote permanent, primary variables."
He opened the wooden box. Inside, resting on a bed of dark blue velvet, was a ring. It wasn't a massive, flashy diamond. It was a simple, elegant band of polished titanium, inlaid with a thin, continuous stripe of dark, starry lapis lazuli.
"I selected titanium," Jake explained, his voice gaining confidence as he presented the data. "It has the highest strength-to-weight ratio of any metallic element. It is incredibly resilient. It will not warp or degrade. And the lapis lazuli is blue. You are my protective blue aura." He looked up from the ring, his gaze finding yours. The puppy-dog innocence was still there, but it was anchored by the unwavering conviction of a man who knew exactly what he wanted."Y/N," he said, his voice clear and resonant. "Will you agree to be my permanent, legally recognized variable? Will you marry me?" A sob tore from your throatâa loud, messy, uncalculated sound of pure joy. You didn't answer with words initially. You couldn't. You closed the remaining distance between you, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling his face down to yours. You kissed him with every ounce of love, gratitude, and fierce devotion you possessed.
Jake gasped against your lips, his hands instantly finding your waist, the wooden box clutched safely in one fist. He kissed you back eagerly, grounding himself in the familiar, perfect pressure of your touch.When you finally pulled away, you were both breathless. You rested your forehead against his, your tears mixing with the warmth of his skin."Yes," you whispered, your voice thick and wobbly. "Yes, Jake. A million times, yes. I will be your permanent variable."His face broke into a blinding, full-teeth smileâthe kind of smile that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners. He let out a long, shuddering sigh of absolute relief."Optimal," he breathed. "The simulation was accurate." He carefully extracted the ring from the wooden box. He took your left hand, his fingers steady now, and slid the titanium band onto your ring finger. It fit perfectly. He had likely measured your finger while you were sleeping, calculating the exact circumference."It's perfect, Jakey," you sobbed, looking at the band. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"It is mathematically precise," he agreed, admiring his handiwork.
He pulled you back against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You buried your face in his navy hoodie, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of unscented detergent and the crisp spring air.
The wedding, like your relationship, was exactly what you both needed it to be: small, controlled, and deeply personal.There was no massive reception hall filled with hundreds of strangers. There was no loud DJ blasting bass-heavy music. There were no flashing strobe lights.Instead, six months later, you stood in the backyard of the beige two-story house. The late October air was crisp and smelled of fallen leaves. The trees surrounding the yard were ablaze in oranges and reds.
Sarah had spent weeks transforming the backyard into a quiet, intimate sanctuary. Fairy lightsâwarm white, non-flickeringâwere strung through the branches of the old oak tree. The grass was meticulously trimmed.
There were only twelve guests. Your parents, your brother, Sarah, and a few close friends who understood the rules of the environment.
You wore a simple, elegant white dress with no scratchy lace or heavy, restrictive corsetry. You wore your new white Converse sneakers beneath the hem.
Jake stood at the end of the short aisle. He wasn't wearing a suit. He had tried one on during the planning phase, but the stiff collar and the tight constraints of the jacket had sent him into a near-meltdown.Instead, he wore a dark navy blue cashmere sweater over a collared shirt, and dark, comfortable trousers. He looked incredibly handsome, comfortable in his own skin, and entirely at peace.He was wearing his noise-canceling headphones around his neck, a comforting weight, but he didn't need to turn them on. The environment was safe.When you walked down the aisle, your eyes locked onto his. He wasn't looking at the ground. He wasn't looking at your shoes. He was looking directly at your face, his brown eyes shining with unshed tears.
He held his hand out to you as you approached.
You took it, feeling the immediate, deep pressure of his grip.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I love you.
The ceremony was short. The officiant, a close family friend, spoke softly and clearly.
When it came time for the vows, you hadn't written traditional promises. You had written your own code."Jake," you said, your voice steady, holding both of his hands in yours. "I promise to always be your quiet place. I promise to never mix the eggs with the bacon. I promise to always check the weather for humidity spikes, and to always have your noise-canceling headphones charged."
