Loving Sylus, Zayne and Valko the man you are.

Eight years out of UA and somehow you're still around. Still in the group chat. Still showing up to Kirishima's birthday parties and Sero's terrible karaoke nights. Still completely unaware that Katsuki Bakugo — the number five hero, walking explosion, a man who has never once backed down from anything in his life — has been quietly losing his mind over you since roughly your second year of school.

Everyone else figured it out years ago. Kirishima figured it out first, mostly because Bakugo made the mistake of getting drunk at his own agency's holiday party and saying your name four times in one sentence. Mina figured it out next. Even Todoroki figured it out, which says a lot, because Todoroki barely notices when buildings are on fire.

You did not figure it out. You are, according to every single person in that group chat, the last person on earth who has no idea.

So one night Bakugo sat down with a receipt from a ramen place and a pen that was almost out of ink and wrote himself a list. Not because he needed help — he would tell you he did not need help — but because eight years of doing nothing had clearly not worked and something had to change.

Here's what he came up with.

Rule #1: Don't call her pretty. That's weak. She'll see right through it.

You've been called pretty before. Plenty of times. It rolls off you like water because it means nothing coming from strangers. So the first time Bakugo actually looks at you — really looks, across a table at a group dinner while everyone else is arguing about something stupid — he doesn't say pretty. He says your hair looks stupid pushed back like that and it takes you a full three seconds to realize that's the nicest thing he's said to anyone all night.Kirishima kicks him under the table. Bakugo kicks back harder.

Rule #2: Don't let her see you get soft. Save that for when nobody's watching

You broke your wrist on a mission six months ago and Bakugo showed up at the hospital before your own agency finished the paperwork. He didn't say much. He sat in the corner with his arms crossed and glared at every nurse who walked past like they'd personally wronged him. You thanked him for coming. He said he was in the area. He was not in the area. He is never in your area.

Rule #3: If she teases you don't react. Reacting means she wins.

You have exactly one move against Bakugo and it works every time. You call him Kacchan in that flat unbothered voice of yours, the one that makes it sound like an insult and a joke at once, and he goes red before he can stop it. He tells you to shut up. You don't. He never actually wants you to.

Rule #4: Don't stare. Staring is for losers who can't say what they mean.

He stares anyway. Across bars. Across meeting rooms when your agencies do joint operations. Across the space between his couch and yours when the whole group crashes at his place after a night out and you fall asleep first, curled up small and unbothered like the world isn't currently on fire somewhere. He tells himself he's just checking you're breathing. He checks for a very long time.

Rule #5: If she steals your jacket let her keep it. Don't be a bitch about it.

It was cold outside a bar in October and you didn't bring one. He took his off without being asked and put it around your shoulders before you could even shiver a second time. You tried to give it back at the end of the night. He told you to keep it, said something about not needing two jackets anyway, which made no sense, and walked off before you could argue. You still have it. He knows you still have it. Neither of you has ever mentioned it again.

Rule #6: Don't get jealous. Jealous is for weak men.

A guy from a rival agency spent an entire mixer talking to you last spring and Bakugo spent that same mixer setting three separate small fires with his quirk completely by accident, according to him. Kirishima said it wasn't an accident. Bakugo told Kirishima to shut the hell up in front of everyone, which everyone agreed was extremely on brand and extremely obvious.

Rule #7: If she's tired let her sleep on your shoulder. Don't make it weird.

You fell asleep on the train back from a joint mission once, head tipping slowly toward his shoulder like gravity had made a decision without asking you. He went completely still. Didn't move for forty minutes. Told everyone later he just didn't want to wake you up. That was true. It was also not the whole truth.

Rule #8: Compete with her. Don't let her win just because you like her. That's pathetic.

You beat him at darts once, at a bar, fair and square, and he demanded a rematch on the spot. You beat him again. He demanded a third round. By the fourth round he wasn't even trying to win anymore, just trying to make you laugh at his increasingly unhinged trash talk, and you were laughing too hard to notice you'd stopped keeping score.

Rule #9: Play it cool when she touches you. Don't be obvious.

You have a habit of grabbing his arm when you laugh too hard at something, quick and unthinking, gone in half a second. It means nothing to you. It means everything to him. He has thought about that half-second more times than he'd ever admit under torture.

Rule #10: If she's cold under the table don't offer your legs. That's insane. Nobody does that.

He does it anyway. It's a slow dinner, everyone's talking over each other, and your foot brushes his under the table by accident. You don't move it. Neither does he. What starts as an accident turns into something else entirely — your foot pressed lightly against his shin, his ankle hooked loosely around yours, both of you carrying on two separate conversations with the rest of the table like nothing is happening below it. He nearly chokes on his drink when your foot slides slow up his calf, just once, just to see what he'll do.

He does absolutely nothing. Which is how you know it worked.

Rule #11: Don't ask about her ex. That's weak and clingy behavior.

He asks anyway, once, badly, wrapped inside a completely unrelated sentence about something else entirely so it wouldn't sound like what it was. You answered honestly and briefly and didn't ask why he wanted to know. He spent the rest of that night in a genuinely foul mood that had nothing to do with the mission report he'd claimed was bothering him.

Rule #12: If she gets sick you're not worried. You're just making sure she doesn't die. There's a difference.

You caught something nasty last winter and didn't tell anyone because you hate being fussed over. Bakugo found out from Kirishima and showed up at your apartment within the hour with a bag of groceries he refused to let you see the receipt for. He made soup badly. He stayed anyway sitting stiffly on your couch like he'd rather be anywhere else until you fell asleep on his shoulder for the second time in your life. He didn't move again. This time you were awake enough at the end to notice and you didn't say anything either.

Rule #13: Don't remember small stuff about her. That's obsessive.

He remembers everything. Your coffee order. The exact way you take your eggs. The name of the street you grew up on mentioned once years ago in passing. He tells himself it's just a good memory. Kirishima tells him that's not what a good memory looks like for anyone else in the friend group.

Rule #14: Don't get quiet around her. Quiet means she'll know something's wrong.

He gets quiet anyway sometimes when it's just the two of you left at the end of a group hangout and everyone else has gone home. You've noticed. You've never asked. You've started noticing you kind of like the quiet too.

Rule #15: If she insults your cooking don't take it personal.

You told him once that his katsudon tasted like it was made out of spite. He told you to make it yourself then. You did. It was worse than his. He has never let you live that down and somehow still makes you a plate every single time you come over unasked like it's not a big deal.

Rule #16: Don't let her see the soft stuff. Like the notebook. She can never see the notebook.

There is in fact a notebook. Bakugo would deny this to his last breath. It is not a diary. It is a training log that occasionally accidentally includes things like *she laughed at something dumb I said today* written in the margins in handwriting too small for anyone to notice. Nobody has ever seen it. It stays that way.

Rule #17: Don't dance with her at Mina's stupid parties. Dancing is for saps.

He dances with you exactly once badly at Mina's birthday both of you a little drunk and laughing about how neither of you knows what you're doing. His hand sits low on your waist the entire song. Yours rests flat against his chest close enough to feel his heart going faster than the song's tempo would explain. Neither of you comments on it. Both of you notice.

Rule #18: If she calls you at 2am for no reason answer immediately. Don't overthink it.

You called once at 2am half-asleep just to complain about a case that was bothering you and needed someone to talk it out with. He picked up on the first ring even though he'd been dead asleep three seconds earlier. Talked you through it for forty minutes in a voice rougher than usual low and half-awake until you finally calmed down enough to sleep. Neither of you brought it up the next day. You both remembered it anyway.

Rule #19: Tell her the truth eventually. Stalling makes you look like a coward.

He almost doesn't. Eight years of almost. Eight years of jackets and soup and 2am phone calls and a notebook nobody's supposed to see all adding up to exactly nothing because Katsuki Bakugo — who has never once in his life backed down from a fight — has apparently decided this is the one fight not worth having.

Kirishima finally sits him down and tells him flatly that watching this has become genuinely embarrassing for everyone involved. That you deserve to actually know. That you're not going to figure it out on your own because you're the single most unbothered person either of them has ever met and unbothered people don't go looking for things they've never been told to look for.

Rule #20: Ask her out. Just say it. Stop being a coward about it

He shows up at your apartment on a random Tuesday with no plan and no speech prepared which is unlike him in every possible way. You open the door in an old shirt and no makeup unbothered as always and ask what's wrong like something must be wrong for him to be standing there.

"Nothing's wrong," he says and immediately looks like he regrets starting that way. "I just — " He stops. Starts again. "You're coming to dinner with me Friday. Not the group. Just you and me."

You blink at him. For the first time in eight years something in your carefully composed face actually slips just a fraction just enough for him to see it happen in real time.

"Is this a date Bakugo?"

"Obviously it's a date," he says too loud the way he gets when he's covering for something. "What else would it be. Are you always this slow or is it just with me?"

You don't answer right away. You just look at him for a long moment the unbothered mask cracking wider by the second and something like a smile starts pulling at the corner of your mouth.

"Friday," you say. "Pick me up at seven. And Katsuki—"

"What."

"Wear the jacket back. I've had it long enough."

You wake up the minute the birds start chirping outside your bedroom window, as if they're aware that you want to sleep in because it's the weekend and you don't have missions to worry about. You try to ignore the chirping outside your window, but it's hard to do that when the sun is shining in your eyes. You try to reach for your blanket, but your arms are stuck at your sides.

It's not like your brain is already awake and your body isn't—no, it's because there are muscular arms wrapped around your body (including your arms). You reluctantly open your eyes, squinting when the sun shines into your eyes. You mumble, craning your head back to look at the person sleeping behind you. Instead of catching a glimpse of the sleeping man behind you, you get a face full of hair and wolf ears.

"Valko…" You mumble, trying to loosen his grip around you, only to fail.

You assume that Valko's still asleep because it's only seven in the morning, but the minute you say his name, you feel his ears twitch against your cheeks. You squirm in Valko's arms, only for him to tighten his arms around you even more. You reach towards Valko's ears, awkwardly petting his ear. Valko hums, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck.

You huff, continuing to pet his ears. "Are you actually asleep, or are you pretending to sleep?"

Valko sighs. "I was asleep, but then I felt you move. Let's sleep a little longer."

"How can I sleep in when the birds outside won't stop chirping?" You mumble. "Actually, how can you sleep so easily when your hearing is better than humans?"

Valko cracks one eye open to look at you. "I got used to it." Valko lies on his back, stretching his long limbs out on your bed with a yawn before pulling you into his arms, letting you use his massive bicep as a pillow.

You two lie in silence, listening to the birds chirping. Every now and then, you look at the top of Valko's head, watching his ears twitch at the littlest sound. It's one of the cutest things about Valko. His long tail appears from underneath the blanket, lying over you.

"You're staring." Valko murmurs, tilting his head in your direction, staring at you through his long lashes. "I can also hear your heart racing against your chest."

Valko rolls over on his side, pressing his hand against your chest to feel your heart drumming against your ribs. You huff, burying your face into his chest to ignore the heat rushing to your face. Valko's chest rumbles with laughter as he snakes his arm around your waist, pulling you flushed against his chest.

This is how your and Valko's morning typically goes—being rudely awakened by the birds chirping outside your window, cuddling with Valko on your bed while having small talk here and there, and it usually results in you burying your face in Valko's chest after a comment he made. Valko loves waking up in the morning right beside you, and despite not being much of a morning person, he wakes up before you do and would listen to you breathing.

Sometimes, you let out a snore, but not often! Of course, Valko doesn't let you know about it because he knows you would feel embarrassed and possibly banish him from ever sleeping beside you, and Valko does not want that to ever happen. It's been two months since you and Valko began dating, and every moment with you is something he always cherishes.

How Valko shows up at your apartment concerns you sometimes because he likes to chill on the balcony—not on the ground, but on the railing itself. The door to your balcony is open, the curtains are blowing from the breeze, and Valko is perched on top of the railing of your balcony.

You rush to the balcony and pull him into your apartment. "Valko! You can't keep showing up like this!" You scold him.

Valko's ears flatten on his head. "I can always show up at the front door, but I wanted to see you quicker. The balcony doors were open, and I couldn't wait to see you." Valko mutters, the apples of his cheeks turning pink while his tail stops wagging behind him. "You're not mad at me, are you?"

You stare at Valko in disbelief while he gazes at you like a kicked puppy. You sigh in defeat, stepping forward to wrap both your arms around his waist. Valko immediately melts in your arms, resting his chin on your head while wrapping his arms around your shoulders.

"I'm not mad at you, Valko. I'm more worried about your safety because what if you slip off the railing? I don't want you to get hurt." You reply, looking up at him.

"But I won't slip off the railing."

"What if you slip off?"

"I won't slip off; I will make sure to be careful, so you wouldn't be worried about my safety." Valko chuckles, nuzzling his chin on your head before he princess carries you to the couch.

Valko collapses on the couch, his back pressing against the cushions of the couch while you're lying on top of him. You rest your chin on his pecks, staring at him while he stares in return. You reach forward and run your fingers through his hair, gently petting his ears. Valko grabs you by the waist and tugs you upward, so you're face-to-face.

Valko smiles and caresses the back of your head. "Hey there."

"Hello to you too." You murmur, caressing his face with one hand while stroking his ear with the other. "I missed you, you know."

Valko nuzzles his face against your hand. "I missed you more." Valko sighs, tilting his head forward to press his forehead against yours. "Why do you have to live so far?"

You huff. "I can ask you the same thing, Mister Chairman."

Valko lays his head on his bicep, looking up at the ceiling while you're busy playing with his ears. As Chairman of EonCore Tech, Valko is always busy, but that doesn't stop him from visiting you whenever he can. Valko always makes time for you no matter how packed his schedule is. But if Valko can't stop by your apartment, then you two will be on a video call with each other.

"What's on your mind?" Valko murmurs, nudging you with his forehead.

"You." You simply reply. "You're all I can think of."

Valko's tail starts thumping on the couch after hearing your response. You look over your shoulder, then back at Valko. He has that look on his face; you can't think of a specific word to describe the look on his face, but you can visibly see his eyes softening at your response. Before you can say anything, Valko buries his face into your neck, wraps his arms around your waist, and rolls the both of you on your sides, half of his body on top of yours.

"God, you're so cute!" Valko exclaims, nuzzling his cheeks against yours, his velvety ears rubbing against your face. "And you're all mine!"

You can't help but laugh, the feeling of his ears tickling your face and a bit of your neck. "I'm cute?! Says the man who has furry ears sitting on his head and his fluffy tail that he likes to use as a blanket occasionally!"

"We can both be cute, but just to let you know, you take that number one spot," Valko replies, planting a big kiss on your cheek. "Cutie supreme."

You playfully roll your eyes, wrapping one leg around Valko's waist and burying your face into his chest, breathing in his scent. Valko's tail automatically wraps around your waist while he plays with your hair, kissing the top of your head and basking in your presence.

On the days when you and Valko are together, the weather is always beautiful. However, there are times when you and Valko do get caught in rain, but it doesn't happen as often. When you two do get caught in the rain, you and Valko would rush back to your apartment, drenched from the rain.

"Wait! I'm going to get a towel for us! Don't do anything, or go anywhere!" You exclaim, running to your bathroom to grab the extra towels in your bathroom closet.

You return to the living room to see Valko standing by the entrance, visibly shivering from the cold. When you two make eye contact, the look of mischief flashes across his face. You stop in your tracks, watching a mischievous thought brew in his head.

You point your finger at Valko, slowly approaching him. "Valko, don't you think about it!" You open the towel, getting ready to wrap him in it.

"You know it's instinct, [Y/N]!" Valko teases, getting ready to do the thing.

Just as you're about to wrap him in the fluffy towel, Valko starts shaking off the water from his ears and tail, sending water droplets everywhere. You tackle Valko—he did not move from the impact at all—with the towel and wrap him around it. Valko grins at you, reaching for the other towel around your shoulders and starts drying you off.

"You should take a shower before you get sick. I don't want you to get sick," Valko says, lightly booping your nose while he dries your hair with the towel. "I will clean up the mess I made while you take a shower."

You reach up, petting his damp ears and hair. "Alright, I'll do that. You can take a shower in the guest bathroom! I think I still have your spare clothes from the last time you were here."

You try to walk away so you can go take a shower and change into dry clothes, but Valko doesn't budge. You stand there in silence, staring at Valko while he continues to squeeze the water out of your hair. You attempt to walk off for the second time, but Valko pulls you back, wiping your face and neck with the fluffy towel.

You hum, pressing your lips into a thin line before saying, "Something tells me that you don't want me to leave just yet."

"Oh? And what can that be?" Valko asks, his eyes flickering from your hair to your face, tilting his head to the side as he waits for your response.

You groan, frowning at him. "Valko…"

"Alright, alright, I'll let you go take a shower and change out of your wet clothes." Valko concedes, his ears flattening on his head with a playful (yet dramatic) pout.

You stand on your tippy toes to kiss his cheeks before retreating to your bedroom to take a shower. While you do that, Valko searches for his spare clothes and retreats to the guest bathroom to take a shower. Once you're done with your shower and nighttime skincare routine, you exit your bathroom to see Valko in your kitchen, wearing the gray sweatpants and a black tank top that he left at your place from his previous visit.

Valko looks up, smiling at you. "You're done!" Valko exclaims cheerfully.

"I am! Whatcha doin?" You ask, standing beside him to get a glimpse of what he's doing.

"I made hot chocolate for the both of us! Since it's pouring outside and we were caught in the rain, I thought it would be the perfect time to have some hot chocolate." Valko says, reaching for the whipped cream and spraying it onto the steaming beverage.

You watch Valko add some sprinkles to the top of the whipped cream before adding in wafer sticks, specifically the chocolate ones. You can't help but find his love for chocolate cute. Like, yes, a twenty-six-year-old Chairman of EonCore Tech is absolutely adorable for being enamored with chocolate. The soft ears and fluffy tail add bonus points.

From where you're standing, you turn on the TV in your living room and pull out the microwavable popcorn from your pantry, taking it out of the plastic wrap before popping it into the microwave. Valko hands you your hot chocolate with one hand while taking slow, careful sips from his cup. You gently blow on the steaming beverage before taking a sip.

"What do you want to watch?" Valko murmurs, watching you take deep gulps of the hot chocolate.

You shrug, wiping your mouth with your thumb and index finger. Valko chuckles, wiping away the whipped cream mustache from your top lip. You smack your lips, relishing the sweet and rich taste of chocolate and whipped cream.

"I'm not sure what to watch exactly, but what I do know is that every time I crave hot chocolate, you'll be the first one to make me hot chocolate." You say, patting Valko's arm.

Valko's ears twitch. "First one? Who are the others?" Valko raises his eyebrows at you, setting his cup down on the table and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Me, myself, and I, obviously." You snort. "I thought I made decent hot chocolates, but you go all out when you make them."

The microwave beeps, interrupting your and Valko's conversation. Valko opens the microwave to take out the popcorn bag, pulling out a plastic popcorn bucket to pour the freshly popped popcorn into the bowl. You close the microwave and watch him sprinkle in some flavoring over the buttery popcorn.

"Come on, let's go to the couch and start our little impromptu movie night!" Valko grabs his hot chocolate with one hand while clutching the popcorn bowl with the other.

You grab your cup and follow after Valko to the living room, where the streaming service is waiting for you two. Rainy days are always the perfect time to have an impromptu movie night with Valko, especially when you two cuddle with each other. Occasionally, you'd lie on the couch with Valko lying on top of you, letting you pet his ears and tail while watching whatever is playing on the TV.

"I love days like this, even if that means my ears and tail getting soaked in the rain." Valko murmurs, nuzzling his nose against your cheek.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, running your fingers through his hair. "I love days like this too, Valko. You don't have to worry about your ears and tail getting wet because I'll help you dry them off."

Valko has always been sweet to you despite how you two first met. You were kicking his ass the first time your paths crossed, and since then, he pretty much fell in love with you right then and there. You can say the same for yourself, but it took a bit of time (not that long; maybe after a few days or a few meetings at best) for you to come out of your shell.

You and Valko always make time for each other, and that's something you've grown accustomed to. You're used to waking up beside Valko or to his good morning text messages (sometimes voice messages), and when the day is over, you either find yourself wrapped in his arms before drifting to sleep, or sending each other good night texts/voice messages to each other. Heck, even falling asleep over a video call is pretty common for you and Valko, and it became a routine for the two of you.

There's this new habit (routine?) you and Valko accidentally started. When you're rudely roused from your sleep because you have the sudden urge to go pee, Valko will accompany you to the bathroom. At first, the bathroom door will be closed, and he'll stand outside, half asleep and waiting for you to come out of the bathroom. But as this new routine continues, the door goes from locked and closed to cracked open, and next thing you know, Valko is standing right beside you, holding your non-dominant hand while you're doing your business.

"You know you don't have to do this, right? You can continue sleeping in bed while I pee," You mumble, washing your hands in the sink while Valko clings to you.

"I know, but I'm doing this to make sure you're safe," Valko mumbles against your hair, his eyes drooping from how sleepy he is. "And because I'm a stage four clinger, there, I admit it."

You laugh, turning off the faucet and drying your hand on the hand towel. "You are a stage four clinger, but I love it." You turn around and hug Valko, burying your face into his chest and breathing in his scent.

"Back to bed?" Valko murmurs, caressing the back of your head.

You hum, nodding. "Back to bed we go."

Valko scoops you into his arms and princess-carries you back to your bed, turning off the bathroom light in the process. Valko lays you on your bed before plopping beside you, tugging you into his warm embrace. Valko wraps his tail around your waist while he covers both your bodies with your blanket. Once you're both settled down, Valko kisses the top of your head and holds your hand.