Jake smiled, a single tear slipping down his cheek."I promise to fiercely protect your routines," you continued, your own vision blurring. "Because your routines are what allow your brilliant, beautiful mind to thrive. I promise to love you, exactly as you are, in every variable, in every simulation, for the rest of our lives."
Jake took a deep, shaky breath. He didn't have notes. He had memorized his data.
"Y/N," he began, his voice carrying the deep, resonant timbre that always grounded you. "Before I met you, the world was a chaotic, unmanageable input. I survived by building walls and closing doors. You did not try to break the walls down. You simply sat outside them, in your quiet shoes, until I realized I wanted to open the door."
He squeezed your hands, his thumb brushing over the titanium ring on your finger.
"You are the most statistically improbable, incredibly fortunate anomaly of my life," he said, his eyes conveying a depth of emotion that defied any clinical diagnosis. "I promise to provide optimal thermal transfer when you are cold. I promise to eat the burnt cookies so you do not feel inadequate. I promise to step in front of the unpredictable variables to shield you. I promise to be your permanent, primary partner, until the entropy of the universe consumes us both."
There wasn't a dry eye in the small gathering. Sarah was openly weeping into a tissue, clutching your motherâs hand.
When the officiant pronounced you husband and wife, Jake didn't hesitate. He pulled you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms around your waist, and kissed you with the firm, deliberate passion of a man who had finally found his permanent place in the world.The small crowd cheered softly, clapping their handsâa muted, respectful applause that didn't startle him.The reception was a dinner held in the living room and kitchen. The food was carefully curated. There was a macaroni and cheese bar (no mixing required), a tray of perfectly uniform, sharp cheddar cheese cubes, and a massive bowl of smooth, roasted tomato bisque, a roast Sarah made, a salad.For dessert, there wasn't a traditional, multi-tiered wedding cake.Instead, there was a large platter of sugar cookies and other desserts. The cookies were cut into precise geometric shapesâstars and Stegosauruses. They were baked to a perfect, light golden brown.Jake stood by the dessert table, holding a star cookie. He looked across the room at you. You were talking to your brother, laughing at something he had said.Jake walked over to you. He didn't care that you were mid-conversation. He stepped up behind you, wrapping his arm securely around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.
"Deep pressure," he murmured into your ear, resting his chin on your shoulder.
"Always," you smiled, leaning back into his solid warmth.
Your brother smiled warmly at the two of you and excused himself to get more macaroni and cheese.Jake held the star cookie out in front of you.
"The bake on these is optimal," he noted, his voice a low, happy rumble against your back. "The structural integrity is sound. The Maillard reaction was controlled."
"I set three timers," you laughed, turning your head to kiss his cheek. "I wasn't taking any chances today."He took a bite of the cookie. It crunched satisfyingly.
"They are very good," he decided, chewing thoughtfully. "But..."
"But?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.
"But I think I prefer the fossilized dinosaurs," he said, his eyes crinkling with a subtle, teasing humor. "They possessed a superior... smoky complexity. And they proved that you are fallible. Which makes you mathematically perfect for me."
You let out a loud, joyous laugh, turning fully in his arms to wrap your hands around his neck."You are ridiculous, Jake Sim," you beamed, looking up at your husband.
"I am entirely logical," he corrected softly, his gaze dropping to your lips. "The data supports my conclusion." He leaned down and kissed you again, right there in the middle of the living room, surrounded by the soft murmur of your families and the warm, golden light of the fairy lights.Outside, the world continued its chaotic, unpredictable spin. The traffic roared, the sirens wailed, and the variables shifted without warning.
But inside, wrapped in the arms of the man who organized his life with plastic bricks and unyielding honesty, everything was perfectly, mathematically still. The static was gone. You were home. And you knew, with the absolute certainty of a scientifically proven fact, that you would never need to run from the noise again.
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i finally read this yesterday after having it on my tbr for a long ass time and good GOD do i wish i read ts sooner
like genuinely, the writing is fantastic and the plot is just so ugh. she went abt this topic in such a perfect way and i can rlly tell she cared abt the topics addressed throughout the whole thing
i keep thinking abt this fic and i already wanna reread it again; if tumblr had a âfavoriteâ option then i would unfavorite every other fic and only have this in that section because itâs THAT good.
please read this like omg i cannot yap abt it enough (yes i did send it to rachel, thatâs how you know the cookie is fire.)