The honeymoon stage in your and Valko's relationship continues for quite some time, but it was rudely shattered one day when you stopped getting text messages and phone calls from Valko. It happened so suddenly that it gave you whiplash. On Tuesday, you woke up to get ready to go to work, and when you checked your phone, you didn't get any good morning message or voice message from Valko.

"He's probably busy." You tell yourself before getting ready for the day, like usual.

You end up sending him a good morning text message as you're heading to the Hunters Association, not thinking much of it. After all, Valko is the Chairman of EonCore Tech, so he's incredibly busy and won't always have the time to send you a good morning text or voice message before heading to work.

"But he always texts me or sends voice messages to me no matter how busy he is…" You feel an eerily familiar aching sensation in your chest.

Your fingers hover over your keyboard, the text cursor blinking on your screen after you stop typing abruptly. The soft murmuring of your coworkers, the keyboard clicking in the background, and the printer humming don't block out the voices in your head. Instead, the voices in your head drown out your reality. You glance over at your phone, sitting face down on your desk. Usually by now, you should have gotten a few messages from Valko—heck, sometimes he likes to send you random pictures throughout the day.

But now? You look around, making sure that none of your coworkers are watching your every movement. You grab your phone, flip it over so the screen faces up, and tap on the screen. You have a few notifications, but none of them are from Valko. No text, no calls, nothing. Your heart falls into the pit of your stomach, making it nearly impossible for you to breathe. You eventually unlock your phone and check to see if Valko read your message at all, and to your dismay, he did not look at your message. It's left as delivered.

You shut off your phone and pinch the bridge of your nose, taking deep breaths in hopes that it will calm you down. But how can you calm down when a trillion thoughts are racing in your head, making it hard for you to go on with your day?

The day drags on, and everything is a blur for you. You feel like you're underwater, unable to swim to the surface to breathe. Your heart hurts, and you hate the feeling of helplessness. During your breaks, you'd send a few messages to Valko, checking up on him, telling him that you hope that his day at work has been great. But deep down, you're fighting the urge to blow up his phone with numerous text messages, asking him why he's not responding to your messages, and if he's tired of you already.

"Hey, [Y/N]! Wanna come and hang out with me after work?" Tara asks, leaning against the counter in the break room.

Distracted, you close out the message app after seeing that your messages are left unread. "As much as I would love to, Tara, I can't. It's been an exhausting day for me, and I just want to go home and relax."

Tara frowns, nodding. "That's totally fine if you can't hang out with me after our shift ends. I wanted to ask because you seemed down, and I thought that maybe you needed some company to take your mind off of whatever is making you sad."

You smile at Tara, trying not to break down into tears after hearing her response. You clear your throat, turning off your phone and slipping it into your pocket.

"How about we hang out at my place instead? I don't think I can go out while my mind's a mess."

Tara smiles, nodding. "Sounds perfect!"

By the time your shift is over, you and Tara walk back to your apartment after bidding your other coworkers goodbye. The entire walk back mostly consists of Tara talking your ears off and you responding here and there. You're grateful that Tara is the one to take your mind off Valko because you're on the verge of tears.

Once you're in your apartment with Tara, the floodgates open and you find yourself bawling your eyes out while Tara is comforting you. She pulls you to your living room, still hugging you while you're a blubbering mess.

"He still hasn't read my message, and he didn't even text or call me today." You wailed, unlocking your phone to check. "It's the end of the day, Tara. We've been together for a few months now, and this is the first time he's done this."

Tara takes your phone from your hands and scrolls through the messages you sent to Valko throughout the day. Even though it's been only a day, it's clearly affecting you a lot mentally and emotionally. Tara is aware of your relationship with Valko, and she's happy that you found someone who's devoted to you, but seeing you so heartbroken makes her heart hurt too.

"It's been a day; could it just be him being extremely busy and not having the time to text or call you?" Tara gently rubs your back.

You sniffle, wiping your endless tears. "That's the thing, Tara. Even on his busiest days, Valko still makes time to text and call me. Whenever he has a meeting, he lets me know ahead of time and still texts and calls me." You explain through hiccups.

"Have you tried calling him today? I know you've sent him text messages throughout the day, but maybe try giving him a call just to see?" Tara suggests, handing you your phone.

You take her advice and start calling Valko. The call went through, but Valko doesn't pick up your call. You attempt two more times before giving up—even though you're tempted to call a few more times just to see if he will answer your call. You toss your phone onto the couch as fresh tears pool in your eyes and roll down your cheeks.

"What if something happened to Valko? Could he be in danger?" A string of questions leaves your mouth while Tara pulls you into her arms and rubs your back.

Tara shushes you, patting your back. "I know you're worried about Valko, but you need to remember that Valko is an important figure in his company. I know that he would call and text you every day, but maybe this is the only time when he's not able to call or text you."

You look up at Tara, tears still blurring your vision. "What if Valko got tired of me after being with me for a few months?"

Tara scoffs, wiping your tears away. "That would be ridiculous if that were the case, but I highly doubt it. From what you've told me, Valko does not seem to be the type to do that. He sounds absolutely enamored by you, and to suddenly disappear without a trace is suspicious."

You hug the cushion to your chest, face puffy from all the crying you've done. "I know it's been a day, but I can't help but feel incredibly hurt by this. This isn't a one-or two-week relationship—we've been together for a few months now." You sniffle, warm tears cascading down your cheeks.

Tara stayed at your apartment until it was almost ten at night. The entire time she was at your apartment, she comforted you, had dinner with you, and watched some TV with you to help you take your mind off Valko's lack of response and phone call. However, after Tara left your apartment, you were officially alone with your racing thoughts.

You force yourself to do your night routine—take a shower, do your nighttime skincare routine, brush your teeth, and lie in your bed. You scroll through your text message to Valko; they're delivered and unopened on his side. Your heart aches, and you can't help but type in another message, sending it to Valko.

"Hey, I hope you're okay. I haven't heard from you in over a day, and I can't help but be worried. Please text or call me when you get my message."

You click send, watching the message appear and get marked as delivered. You let out a long exhale, closing out the message before scrolling through your social media to, hopefully, distract you. You eventually fall asleep mid-scroll, only to wake up every few hours to see if Valko read or sent you any messages. Much to your dismay, your messages are still marked as delivered, and you did not get any phone calls or voice messages from Valko.

Eventually, you give up on sleeping and just mindlessly scroll on your phone, checking the messages every so often. Before you know it, it's already morning, and you're forced to get out of bed to get ready for work. As usual, you send a good morning text to Valko, hoping he'll respond to that message despite the number of unread messages he has yet to open.

This is an endless cycle of you constantly checking your phone, sending messages to Valko, and sometimes sending voice messages for him to listen to if he ever gets the chance to open your conversation. You can barely eat or focus on your job without your mind wandering off to Valko. You're stuck in a mental prison, where you cannot do anything because of how much you miss Valko, how you crave to hear his voice and see him again.

You feel like your sanity is rapidly depleting if you do not get a response from Valko any time soon. It has affected you so much that many other people—besides Tara—are noticing it. You're sitting in a hotpot restaurant, surrounded by endless chatter and laughter. You watch Xavier put a few meats into the broth, keeping a close eye on the meat to make sure they're fully cooked.

Caleb rests his elbow on the table, looking at you closely. "You haven't been answering any of our texts for the past few days. Are you alright?" Caleb asks, scooping noodles and vegetables into a small bowl before putting it in front of you. "Make sure to eat. You look like you haven't been eating as much."

You nod, not saying a word, and start eating the noodles and vegetables Caleb picked out for you to eat. While you're slurping up the spicy noodles, Xavier glances at you through his lashes, watching you closely. You seem hollow; your eyes look empty, and your face is void of any expression.

"You've been posting a lot of cryptic messages on your social media, too. Whatever is affecting you mentally and emotionally is also crossing to the real world." Sylus comments, leaning in his seat with his arms over his chest. "Is this about that boy you're seeing?"

Your chopsticks freeze after hearing Sylus's question. Your heart beats painfully against your chest at the mention of Valko. You look away, trying to force yourself to eat so you distract yourself from the floodgates that are threatening to burst open in the hotpot restaurant.

Zayne clears his throat, flagging down a waiter to request more vegetables. After the waiter walks away, Zayne looks at you out of the corner of his eye. "Remember not to stress yourself out. It's not good for your heart or mental well-being. If you ever need anyone to talk to, we are here."

You sigh in defeat. "I tried not letting it get to me, but I can't help it," You mutter, biting your bottom lip as you watch Xavier scoop out the cooked meat and pour them into your bowl.

"How long have you been seeing this guy anyway? Judging by his social media, he seems to be super into you, so him suddenly ghosting you is a huge shock to the rest of us." Rafayel comments, wiping his lips with the napkin.

It didn't feel right to talk to your friends—other men—about Valko suddenly ghosting you. To a good handful of people (mainly men), confiding in another man about your boy problems seems problematic. It's almost as (heck, maybe it is just as) problematic when it comes to men confiding in other women about their girl problems. Plus, is it really a relationship problem when there's no issue in the first place?

"Maybe you should eat first before you tell us anything. I'm worried that you haven't been eating much because of how much this situation has been eating away at you." Xavier comments, pouring broth into your bowl.

You were hesitant about agreeing to have dinner with Sylus, Caleb, Xavier, Rafayel, and Zayne because you wanted to wallow in your apartment and cry your heart out after sending hundreds (not really hundreds, but enough) of text messages to Valko. But now that you're at the restaurant with your five close friends, you're sort of grateful that you left your apartment.

You watch them interact with each other, laughing, picking out the side dishes for each other, and teasing each other about not liking certain foods. Caleb poked fun at Zayne's hatred for carrots while Zayne fired back at Caleb's distaste for cilantro. Sometimes when your mind drifts back to Valko, Rafayel makes sure to get your attention before you can become consumed by your thoughts and fears.

"I have an art exhibit I'm hosting a few days from now! You should come and look around!" Rafayel says, shoving an enoki mushroom into his mouth.

You shrug. "I don't know if I can, Rafayel."

Rafayel pouts. "But you're my bodyguard, Miss Bodyguard! If you're not there to protect a renowned artist like myself, then who's going to protect me?" Rafayel bats his eyelashes at you.

"I can try to go, but I can't guarantee it." You murmur.

Caleb snorts. "Oh, we'll make sure you go. We're all going, pipsqueak." Caleb replies, crossing his arms over his chest with a smirk. "And don't try coming up with excuses on the whim."

You shake your head, fighting back the smile that's forming on your face. For once, you're glad that you let the others drag you out of your apartment. If it weren't for them, you would've been checking your phone every five minutes while losing sleep. The entirety of your dinner with your friends (?), you did not check your phone once. In fact, the screen was facing down the entire time.

Once everyone feels like they're about to burst from eating so much hotpot, you all go to the boba shop next door to get something sweet to drink. Despite feeling the urge to explode, you order your usual milk tea and happily sip on the beverage while the others around you are talking among themselves. For the first time since leaving your apartment, you check your phone.

Much to your dismay, there aren't any new notifications on your phone. Aside from messages from Tara and Simone, you did not receive any messages or calls from Valko. Your heart sinks into your stomach, and suddenly the milk tea doesn't taste appetizing anymore. You turn off your phone and shove it into your pocket, your foot tapping on the ground to try to ease the thoughts forming in your head.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Xavier asks, gently nudging you.

You let out a long sigh. "I do, but I don't want to cry in public."

"We can head back to your apartment to talk about it. The night is still young, and we don't mind hanging out with you a little longer if it means you have someone to talk to." Sylus offers, crossing his arms over his chest.

After everyone grabs their orders, you all return to your apartment to debrief on what happened between you and Valko. The conversation you imagined turned into a spontaneous sleepover because you thought that everyone was going to leave after the conversation, but then everyone is in their pajamas in your living room with pillows and blankets scattered around the couch.

"I didn't think we were going to have a sleepover." You comment, sitting in the center of the couch.

Rafayel pouts. "We wanted to keep you company and make sure you're okay. If a friend is heartbroken, then it's our job, as friends, to make sure you're doing okay and to take your mind off of it."

"And we don't want to leave you alone and wallow in your thoughts and go on another texting and calling spree." Caleb ruffles your hair. "Now, tell us what's been hurting you for the past few days."

The floodgates immediately burst open, and you're back to square one. You tell them everything. How Valko suddenly stopped messaging you, responding to your messages and phone calls, and didn't stop by your apartment in nearly a week, and you do not know if he's okay or if he just got tired of you and decided to ghost you in the end. By the time you're done explaining the situation, you find yourself surrounded by wet tissues.

You wipe your tears. "I don't know why this is affecting me so much. I've never spam-texted or called anyone who hasn't texted me in days—why is it different with Valko?"

"He could be somewhere with no signal. Has he told you anything related to family or work?" Caleb strokes his chin.

You shake your head. "That's the thing, though! Even when he's super busy, he would still call or text me. He doesn't let his busy schedule stop him from contacting me."

Everyone sits in silence, trying to rack their brain to find a good explanation for why Valko suddenly stopped texting, calling, and visiting you. No matter what answer pops up in their mind, you have something to refute the claim. At this point, you have no more tears left to shed, and your eyes are swollen, and so is your face.

Zayne briefly disappears to your kitchen before returning with a cup of water in his hands. Zayne hands you the drink, watching you quietly thank him and sip the water. Exhaustion hits you—after days of not getting enough sleep, and the constant crying is finally catching up to you.

"Do you think you can track him down for me?" You mumble.

Sylus chuckles. "I can track him down, but I don't think he would appreciate it. Maybe he went radio silent for a reason."

You frown. "You think he's deliberately ghosting me without telling me what's wrong?"

"It's not because he's tired of you; I can guarantee that. This is based on my assumption, alright? So take it with a grain of salt. Valko is the Chairman of EonCore Tech, meaning he's a very important person. When you're an important person who holds a lot of power and money, you tend to make enemies—intentional or not. Based on how he disappeared without a trace, Valko is either in hiding or someone kidnapped him."

You do everything in your power to remain calm. Everything Sylus says sounds very plausible. Valko has never mentioned anything about having enemies, but it's possible that he hid that from you (if he does have enemies) so you wouldn't worry or get caught in the crossfire if anything were to happen.

"You have many enemies, and everyone is afraid to cross paths with you." You mumble, taking another sip of your water.

Sylus chuckles. "Oh, sweetie. People are bold, and many have tried to harm me in many ways, but I'm untouchable."

"What do I even do now?" You ask, feeling nothing but defeat.

"That is something only you can answer for yourself. You wouldn't like our responses either way, but I do suggest some therapy." Rafayel comments.

Everyone looks at Rafayel, giving him the look that screams "shut your mouth" or "why did you have to put it that way?" Rafayel rubs the back of his neck with a nervous laugh, clearing his throat. You blink at Rafayel, letting the words sink in. Therapy sounds nice, but the real question is: do you have the time to go to therapy? Does it have to be in person?

"Just to be clear, I only brought up therapy because the behaviors you exhibited show that you have anxious attachment. That can be fixed by going to therapy—although there have been people who fix it themselves without needing to go to therapy, but I think professional help would make it easier for you to learn how to cope with and handle these situations."

You nod. "I will look into that. I just hate not having answers, and not knowing what happened and if he's okay."

Xavier sits beside you and opens his arms. You scoot closer to Xavier, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your chin on his shoulder. The ache in your heart is still there, strong as ever. The best thing you can do for now is to try to continue to live your life and not let your thoughts consume you.

A few weeks go by, and you're still trying to get yourself back into your normal routine before Valko entered your life. Needless to say, it's far more complicated than you would like it to be because texting, calling, and seeing Valko daily was your new routine. Until he, of course, disappeared without a trace. You want to stop by his company's building so bad, but you don't want to show up looking like a crazy person.

Even though you have been slowly healing (and getting help from a therapist), there are times when you do break down in tears or check your phone to see if he called or texted you. How can you easily forget someone like Valko? You're lying in bed, staring up at your ceiling in the darkness. Usually by now, you would be on your phone, scrolling away. But you forced yourself to get into the habit of putting your phone in sleep mode, just so the notifications wouldn't interrupt your sleep.

It's hard to sleep sometimes, but you are getting more sleep compared to the first few days after Valko's sudden radio silence. Instead of getting three hours of sleep a night, you're getting five! It's not much, but it's better than three. When Zayne found out that you weren't getting the amount of sleep you need, he gave you a long lecture after completing your monthly checkup.

You roll over on your bed, shutting your eyes. The silence of your apartment is soon interrupted by the sound of tapping. You try to ignore it at first, assuming it was nothing and that the tapping would stop, but the tapping continues. It's coming from your living room, but you're not in the mood to get up from your bed due to how exhausted you are.

With each passing minute, the tapping persists and gradually becomes louder. You toss your blanket off your body and turn on your bedside lamp before leaving your bedroom to search for the tapping noise. The tapping is coming from your balcony door. You slowly approach your balcony and peek between the crack of the curtains. Your heart lurches in your throat, and tears immediately flood your eyes, blurring your vision.

You pull the curtains apart and see Valko standing on your balcony, dressed in all black with a hood over his head. You unlock and open the balcony door, now standing before Valko.

Valko stares at you like a guilty puppy that's caught doing mischievous things. "Hey, [Y/N]. I can explain—"

Without hesitating, you launch yourself into Valko's arms, throwing your arms around his shoulders and bawling into his chest. Valko immediately catches you in his arms, burying his face into your hair and breathing in your shampoo. Finally, after a few weeks, the weight in your chest has finally lifted.

"I thought you were tired of me and didn't want to see me again." You sob into his chest. "I thought I did something wrong for you to push me away."

Valko gently picks you up and carries you into your apartment, closing the balcony door with one hand. Valko sits on the couch with you on his lap, clinging to him like he's your lifeline. Valko caresses your face in his hands, trying to look at you, but you keep looking down, not wanting him to see your tear-streaked, swollen face.

"Did I do something wrong for you to feel the need to keep distance from me?" You squeak, hiccuping.

Valko shakes his head. "No, no. You didn't do anything wrong at all, my precious lily of the valley. You can do nothing wrong in my eyes," Valko coos, wiping the tears from your face.

Your lips tremble as more tears continue to roll down your cheeks. "Why did you leave me, Valko?"

Valko sighs, hugging you tightly to his chest and resting his cheek on your head. "I didn't willingly disappear. I would never do that, at least not without letting you know, of course. One day I was sleeping in my room, and the next, I woke up somewhere underground." Valko mutters, tightening his grip on you.

You stare at Valko in disbelief and confusion; the unshed tears roll down your cheeks the longer you stare at him. Valko wipes your tears away, nodding. He smiles bitterly, trying to find a way to explain the situation to you without stressing you any further.

"Let me get you something to drink, and I'll explain what happened within the last few weeks—months?—since my sudden disappearance," Valko says, getting ready to get off the couch and go to your kitchen, but you cling to him, shaking your head.

Valko laughs. "[Y/N], I'll be a few steps away. I'm not going anywhere." He kisses the top of your head.

You bury your face into the crook of his neck, wrapping your arms around his neck tightly. There's no way in hell you're letting Valko out of your sight after weeks of not seeing him or hearing from him. Valko chuckles, kissing the side of your head before getting up with you in his arms. Valko walks to your kitchen while carrying you. He grabs a glass cup from the cupboard with one hand, opening the refrigerator to fill the cup with ice and water.

After filling the cup with ice and water, he places you on the counter and hands the cup to you. You wrap your leg around his waist and pull him close to you while you're taking small sips from the cup. Valko watches you drink, his eyes going over the littlest detail.

"You have dark circles under your eyes." Valko murmurs, gently brushing the pad of his thumb over your under-eye. "Have you not been sleeping much?" His eyebrows furrow with worry.

You stop drinking your water and put it on the counter beside you. "I hardly slept since your sudden disappearance. The longest was three hours, and I would wake up every few hours checking to see if you've read my messages or sent me a response."

Valko sighs, resting his head on your shoulders. "I'm so sorry for making you worry. It wasn't my intention. Heck, I never intended to get kidnapped and locked away in an underground facility for weeks."

"I'm not mad at you, Valko. I was worried, hurt, and confused. Angry? I could never be angry at you. I'm just relieved to see that you're okay, and that you're back." You run your fingers through Valko's hair.

You and Valko slowly migrate to your living room. Once you're both sitting, Valko goes into detail about what happened within the few weeks of his sudden disappearance. Valko was kidnapped by people who wanted to take over EonCore Tech. Valko was aware that something felt off that very day, hence why he decided not to stop by your apartment to sleep over like he usually does. Valko didn't want to put you in danger.

Back at his house, Valko was sleeping but also on high alert in case something were to happen. Valko eventually dozed off after keeping an eye and ear out for any intruders. In the middle of the night, Valko woke up to the sound of footsteps, but they were faint. Just as Valko was about to spring up and confront the intruder, he was shot with a tranquilizer dart, immobilizing him and eventually knocking him out. Hours later, Valko woke up and found himself in an underground facility behind bars.

"I eventually escaped, but that means that they're still looking for me. I was hesitant about stopping by your apartment because I was worried that they were going to go after you next." Valko murmurs, running his fingers up and down your back.

You huff. "You know I can handle myself, right?"

"I know you can; I don't doubt your skills. But the thought of putting you in danger just for being associated with me…" Valko trails off, sighing.