Jake begged for you to go on a plane ride with him as the co-pilot. You bring your 3 year old daughter who does a great job at keeping your flight anxieties at bay, despite this being her first time on a plane.
pairing: pilot dad!jake x mom fem!reader
genre: married au, fluff, angst-ish
warnings: mentions of throwing up, flight/plane anxiety, fluff, think this is it!
a/n: if anyone reads this, I hope it can make you feel at least a bit better given the situations with enha rn. enhypen is 7.
Marry a pilot they said, itâll be fun, they said. Jake had booked a trip to Australia for your third wedding anniversary. At first, he was going to plan something smallâa simple gathering for family and friends to be invited to, but when he was informed that he was listed to fly a plane to Australia, coincidentally a few days before your anniversary, he begged you to fly on his plane instead.Â
âIt wonât be that bad, baby. Iâll be flying the plane along with an awesome crew, doesnât that make you feel at least a bit better?â He had told you, yet, you were still hesitant.
Your fear of flying planes wasn't new. When you were a child you would scream, cry, or even throw up. You havenât been on a plane since you were twelve.
You had met Jake through your older brother. They were both in an Aerospace Academy and he immediately introduced Jake to your family.Â
Much to your surprise, the both of you hit it off immediately. You were known to be quite shy and timid around new people, but Jake made conversations feel like you didnât need to prove something or impressâall you had to do was be in the moment.
Currently, youâre sitting in the bedroom on the brand new fluffy rug your mother bought for you, headphones covering your ears, and youâre glaring at the suitcase that lays open in front of you.
You should have finished packing by now, but each time you pick up an item to pack, youâre welcomed by a wave of anxiety.
You see movement in the corner of your eyeâlooking to your right you find your daughter scooting towards you from her toys.Â
You give her a small, yet nervous smile. âMommyâs a little nervous, I hope youâre braver than I am.â Picking her up once she gets close enough, you sit her in your lap towards you.
She looks up at you with big, gorgeous puppy eyes that always reminds you of Jake. Everything about her is a spitting copy of her father. She has his energetic personality, his kindness, and his manners.
Your daughter may be only three, but she is very smart for her age. She plays well with other kids and is always so willing to share one of her toys and comfort others.
One time, you and Jake were watching a movie about a dog finding its way back home, you had
shed a few tears and your daughterâwho sat next to you, perked up at the sound of your sniffles and climbed on your lap, burying her face into your chest in an attempt to hug your tears away.
For a child so young, she is very emotionally intelligent. Youâre so thankful of the person sheâs grown into so far.
She giggles as you kiss her forehead before taking your headphones offâas you do so, you see Jake walk into the room. Heâs wearing a black hoodie and grey sweatpants. He sighs, noticing that youâve still not packed your suitcase yet.
The flight wasnât until later tonight, but with Jake being one of the pilots, heâs required to be at the airport early to prepare for the flight, which means you have to be there early too.
He crouches down in front of your suitcase and points at the emptiness of itâwatching as you hide your face behind your daughter.
He shakes his head in amusement. âI thought we talked about this. The deal was that I get the car ready and youâd pack Princessâ things along with your own,â he reminds.Â
You play with the strands of your daughterâs hair, meeting his eyes nervously. âIâm just,â you pause, holding on to your daughter tighter. âNot sure whatâs going to happen if I step on that plane.â Anxiety takes over your last sentence, Jakeâs eyes soften and he moves the suitcase in front of you to get closer.
Of course Jake knows about your fear of planes, every time you see one in the sky you look at it in fear of it falling. He also knows about your past experiences on board, which is why he wants this flight to go as smoothly as possible for you and your daughter.Â
He places his hands on your knees as his eyes meet your nervous ones.
âThe only thing thatâs going to happen is that youâll hear me talk about some safety precautions. I promise that Iâll do everything in my power to keep you both safe, you know that baby,â he explains.