"I don't care how dangerous and complicated the road gets when I'm with you. I've dealt with danger from every aspect of life and organizations; dealing with someone who wants to take over EonCore Tech because of their greed for money and power is just another group to add to the list."

Valko pulls you to his chest, kissing the top of your head. You snuggle against Valko, reaching up to pet his ears, only to feel his hair. You peek up, feeling around his head. Valko smiles and lets his ears and tail pop out. You pet his soft ears, missing the texture of his ears and tail.

"I missed you a lot. When I didn't get a response—a text, a call—from you, I felt like it was the end of the world." You murmur. "I couldn't do anything. I could barely eat, sleep, work, leave my bed without wanting to cry and spam your phone with texts and calls. I felt pathetic for relying on you for emotional and mental stability." You shake your head, laughing bitterly.

"You're not pathetic," Valko mutters, shaking his head. "Your reaction to my sudden disappearance is normal to an extent. I've gotten a few messages and emails from the others about how they're making sure to check up on you, and to make sure you're okay until I return. I appreciate them for that, and I'm thankful that you didn't give up on us."

"How can I give up on us? I would never give up on us." You whisper.

Valko leans down and kisses your cheek. "Good, because I would never give up on us either."

For once, after weeks of silence and the unknown, Valko is finally back in your arms where he belongs. Valko curls around you, wrapping both of his arms around your waist and pressing his chest against your back. He rests his chin on your shoulders, breathing in your familiar scent. The storm inside you is finally silent. He laces his fingers with yours, kissing your knuckles. You bite the inside of your cheek, nuzzling closer to Valko on the couch. Is it too soon to say I love you to someone you haven't seen in weeks?

"You're being loud again" he murmured, his mouth at your ear "Someone is going to hear you"

"Fuck—" You tried to move your hips and his free hand pressed flat against them and held.

"Look at me."

Dark eyes, completely steady, watching your face with focused attention, like he had been doing it all night and had not yet found it boring.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked

"Nonono, don't stop," you begged"Please don't—"

He drove into you slowly and whatever you were going to say next didn't happen.

He had looked so different last night.

Five hours ago you were sitting at a bar nursing a lime soda, trying to remember what your own name was.

Four days of cardiovascular pathology pre reading. Four days of arterial diagrams and a highlighter that had run out on day two but you'd kept using anyway out of spite, leaving faint colorless streaks across pages you were probably going to have to re read again. Your shoulders were practically locked in a perpetual knot and your brain probably had the texture of wet cement.

You just needed one hour. One hour of not being a medical student.

The bar was quiet, three blocks off campus, a place that played jazz badly enough that nobody stayed for too long. You'd ordered a lime soda because you had an eight AM class tomorrow and because the last time you'd had gin on a weeknight you'd shown up to pharmacology smelling like a bad decision and your study partner had not let it go.

You were two sips in and staring at nothing when someone sat down two stools over.

Dark coat, slightly too nice for the bar. Hair that looked like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly. He ordered a neat scotch, barely touching it, staring straight ahead like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He looked reserved, painfully polite when the bartender handed him his glass.

The jazz got worse.

"They really committed to the trumpet," you said, to the space between you. "I'll give them that."

He looked over. Startled, like he'd forgotten the bar had other people in it. Then something relaxed in his face and the corner of his mouth moved.

"The commitment is admirable," he agreed. "The execution is another matter."

His voice was a little rough at the edges, like it hadn't been used much today.

"First time here?" you asked.

"Is it that obvious?"

"You ordered the scotch and their scotch is really bad. Regulars know not to order it."

He looked down at his glass and then yours. "You're drinking lime soda."

"I have class at eight tomorrow."

"So do I."

"Then you're also going to regret the scotch."

"Probably." He didn't drink it. Just turned the glass slightly on the bar. "Is the lime soda better?"

"It's better than you'd expect for this price.” You held out your glass. "Try it."

He looked at the glass. Looked at you.

"Just a sip." You held it closer. "I'm not contagious."

He took the glass. Tried it. "That's better than I expected."

You took the glass back. "The jazz is awful but some drinks are good."

He almost smiled. Properly this time.

An hour later you'd discovered he was also in medicine and wouldn't say more than that. He wasn't shy exactly, more like someone who'd gotten used to not being asked.

You'd ordered another lime soda. He'd switched to water.

An hour later, outside, the night air felt cold, you stood on the sidewalk and looked up at him and the reasonable thing would have been to say well, nice talking to you and go home to get eight hours of sleep before the first day of a very important class.

"My apartment is two blocks from here"

He looked at you for a moment. "Okay"

The quiet reserved man who'd looked startled when you spoke to him lasted approximately as long as it took your front door to click shut behind you.

After that he was something else entirely.

He had your back against the hallway wall before you'd turned the light on, his hands finding your waist like he knew where they were supposed to go, mouth coming down on yours with a deliberateness that had nothing shy about it. He took his time. He was methodical in a way you hadn't been expecting and couldn't have prepared for, working through every response, adjusting, applying what he learned.

He kept you up until early morning. Multiple times. Your voice was gone by three AM, your thighs were shaking by four, and by five you'd stopped being surprised by anything he did.

By six you'd finally fallen asleep, briefly, against his shoulder.

--------

7:15am

"Zayne! Zayne, stop."

"Mmmm"

"I have class at eight. I cannot be late."

"You still have time"

His hips keep a slow rhythm, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His eyes are dark and heavy lidded, completely unbothered by the time.

"I have forty five minutes and I need to shower and find my notes and eat something and I haven't peed since like three AM and I'm not getting an UTI because of you—"

"Just a little more," he whispers, lips brushing against your throat.

"I'm serious," you whine, though your body betrays you, arching up against him instinctively as his grip on your hips tightens. "I can't miss this. It's my first day of —"

"Shh," he cuts you off softly, leaning down to capture your bottom lip between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp before his mouth slides down to your collarbone. "Five more minutes. You're fine. It feels too good to stop now."

"Zay—"

"Look at how wet you still are" he shifts his angle, hitting the exact spot that makes your brain turn to mush.

He rolls you over, pulling you back against his chest, his hand sliding down between your thighs while he fucks you from behind. The friction feels dirty and intoxicating. You bury your face in your pillow to stifle a scream when he fucks you harder, his breath heavy against the back of your neck. He holds you so tight against him that you can feel every single beat of his racing heart against your spine.

Twenty minutes. He ruins you for another twenty minutes, bringing you to a shattering, body shaking orgasm that leaves you breathless and tangled in the damp sheets. When he finally cums, he buries his face in your hair, his heavy body pressing you into the mattress as he lets out a ragged exhale.

Then, he lazily rolls over to his side, reaching for his watch.

7:42 am

He freezes.

​You turn your head slowly, watching as his brow furrows, eyes staring at the watch face. He blinks once. Twice.

​"What time is it?" you ask, voice cracked and hoarse.

​"It's 7:42"

​"Holy shit!" You sit up too fast and immediately regret every single decision you'd made in the last eight hours. You rip the covers off, almost falling out of bed as you scramble across the floor. "I'm going to be late! I'm going to be so fucking late!"

Zayne sits up rapidly "Where is my shirt?"

"I don't know." you are already across the room, yanking the closet open, pulling out the first things your hands touch. Jeans. Fine. Sweater. Fine. Socks, where were your socks? you had socks last night!

"Bathroom?" he asks.

"Through there, use whatever you need, just—" you are hopping on one foot getting into your jeans. "Don't use my toothbrush."

A pause from the direction of the bathroom. "I'm not going to use your toothbrush."

You grab your tote bag and start throwing things in. Notebook. Textbook —heavy, unnecessarily heavy, why were medical textbooks built like weapons?. Laptop. Charger. Pen. Another pen because you always lost the first one. Your student ID.

Zayne comes out of the bathroom, his clothes back on and his hair slightly damp. He lookes unfairly composed for someone who had approximately the same amount of sleep as you.

He opens his mouth.

"I have to run," you say, grabbing your keys. "Pull the door shut when you leave, it locks automatically. Don't let anyone in if they knock. Don't—" you pause, calculating, "—actually if anyone knocks just don't answer, my neighbor borrows things and never returns them"

He is watching you with an expression you don't have time to interpret. "Wait—"

"I'm sorry, I have to—bye, thank you, the door—"

You are already in the hallway.

The stairs take thirty seconds. The cold air outside hits you and you break into a run, bag bouncing against your hip, four blocks to the medical campus, the textbook inside the bag apparently made of fucking concrete.

Your thighs stage a formal protest around block two but you ignore them.

You hit the glass doors of the medical building at 7:58 and make it to Lecture Hall 3B with enough time to collapse into a seat in the middle row.

The clock ticks to 8:00.

You look up at the front of the room.

The podium is empty.

Other students are settling in, opening laptops, existing normally, having presumably slept normal amounts and done normal things last night. You push your hair back. Catch your breath. Tell your body to behave itself.

You pull out the textbook. Open it to chapter one. Anatomy and Hemodynamics of the Cardiac Muscle.

The door at the front of the lecture hall opens.

Quiet footsteps on the floor, the kind that don't rush. The room goes silent and a tall figure in a dark coat crosses to the podium and looks out at the room.

"Good morning."

You stop breathing.

That voice. You know that voice. It's the exact voice that called you good girl thirty minutes ago.

You lift your head from your textbook very slowly.

Dark hair, white shirt, perfectly buttoned, every button in the right place, no evidence of the last eight hours anywhere on him.

He reaches up and adjusts his glasses.

His eyes move across the room, row by row, and when they reach the middle section they find you immediately.

You watch him breathe.

Just once. Just a short arrested thing, his eyes stopping briefly on your face, your very flushed, still slightly out of breath face.

He clears his throat once.

"I'm Dr. Li," he says, and his voice comes out perfectly even, not a single crack in it "And I will be your professor for Cardiovascular Pathology."

​You are so fucked.

Idea inspired by this 👇🏻🩷🩷. Will there be a scene like this? Yeah🤭

I know, I already have too many wips but I couldn't help it😭

The first time you tried, you were sixteen.

It was the thick of summer, the kind of damp heat that turns the estate into a greenhouse. Your mother's garden party sprawled across the south lawn, and you’d hidden upstairs long enough to change into a sundress that was definitely too short and absolutely on purpose. 

You padded barefoot down the service stairs to the kitchen, where Zayne—the perfect butler, the one who runs the household, the one who never lets anything go wrong—was reviewing the evening's schedule. 

You perched yourself on the counter beside his clipboard, crossed your legs, and let the hem ride up.

“I need help with my zipper,” you said, turning to show him the back of the dress, which was zipped perfectly fine and you both knew it.

Zayne hadn't looked up from the schedule, hadn't so much as blinked. He simply reached over, tugged the zipper up the remaining quarter-inch it didn't need to travel, and said, “Will that be all?”

You stared at the back of his head, face burning, and vowed that one day you'd get him to break.

You tried again on your eighteenth birthday.

Your parents had thrown a party, the kind with floral arrangements and a champagne tower and three hundred people who knew your family's net worth better than they knew your name. You spent the evening smiling until your cheeks ached, accepting congratulations from strangers, and dancing with boys your mother hand selected who were perfectly nice and perfectly boring and perfectly wrong.

By midnight, you escaped to the kitchen—kicked your heels off, discarded your tiara on the counter, and sat on the floor with your back against the island eating leftover cake with your fingers.

Zayne had found you there. He'd taken in the scene—the dress pooling around you, the smudged mascara, the pink frosting on your thumb—and silently retrieved a fork before sitting down beside you.

He was still in his suit, still immaculate as ever, but he'd loosened his tie—and the sight of that one concession to comfort had made something hot pulse through you. You sat together in silence for a while, passing the cake back and forth. Then, because you were eighteen and a little drunk and very tired of pretending, you asked:

“Zayne. Do you think I'm pretty?”

He blinked, keeping his eyes shut for an extra heartbeat—processing the question, the context, the thousand reasons he should deflect.

“You've been drinking.”

“That's not what I asked.”

“The answer doesn't change based on your sobriety.”

“So there is an answer.”

He reached over and wiped a smear of frosting from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. The gesture was gentle and natural, the kind of thing he'd done a hundred times when you were small. Except you weren't small anymore, and his thumb had lingered a second too long, and you ached to know if he’d still be gentle if he pressed it against your tongue.

“You should drink some water,” he'd said quietly. “And go to bed.”

“Come tuck me in, then.”

You'd meant it as a joke, but the words came out too soft and the look on his face told you that you'd gotten closer to something real than either of you was prepared for.

He didn’t give you a response. Just stood up, filled a glass with cold water, and set it on the floor beside you.

“Happy birthday, princess.”

You'd sat there alone in the kitchen as the door shut behind him, holding the cup with both hands, and hated yourself for pushing. Maybe hated yourself more for not pushing harder. You'd felt his thumb on your mouth for the rest of the night. For weeks after. 

Sometimes, if you closed your eyes, you could still feel it now.

Tonight, you’re twenty, and the house is trying to eat you alive.

You’re home from university for winter break, but the house is empty—your parents are out of the country, occupied by some charity board retreat that requires a week of their attention. The staff has all gone home for the holidays, leaving you alone in a house that was built for thirty. 

Alone except for Zayne.

Zayne stays. He always stays, because someone has to manage the property and someone has to manage you, and your parents have never trusted anyone else with either job.

The estate is settling into its bones, creaking and groaning like it’s alive and reminding you how small you are inside it. The hallways are too long, the ceilings are too high, and every shadow seems to have eyes looking directly at you.

You’re not scared.

You’re an adult. You have self-defense training and a home security system that could protect a small nation.

You're not scared.

The floorboards squeak directly above your bed, and you flinch so hard you nearly fall off the mattress.

Okay. Maybe you’re a little scared.

Your eyes find the bell on your nightstand.

It's small—worn with age, fitted with a wooden handle meant for hands of a much younger you. Your grandmother had gifted it after you'd had a nightmare and screamed the house down and said, Ring this whenever you need someone, darling. Someone will always come.

Someone always meant Zayne.

Your parents never really had the time, or the patience, or the interest in dealing with your whims. But Zayne…Zayne always did. He was paid to maintain order after all, and managing you was just another task—though it never felt like one. 

Not when he answered the call of your bell every time.

You'd rung it the night of the thunderstorm when you were eight, and he'd appeared within minutes with a flashlight and a copy of The Secret Garden and read to you until the storm passed. You'd rung it the night before your first day of secondary school, sick with anxiety, and he'd brought warm milk and sat with you while you listed every possible catastrophe and he assured you, very gently, that none of those things would happen and that if they did, he would personally intervene.

You rang it less and less as you grew older, saving it for the real emergencies—when your first boyfriend broke up with you by text, or the night before your final exams when you couldn't stop shaking. He always came. Never commented on the hour or the reason, just showed up at your door ready to handle whatever you needed handled.

You haven't rung it in over three years.

You pick it up, letting the cool brass warm in your palm. You turn it over once, feeling the weight of it, the history, the lifetime of someone always coming when you called.

You ring it.

The sound is small in the vast quiet of the house, barely louder than the wind outside your window. But you know he hears it. Zayne hears everything.

Two minutes pass before footsteps echo in the hallway, followed by a soft knock at your door.

“Come in,” you call.

He opens the door and stands in the frame, and the sight of him makes your mouth go dry.

After all this time living under the same roof, you've only ever seen him in his suit, his work clothes, or—once, memorably—a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up that had nearly killed you. But this is something else entirely. 

Grey sleep pants hang low on his hips, a white t-shirt stretching across his chest. His hair is tousled over his forehead, glasses sliding just slightly, jaw shadowed with the kind of stubble he'd never allow during working hours.

His eyes find the bell in your hand, and something in them softens.

“The house is making noises,” you explain.

He leans against the doorframe, taking in your oversized t-shirt, your bare legs, the way you’re sitting cross-legged at the center of your mattress on high alert. 

“It's an old house,” he says. “It makes noises.”

“Scary noises.”

“You're not a child anymore.”

“Age and fear are not mutually exclusive.” You return the bell to the nightstand with unnecessary care. “I read that somewhere.”

“You read that nowhere.”

“I might have,” you counter. “You don’t know my reading habits.”

“You're currently halfway through a fantasy romance novel you hide inside a copy of The Economist when I bring your breakfast.” He crosses his arms, which emphasizes the broadness of his chest in a way that should come with a warning. “I know your reading habits.”

“It’s romantasy, Zayne,” you correct drily, though your face heats. “And that's—invasive.”

“It's observational. You leave the dust jacket loose.” He steps into your room, letting the door close behind him. “What do you need?”

You. I need you. I've needed you since I was sixteen and you zipped a dress that didn't need zipping and I need you to come here now and hold me and never leave this room.

“Company,” you say instead. “Just—stay for a while. Please.”

“There's a guest room adjacent to—”

“Zayne.”

“—mine, which I can prepare in—”

“Zayne, come on. You used to read to me when I couldn't sleep.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “You were eight.”

“And you were a very good reader. I remember the voices you did for the characters.”

“I did not do voices.”

“You totally did voices. Mrs. Medlock had a Yorkshire accent.”

He tries to fight the corner of his mouth lifting and loses. “That's historically accurate.”

A branch scrapes against the window and you jolt, pulling your knees in tight to your chest, and you watch it happen in slow motion—the moment Zayne registers the current of anxiety beneath your bravado, the delicate weight of his propriety crumbling against the fact that you rang the bell, the bell that means I need you, the bell he's never once ignored.

He crosses to your bookshelf, scans it, and pulls out a slim paperback. 

“Persuasion?” you say, catching a glimpse of the cover.

He takes a seat on the edge of your bed, leaving a tortuously polite foot of distance between his hip and your knee. “It was on the shelf.”

“It’s a romance novel.”

“It's Austen. It's literature.”

“You just gave me a hard time for reading romance novels.”

“I gave you a hard time for hiding them.” He settles his glasses higher on his nose. “And this is a novel about patience. Restraint. Waiting for something even when it seems impossible. I thought you could use the lesson.”

You scoff in mock offense. “Was that a dig at me?”

“It was a recommendation.” He opens the book, then clears his throat. “Now stop talking.”

He reads.

You lie back against your pillow as his voice fills your bedroom like candlelight, settling into the spaces between the house’s creaking. When you were younger, his reading voice was a sedative, designed to pull you under. Now you're aware of every inflection, every pause, every place where his tongue shapes a word in a way that makes your thoughts drift to what else his mouth could be doing if he stopped being so goddamn careful.

After a few minutes, you start to shift. Not dramatically—just adjusting yourself in a way that happens to settle your body closer to his.

“You're not sleeping,” he says without taking his eyes off the page.

“I’m listening.”

“You're fidgeting.”

“I’m cold.”

“You’re not using a blanket.”

“A blanket isn't warm like a person.”

His gaze drags between you and the blanket you never bothered to use, eyes caught somewhere between mild disapproval and reluctant indulgence.

“Come closer,” you continue. “I’m requesting warmth. As a service.”

He lifts a brow. “You're requesting warmth.”

“From my butler. Who is paid to ensure my comfort.”

“I'm paid to manage the household.”

“Managing me is part of the household.”

“A fact I'm reminded of daily.”

Still, he moves closer an inch. Then another, when you give him a look that says it’s not enough. He eventually ends up beside you, back against the headboard, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body but not quite touching.

“Better?” he asks.

You let your head rest on his shoulder, the way you used to when you were small—except you weren't thinking about the way his shoulder felt under your cheek then, or the firmness of the muscle, or the way he smells like clean linen shadowed with something rich and heady and him that you’ve never been close enough to catch before.

“Getting there. Keep reading.”

He obeys, though the words have lost all meaning. All that matters is the vibration of the words from his body into yours, the way the sound fills the aching space behind your ribs with something tender and safe.

You let a few minutes pass, let him settle into the false security of the routine—you leaning on him, him reading, the benign pretense that this is just an act of service. Then you curl closer, tucking your legs up and angling your body until you're pressed along his side with your face against his chest and your hand resting on his abdomen.

His reading stops.

“Comfortable?” he asks without looking down.

“Almost.” You spread your fingers wider against his stomach, savoring the way the muscles there tense beneath your touch. “Your heartbeat is fast.”

“I was reading aloud. That's exertion.”

“Liar.”

“Cardiovascular response to sustained vocalization is well-documented.”

“Seriously?”

“There are several studies. I'll send you the citations in the morning.” He shuts the book and sets it on the nightstand, effectively abandoning the charade. He folds his glasses and places them neatly beside it, pinching the bridge of his nose with a long exhale. “Go to sleep.”

“Hold me first,” you insist, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and guiding it to your waist. “I said I was cold.”

His hand rests at your side, settling on top of your shirt with a minimal contact that technically fulfills the request while giving away not an ounce more.

“Zayne.”

“Mm?”

“If I asked you to hold a box, would you balance it on one finger?”

“If the box asked to be carried with unreasonable specifications, possibly.”

“I’m not a box.”

“No. A box would be far less difficult.”

His arm wraps around you, pulling you against him properly, and the sudden full-body contact is dizzying. He's warm everywhere—the solid plane of his chest against your cheek, his arm heavy around your waist, his thigh pressed along the length of yours. 

“There,” you murmur. “Was that so hard?”

“Yes,” he replies simply. “Now sleep."

“I’m not tired.”

“Then close your eyes and try.”

You shake your head against his shirt. “I can't sleep like this.”

“Like what?"

You shift, turning in his arms until your back presses against his chest. His body seems to adjust instinctively, turning with yours before his mind registers the implication—his arm resettling around your waist, chest flush against your spine, and you feel more than hear the sharp intake of breath he tries to hide when your bodies slot together.