You sigh shakily, nodding to his words.Â
âI know youâre scared, but Iâm really happy that I get to have you two on my flight,â he softly ruffles your daughterâs hair, chuckling when she giggles and swats his hand away. âEverything will be okay,â he promises.
Jake begins helping you pack, every few minutes he reassures you or explains how planes work to keep you calm.Â
Him talking you through your anxious thoughts started to workâuntil you got to the airport.Â
------
Jake parted ways with you to complete his security screening process as he wasnât required to go through passenger tsa. Luckily, he had informed you on what to expect from security, so it wasnât as bad as you had thought it would be.Â
Jake sends you a text saying that he finished his security check and is going to change into his uniform. You reply with where youâre located and he reacts with a thumbs up emoji.
Taking a deep inhale, you look up from your phoneâyou didnât realise how confusing airports could be. The huge and obnoxious space doesnât necessarily help.Â
You subconsciously pull your daughter closer to your leg, it seems like she can feel your anxiety begin to rise. Her grip on your hand tightens as she pulls you into a direction where there arenât many people.
The action would have made you laugh if you werenât so overwhelmed by your surroundings.Â
Your daughter brings you to a wall next to the restrooms. She tells you to sit on the floor and you listen.Â
âAre you okay, mommy?â She asks quietly. You bite your lip in embarrassment. Werenât you supposed to be the calm one here?Â
You smile sadly. âIâm just a little scared, baby. Thatâs all,â you say truthfully, knowing she would be able to see through any of your lies.
She tilts her head to the side in confusionâher eyes widen as she turns her body towards the big windows across the airport.
âAre you scared of planes, mommy?â She points to the planes outside. Of course she figured it out. You wonder if the people walking past you two think youâre just as obvious as you feel.
You nod slowly, watching as she curls up next to you, gently grabbing your hand to put it on her cheek.
To anyone else, it could look like sheâs just clingy, tired, or bored. But to you, itâs her telling you that youâre safe.
Itâs her own way of speaking without words; a special gesture that gives you the confidence that left you.Â
You donât cryâno, not here, not now. But later on the plane, in the bathroom, in Australiaâit doesnât matter. You will remember the way your three year old calmed her mother down like it was just another day.
Giving her a quick kiss on her cheek as you bring yourselves to standing. âI love you, Princess. Thank you for helping me out. That was very brave of you,â you softly run your fingers through her hair as she hugs your stomach.
âLetâs go get on that plane, shall we?â The sentence left your mouth stronger than you thought it ever would. Your daughter gives you a soft smile and holds your hand.
Thanks to her, the walk to your gate number wasnât dreadful at all. In fact, along the way she kept pointing out the stores and restaurants that she would like to visit with you and Jake one day.Â
Youâre just thankful that she was giving you distractions upon distractions.
â
Itâs been fifteen minutes since you boarded the plane. When you entered, the flight attendants gave your daughter a stuffed, pink glittery mouse that looked awfully familiar to the one she has at home.Â
âThe co-pilot wanted us to ensure that the mouse was delivered to the right kiddo,â one of them says. Winking as your daughter gasps excitedly.
âDaddy brought my mouse! I totally forgot her at home!â You smile at her, gently guiding her to walk forward as you quietly thank the woman who handed over her mouse.Â
You find your seats and get settled in. Neither of you had a carry-on so that made things easierâjust two backpacks and a medium sized blanket, which you handed over to your daughter.Â
âItâs a little chilly, get comfy.â You help her unfold it carefully. By the time youâre done you hear a voice crackle through the overhead speakersâitâs no other than your husband.Â
âGâday, everyoneâor gânight, I should say,â Jake chuckles. âThank you for flying with us this evening, my name is Jake and I am happy to announce that I will be your co-pilot for tonight.â
Your daughter perks up at the sound of her father. Turning to you, she lightly shakes your arm in excitement.Â
âBefore we go over safety procedures, Iâd like to give a quick shout out to two of my favorite people in the world who are joining us. My wife and my daughter are seated in row 7, seats A and B. Itâs an absolute honor to fly them to Australia, I love you both.â He finishes. All the passengers are clapping their hands, amused by the announcement.