“There.” You hum in approval. “Perfect.”

Zayne’s hand flattens against your stomach the smallest fraction, and the silence between you buzzes like a dare neither of you has the courage to break. The wind whips outside your window, but you don’t hear it, can’t focus on anything other than the way his thumb starts to move in a faint line, back and forth, tracing the hem of your shirt where its ridden up at your waist.

You’re barely breathing, afraid that any acknowledgment will make him stop, afraid that the touch you’ve been craving for so long will disappear before you even have the chance to feel it. His thumb runs over the hem again, and this time his fingertips dip beneath it—barely a touch, the rough pad of his finger against soft skin, and the sensation is so acute it makes your spine arch involuntarily.

He freezes, thumb stilling mid-stroke, as if suddenly remembering exactly who he is—and who he shouldn’t be right now. 

“Don't stop,” you whisper.

His forehead drops to your shoulder. “You rang the bell.”

“I rang the bell.”

“The bell means you need me.”

“I always need you, Zayne.” You guide his hand beneath your shirt, pressing his palm flat against your bare stomach, and the breath he lets out against your neck is almost a surrender in itself. “I think you need me, too.”

When his hand moves again, it isn’t the absentminded tracing from before. His palm slides across your stomach with intent now, exploring the naked skin beneath your top—up your ribs, down to the dip of your waist, to the space just above the waistband of your shorts.

A soft noise catches in your throat and his hand stills, as if deciding whether to reward or reprimand the sound.

“More?” he asks against your neck.

You nod. “More.”

His hand resumes, but he doesn't go further, continuing the same path—ribs, waist, hip—following it again and again, learning you by touch. And every time his fingers drift close to the waistband, your breath catches, and each time he retreats to safer ground without crossing the line.

“Zayne—” Your voice is thin with want. “That's not—you're teasing me.”

“I’m doing exactly what you asked,” he replies, casually enough to make you want to put a pillow over his face. “You asked me to touch you. I'm touching you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know what you said. If you want something else, you'll have to request it.” His thumb draws an infuriating circle around your navel. “I’m a butler, not a psychic.”

He's playing the game, you realize. Your game, your rules, following your every request to the letter, and the compliance is intoxicating. He owns the control, yet the way he bends just enough to match your desire feels like a form of surrender uniquely his. 

“Kiss me,” you try next.

“Where?”

You tilt your head to the side, certain he can see your pulse leaping where it shows. “My neck.”

He presses his lips there so gently it barely registers as contact, lingering for a moment before pulling back.

“Again,” you whisper.

He kisses the same spot equally soft, and you could scream from the tenderness of it, from how something so gentle can make you feel like you're burning alive.

“More.”

“More what?” His breath heats your skin as he speaks, and the almost-contact is worse than nothing. “Be specific.”

“Harder.” Your hand finds the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair, and the groan that it pulls from him is quiet and improper and makes your thighs press together. “Open your mouth.”

He presses his mouth more firmly against your neck and parts his lips slightly, just enough for his tongue to steal a taste of your skin.

“Anything else, princess?” He holds there, lips parted against the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, breathing you in like he needs this just as much as you do. “I’m at your service.”

The title drips with affection and irony and heat, twisted together like ribbons old and new. Princess. He's called you that since you were small, since you used to stomp your foot and demand things and he'd raise an eyebrow and say as you wish, princess. Except now his tongue is on your body and your ass is pressed where his cock strains against his pajama pants and the word means something it was never supposed to mean.

You turn in his arms until you're facing each other on the pillow, his hand still on your waist under your shirt. This close, you can see where the hazel-green of his eyes has gone dark with desire, where his lips shine wet from where he kissed your neck, where the muscle of his jaw tenses with something that looks like it hurts to hold back.

You bring your hand up to soothe it, the stubble there rough against your fingertips. He leans into the touch, a tiny tilt of his head that presses his cheek harder against your palm.

“I want you to kiss me,” you whisper, “here.” You touch your own lips.

He leans in slowly, mouth stopping just short of yours, hovering over your lips.

“Here?” he asks.

“Yes.”

The kiss is barely anything. A brush of lips, the softest pressure, there and gone before you can feel it. You chase his mouth as he pulls back, but he's already out of reach—settled against the pillow, calm on the surface, though the flush at the tips of his ears betrays him.

“That wasn’t a kiss,” you pout.

“It was, definitionally, a kiss.”

“It lasted half a second.”

“You didn't specify the duration.”

“Zayne.”

“Yes?"

“Kiss me longer.”

He leans in again, pressing his mouth to yours for—you count—exactly two seconds.

“Zayne.”

“That was measurably longer. I can go get a stopwatch if you'd like to formalize the parameters.”

You roll your eyes and swear you feel his wrist twitch at your side.

“I want you to kiss me like you can't help yourself. Like if you have to tear your mouth away from mine you'll lose your mind. I want the kiss I imagine when I’m alone in the bath and I close my eyes and pretend it’s your hands on my—” You stop to catch your breath, frustrated, heat rising to your face that’s part shame, part want, all desperate anticipation. “That kiss. Give me that one. Please.”

His hand slides from your waist to the back of your neck, cradling your head, angling you beneath him. His eyes move between yours and your mouth and back again, and the man who read you bedtime stories and carried you when you fell and tucked your blankets with precise corners is nowhere in this room. The man looking at your mouth right now is one who has been drowning for years and decided that here, now, tonight, he’s coming up for air.

“Hold still,” he says, and kisses you again.

This time he starts slow and stays slow, his lips moving against yours with a patience that burns, learning the shape of your mouth, the way you respond to pressure. His tongue traces your lower lip, not parting it, but outlining the edge, you whimper at the tease of it.

He swallows the sound, feeding it into his mouth like he means to keep it long past tonight, a secret possession for him and him alone. Finally—finally—his tongue slides against yours, deep and unhurried, filling your mouth until there’s nothing left but feeling.

The kiss goes on and on and on. Zayne is in no rush. He kisses you like he has all night, like time is a resource he intends to spend lavishly, like every stroke of his tongue against yours is an end in itself rather than a means to something else. And each time you try to speed up he gentles you, his hand on the back of your neck holding you in place, his mouth setting the pace, refusing to let anything take this moment away from him until he’s ready to release it.

Your hands slip underneath his shirt, pressing flat against his abdomen, and the muscles there flex at the contact. You trail both hands upward, following the ridges of his ribs until he huffs out a breath against your lips.

“Eager,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw.

“Impatient,” you correct, tugging the hem of his shirt up his chest. “And maybe a little eager.”

“A little, hm?” He catches both of your wrists, halting your exploration. “These are going above your head.”

“That seems unnecessarily restrictive.”

“It seems like the only way to keep you from getting ahead of yourself.” He guides your wrists to the pillow above your head, pinning you there with one hand. “Better. Now stay.”

He releases his hold to remove his shirt, and whatever bratty comment you had prepared dies in your throat the moment he tosses it to the floor in a move so unlike your butler you’d laugh under different circumstances. He works your top off next, pulling it up and over your arms, letting it join his on the ground. 

The cool air makes your skin prickle, and you fight the immediate urge to cover yourself—a reflex that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that you’re not generous in this department, never have been, and lying beneath him with your arms above your head and nothing to hide behind makes you feel completely, uselessly small.

“Don’t,” he says quietly.

“Don't what?"

“Whatever you're thinking right now. Stop.” His fingertips graze your collarbone, then lower,  trailing between your breasts. “You have no idea how many times I've thought about this body.”

“About my tragically average—”

“Finish that sentence and I'll make you wish you hadn’t.” His palm covers your breast easily, thumb brushing across your nipple. “These are perfect. And I don't say that about many things.”

“You say that about your silverware polish.”

“My silverware polish is also perfect. You're in excellent company.” He rolls your nipple between his fingers and your back arches off the mattress. “Responsive, too. Do that again.”

“I can't just do it on command—”

He rolls your nipple once more, firmer this time, and your body betrays you with an identical arch, with a sharp hiss of breath you can't hold in. Zayne watches it all unfold with an expression of deep, undeniable satisfaction.

“Interesting,” he says. “So it's pressure-dependent.”

“Are you taking notes?”

“I'm nothing if not thorough.” 

He lowers his mouth to your breast, and the first brush of his tongue is almost painful in its relief. He paints a lazy, wet path before closing his lips around your nipple and sucking hard, drawing out a humiliatingly loud gasp from you that echoes through the room.

“That—” he says before his mouth closes around you again, teasing his teeth around the peak “—is my new favorite sound.”

He moves to the other side, giving it the same attention—tongue and teeth and the occasional scrape of stubble that sends sparks straight down your spine. His free hand stays on the breast his mouth just left, rolling your tight nipple between his fingers, then trails down your stomach, fingers grazing along the top of your shorts before retreating. Again and again he teases, each time a little further, each time making you jerk your hips up, chasing contact he keeps pulling away.

“You're doing that on purpose,” you say.

“Doing what on purpose?” 

His fingers line the waistband again, dipping just below the elastic, and pull back. He blinks down at you, all wide-eyes and deceptive innocence, and you’re certain you’d be strangling him if your hands weren’t busy holding onto the pillowcase above your head for dear life.

“That. You keep almost touching me and then—“

“Patience—” He kisses the underside of your breast, your sternum, the dip of your navel. “—is a virtue.”

“Patience is for people who aren't this turned on.”

He pins your hip with one hand and you squirm harder, as if your body senses where he's headed and is vibrating with the need to get there faster, faster, faster.

“You never could hold still, could you?” You’re flipped onto your stomach so fast the room blurs.  He works your shorts down your legs, leaving you facedown in nothing but your underwear. “Not once in twenty years.”

His hand strikes the curve of your ass.

You gasp, not from pain, more from the shock of it. The thrill that Zayne—controlled, careful Zayne—just spanked you on top of the same pink sheets he used to tuck you into.

“That's for squirming,” he says.

He lowers and presses a kiss to the spot he just struck, then smooths it over with his palm.

“You always needed this part,” he mouths against your skin, where it tingles from the sting. “The injury was never the problem. You just wanted someone to make it better after.” He travels higher, kissing up to the small of your back. “Every scraped knee. Every bruise. Every splinter you could have pulled out yourself but brought to me instead.”

“You had better hands than the first aid kit.”

“I had hands you trusted.” His hand settles at the base of your spine, nearly spanning the width of your low back. “You'd come find me wherever I was in the house and hold out whatever was hurt. Then stand there as long as it took for me to pay attention, looking up at me like I could fix anything.”

“You could fix anything.”

His hand slides up your spine with a familiarity that prickles at the edges of your memory. You've felt this hand on your back before—this exact path, this exact pressure.

Zayne has, too.

“Do you remember,” he says, bracketing your hips with his knees, “when you had me put sunscreen on your back?”

He asks as if every detail isn’t burned into your being.