You blush in embarrassment. Of course Jake would publicly announce something like that.Â
âI love you too, daddy!â Your daughter stands on her seat as she yells. Everyone around you coos at her and you quickly tug her down to sit. You cover your face in embarrassmentâbut you couldnât be any happier.Â
The fears you had earlier werenât fully gone, but it was manageable.Â
Youâre incredibly lucky to have an amazing family who loves you so much.
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pairing | jay Ă reader
genre: smut | wc: 1.5k | content: smut, public sex (yikes), fingering, dirty talk, jay fingers reader at the club, inspired by eoo by bad bunny lol
mcwilla.log : im backk!!! finally got some motivation to write, and so hopefully i'll be more active!! here's a short jay drabble kinda thing i wrote, ive been listening to a lot of bad bunny and just had to write this. likes, comments, and reblogs are very very appreciated!! <33
‿ requests & asks are: open
Sticky, suffocating, humidâperfect conditions for a night out.
Maybe your hair would frizz up; maybe your outfit would feel too tight in all the wrong places; maybe your forehead would glaze over with a thin layer of sweat, threatening to remove your perfectly done makeup. No matter what the consequences of your actions were, the payoff was worth it.
In all the years you'd been out clubbing, you'd probably only bought yourself a drink once or twice. Every other time, some poor guy who fell for your tricks would take care of you that night. Maybe you had to actually put out once or twice, but that didn't really matter to you. Sometimes, the guys were actually attractiveâlike tonight.
The man behind you was tall and lean; he had muscles, but they weren't the unattractive kind. Guys who were all big and bulky, biceps bigger than your torso in whichever direction you choseâthey were gross. Not Jayâthat was his name, Jay. Jay's arms were muscular and firm, you could feel them tense when your long nails scraped over them through his shirt.
His hips moved with yours; his pelvis pressing into the plush of your ass. His large, veiny hands splayed themselves across your stomach, keeping you pressed as harsh as possible to his body. The floor was so crowded that even without his efforts, the two of you would still be practically conjoined.
You could feel his hardened cock press against you, could feel his breaths pick up speed and form into almost-pants. Jay leaned forward, placing an open-mouthed kiss along your sweaty neck. "Wanna take this somewhere else?" His question was breathy, desperate.
You giggle, hands snaking up behind his head to pull him closer to you. You open your mouth; he leans closer to hear you. "I don't take strangers homeâsorry."
Jay clicks his tongue, raising his head and glancing around the club. Everyone is in their own world, random shit filling their system and making them the only people on this mortal plane of existence. Jay's hands travel from your stomach lower; you feel the hem of your (very) short skirt twitch, ever so slightly.
"Why notâcould be a good time," he almost purrs in your ear.
"I've tried it too many times to know it won't be a good time," you retort, pressing your ass impossibly closer to his cock. Jay groans, forehead falling onto your shoulder as he bucks into you. His hands shake as they continue to play with your skirt.
"Well, you've never tried with me," he continues. You feel the tips of his fingers, ever so lightly, tracing patterns on your inner thighs. You clench around nothing, swallowing a moan. The ghostly aura of his fingers teases youâthey're taunting, telling you exactly what you could have if you just accepted his offer.
You don't want to accept his offer, though. You don't feel like bringing a guy home, letting him fuck you on your bed trying to be all sexy but failing, and then rolling your eyes for the next month while he doesn't get the hint that you're just not that interested.
You just want to get off.
"I don't leave women disappointed." Jay nips at your neckâyou let yourself moan. You can feel his smirk against your neck, slow and cocky, already acting like he's won you over. "C'mon, baby," he tries again, "jus' lemme prove it to you."
You chuckle at his words, softly tugging at his hair before letting your hands drop to his forearms. "And how're you gonna do that if I don't take you home?"
Jay copies youâchuckling dryly as if you just asked him the dumbest question ever. And maybe you did, because suddenly, you feel the warm pads of his fingers stroke your wet panties. You buck your hips forward, chasing the friction as you breathe out his name. "Jayâfuck."
"There we go," he muses. His fingers keep up their movementsâup and down, up and down. You feel your underwear getting impossibly wetter, his fingers teasing your pussy. "Lemme feel you," he whispers, "please?"
Your legs shake at his ghosting touches, desperate for moreâanything that gets you closer to an orgasm. "Jay, we're in public."
"Look around," he groans, applying a harsh pressure to your clit that makes you whine. "Nobody fucking cares about anyone but themselvesâwanna prove to you that I won't leave you disappointed."
You bite your lip, squeezing your eyes shut as Jay's fingers start to lazily circle around your clit. You don't tell him yes, you don't really need to, your reaction is enough. With the way your ass presses back to him, the way you whine out his name and brings your hips closer to his fingersâhe knows.
Jay's fingers stop their teasing, instead opting to completely disregard your underwear and slip past them. When his fingers make contact with your pussy, the reaction is instantaneous. You whine out, grip tightening on his arms, and clench hard.
Jay chuckles, cooing in your ear as he strokes you up and down. "So, so wet," he begins, fingers prodding at your entrance. "The outline of my cock gets you this horny?"
"Mpfh," you groan, trying to stay quiet. Jay's fingers make contact with your hole, the tips of two of his fingers plunging deeper to the first knuckle. He holds them there for a moment, waiting for you to protest. When you don't, he starts to moveâin and out, in and out he plunges them.
The music doesn't stop, the people around you don't stop, the world doesn't stop. Everything keeps going, keeps moving, keeps existing. Everything in the whole world circles around you and Jayânot bothering the predicament you've gotten yourself into.
And you're damn glad that's the way it is. Jay's fingers are thick, filling you up deliciously once he starts to plunge deeper, almost sinking the entirety of the lengths inside of you. His pace is quick, but careful.
He's keeping his wordâhe doesn't want you to be disappointed. The heat settles in your belly when his lips connect to your neck. Slow, languid kisses cover you as Jay keeps cooing. "So tight," he murmurs, causing you to clench.
Jay lets out a whistle at that, curling his fingers quickly. The movement takes you buy surprise, and you can't help the moan that breaks free. Your hand rushes to cover your mouth, and Jay just laughs.
"Quiet, baby, we're in public." He's mocking you now, entirely amused at the fact that you're letting a random man finger you at the club. His pace quickens with his words, clearly inpatient as his cock is still hard, leaking, and neglected from any form of relief that isn't the subtle grinding of your ass.
"Jay," you whine, "fuck, Jayâright there."
His fingers find that spot, and suddenly, the world around you doesn't exist. Your arousal soaks Jay's fingers, slowly dripping down his wrist and catching onto the sleeve of his shirt. Jay doesn't mindâhe's got the most beautiful girl in the world coming undone on his fingers alone.
His name continues to spill past your lips, his smirk growing by the second. "If I can make you cum in the next thirty seconds, you gotta let me fuck you properly," he groans, biting down onto your shoulder, "deal?"
You nod frantically, the pressure on your lip increasing. He whispers something in your earâa kind of praise you don't quite catch because the noise around you starts to dull. The only thing you have in your mind is the mission of cumming, the feeling of that sweet release.
And that feeling comes before you know it, crashing over your body and wrecking you entirely. You shake in Jay's arms, thighs crushing his hand as your knees knock forward. Your orgasm is silentâhardly any noise accompanies it, save for a soft whimper of his name.
Jay's fingers fuck you through it, continuously hitting the spot that makes you whine, jolting your body with overstimulation. "Jayâstop, too much," you cry out.
He listens, fingers slowing and settling in between your thighs. Jay kisses your jaw, his free hand coming up to grope your breasts over your top. "You gonna let me follow through on my words?"
His question is teasing, half a joke in case this wasn't something you really wanted to do. You weren't jokingâyou never were. If Jay's cock wasn't in you in about two seconds, you seriously might combust into flames.
You nod feverishly against his chest, swallowing the dryness that cakes your throat. "Yeahâyeah, lemme just," you let out a deep breath, "holy shit."