It was the summer before you left for university—the sun was too bright, the pool smelled of chlorine, and your hot girl summer playlist terrorized every corner of the estate. You lay on your stomach by the pool with your bikini top untied and your bottoms hardly covering anything, and called your butler over with a voice you'd practiced sounding careless in the shower a dozen times.

Zayne, I need sunscreen. I can't reach my back.

He'd knelt beside your chair and obliged. His hands had been cool from the shade inside, the sunscreen warm from the sun. The restraint in his palms as they moved across your bare skin should have been unsexy but wasn't, because you could feel the effort in it as his fingers slid down your spine, across your waist, along the sides of your body.

You missed a spot, you'd said, though he hadn't. Still, he'd gone back and covered the same ground slower.

My legs, too.

His hands had worked your thighs, slick with sunscreen, rubbing the lotion from the backs of your knees up to where your thighs met the barely-there bottoms, the two inches of swimsuit the only barrier between the wet heat pooling between your legs and your butler’s thorough hands.

“I remember,” you whisper.

He traces the path now—down your spine, your waist, to the flare of your hip. The same route, the same pressure, except there's no sunscreen and no pretense, just his hands on your body.

“You lay there for an hour after I went inside,” he says, moving his palms in the upward strokes he'd used that afternoon. “In those godforsaken bottoms that hardly qualified as clothing.”

“They qualified.”

“They qualified as a provocation.” His hands move to your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin. “And every time I moved away from them, you'd wiggle your hips and tell me I missed a spot.”

“You did miss spots.”

“I didn't miss a single spot. I take UV protection very seriously.” His knuckles graze your inner thighs, and your hips lift involuntarily. “You just wanted my hands closer to places they had no business being.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“No? So you don't remember what happened when I reached right about—” His hand stills at the crease of your thigh, fingers resting against the edge of your underwear. “—here?”

You press your face into the pillow because you remember exactly what happened.

“You spread these legs apart, just enough for my fingers to go somewhere they shouldn't have.” He follows the edge of your underwear with one fingertip, over the swell of your ass, down to the strip between your legs that does nothing to hide how desperate you are for his touch. “And I cleared my throat. And you said sorry, I'm just getting comfortable. And I said of course. And we both pretended nothing happened.”

“Something happened.”

“Something happened,” he agrees. “And you knew. You always knew. That's why you kept pushing me, isn’t it?”

He traces the same line again, the border between what’s covered and what isn’t. Though this time when he dips low, he stays there—hand cupping you fully through your underwear, the pressure of his palm against the soaked fabric at your pussy delicious and unbearable and enough to make you moan.

“Answer me.”

“Mm,” you manage. He rocks the heel of his palm in a slow circle, and your nails dig into the sheets. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

He grinds against you more firmly, pressing the damp cotton deeper between your folds. You try to press back, to reach for the friction you’ve been chasing all night, but he pulls his hand away.

“Yes,” you concede in a shaky exhale. “Yes, I knew, and I—I wanted to see what would happen if you didn't walk away. If you just—kept going.”

“Kept going where?”

You shoot him a glare over your shoulder. “You know where.”

“I have a long list of places I've wanted to put my hands on you.” From this angle, you’re able to watch as he fists his cock over his soft pants, the light grey fabric darkened with precum where the head of him leaks. “So you're going to have to clarify which one you were hoping for.”

“Past my bikini. Past the line you always—” Your breath catches as his fingers brush inside your underwear, skating the skin he's never touched. “—always stopped at.”

“Like this?” His fingers slide deeper, tracing along the edge of your slit as he strokes himself more firmly, still not quite touching you properly.

“Further.”

“Greedy.” He removes his hand entirely, and you wince at the loss. “And then what? If I hadn't walked away. If I'd let my hand keep going while you lay there in the sun pretending to be innocent. What did you want to happen next?”

“I wanted you to—”

Your thoughts are interrupted by a blunt pressure against your center from behind—not Zayne’s hand this time, but his cock. The tip nudges between your thighs over the soaked cotton, the warm weight settling against the outline of your needy cunt.

“Keep talking,” he says, voice nearly a groan. He stays motionless, the thick head of him pressing the fabric further into you, letting you feel exactly what he’s withholding. “You wanted me to what, princess?”

“I wanted—” You try to push back against him, and his hand blocks your hip. “I wanted you to stop thinking and just take what you wanted.”

“What I wanted.” He rocks forward slightly, a small movement that drags his leaking tip down the length of you, his precum mixing with your wet arousal as he slides toward your clit. “You were eighteen years old, lying outside on a pool chair, and you wanted me to put my hand into your bikini and touch you.”

“Yes.”

“In the middle of the afternoon. Where your parents could have walked out and seen.”

“As if they’d bother paying attention.” He smacks his cock against your underwear deliberately, and any attempt at keeping your voice casual shatters. “Besides, I didn't care.”

“No. You didn’t.” Your panties cling to every part of you, slick enough that he slides easily between your thighs. The friction is obscene—his cock hard and throbbing where you’re soft and needy, separated by nothing but a scrap of ruined underwear. “I had to care enough for both of us. And you made me pay for it with every little scheme you pulled to put my hands on you and watch me try to walk away.”

“And?” You dare through gritted teeth, smirking into the pillow. “Did it work?”

His hand at your hip guides the rhythm into something more punishing. His mouth finds the back of your neck, and the kiss he presses there is soft and completely at odds with the way his hips are bucking against yours. 

“I’m grinding my cock against your pretty little cunt in your childhood bed, sweetheart. What do you think?” 

He pulls away suddenly, and between the filthy words and loss of his weight you think you actually could cry. 

“These—” His fingers hook under the center strip of your underwear, knuckles gliding up and down between your swollen folds as he assesses. “—have been through enough tonight.”

“So ruin them the rest of the way.”

He tears the fabric with two hands, ripping them off you in one clean pull. His hands spread you open from behind, and the sound he makes at the sight of you—bare before him for the first time—goes straight to your core.

“Christ.” His thumbs trace the inside of your thighs, spreading you wider. “Look at you.”

He lowers his mouth to your low back and kisses his wa down, patient even now, following the path of your spine, nipping the curve of your ass, outlining the crease of your thigh with his tongue. You feel his breath against your center, warm and unsteady, then the lightest brush of his nose against your entrance as he breathes you in.

“Fuck, Zayne—”

“Language,” he chides, the word humming against you. His tongue drags a single, slow line through you from behind, and you both groan at the contact. “If you could follow instructions even once in your life, this would go much faster.”

“I don't want faster. I want more.“

“You'll get more. When I decide you've earned it.”

His tongue works in long strokes, tasting every inch of you he can reach from this angle, and when he finds a spot that makes your thighs tense under his palms, he stays there.

“You're—that’s—”

Your lack of composure only seems to spur him further. “Articulate as always.” 

He licks into you over and over again, and you feel yourself clench around nothing, feel your body begging for something to hold onto that he hasn't given you yet. The angle this way, his mouth against you from behind, is indirect and maddeningly intimate and never quite enough and always almost there.

“Zayne—I swear to god.”

“Swear all you want.” His tongue barely grazes you, keeping you suspended with a laziness that borders on cruel. “Begging looks good on you.”

He spreads you apart wider with both thumbs and builds you back up with wet, hungry strokes that don’t have a rhythm, that aren’t meant to serve a purpose other than to let him taste what he does to your body, what he’s been doing to it since long before he answered the bell tonight. Pleasure pools low in your belly, winding tighter and tighter, and you're right at the edge and—

He pulls away.

“No—” you whine. ”I was right there—Zayne, don’t—“

“Shh.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Not from this.”

“You can't just—”

“I can. And I did.” You hear him moving behind you, feeling the shift of weight against the mattress as he discards the last of his clothes. “The only place you’re going to come tonight is around my cock, and that’s not open for negotiation. I've waited too long for it to happen any other way.”

You feel the head of his cock press against you, this time bare against your slick skin. He doesn't enter yet, resting there with one hand on your hip, the other flat on the mattress beside your head.

“Last chance to ring the bell,” he murmurs. “Tell me to stop.”

“If you stop now I will scream.”

He pushes in.

It’s slow, so slow you feel the stretch of every inch building in a long, devastating ache that empties your lungs and fills you with him. He groans hot against the back of your neck, fingers digging into your hip, and when he bottoms out you both need time to breathe. You’ve never felt so complete as you do in this moment, so perfectly full, Zayne’s cock thick and heavy as it throbs inside you. Your walls flutter around him involuntarily, pulling him deeper inside.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

“Language,” you mutter, the tremble in your voice undermines any sense of authority.

“You're right. How unprofessional of me.” He pulls back in a slow drag against your walls that makes your mouth fall open—and pushes forward again. “I’ll submit a formal apology. After I’ve made you come so hard you can’t speak, let alone critique my vocabulary.”

He starts to move, the full length of him withdrawing and filling you whole, and when he finds the spot that makes your thighs shake he doesn't say a word. You're soaked—you feel it on your thighs, hear it in every wet slide of him inside you, and your face burns even as your body seeks his with every thrust.

“You get tighter every time I pull out,” he observes. “Like you're trying to keep me inside you.”

"Am not—"

“You are.” He grinds forward and you clench around him again—hard—and his breath comes out in a hiss. “And it's making it very difficult to think straight.”

You turn your head on the pillow, looking back at him over your shoulder, because you need to see his face, need to see what Zayne looks like right now, inside you and undone. With his jaw tense, eyes dark, sweat at his temples—he looks nothing like the butler who irons his shirts twice and arranges bookshelves alphabetically. He looks like a man who has wanted something for a very long time and is finally, finally taking it.

“Eyes on me,” he commands when he catches your gaze drifting away. “You started this. You're going to watch me finish it.”

You scrunch your nose and stick your tongue out at him. “Make me.”

His eyes narrow with a flash between amusement and danger, and he wraps your hair around his wrist and pulls—enough to keep your face turned toward him, your neck arched, your eyes locked on his while he drives into you from behind.

“There's your make me, princess,” he says low, hips bucking harder with the leverage. “Any other requests?”

“Several,” you manage between thrusts, “but at your age I’d hate to put too much strain on you.”

“In all the scenarios I’ve imagined.” He gathers your hair tighter, using the grip to tilt your head back, and his tongue traces the exposed line of your throat from your shoulder to the bone of your jaw. “Not once did stamina come up as a concern.”

“You've been dreaming about me?” You try to sound unaffected despite the fact that your voice is shaking and your knuckles are white in the sheets. “Should I be flattered?”

“You should be terrified. I've had a long time to plan,” he says against your neck. “Though in my head, you were slightly less mouthy.”

You clench around him deliberately, and his groan vibrates against your back. “And in mine, you were considerably less smug.”

Zayne sucks hard at the sensitive skin above your collarbone in response before releasing your hair, letting it fall down your back. He braces both arms on either side of your head, and the change in position lets him go harder and deeper, his hips driving you into the mattress with each thrust.

“You've spent your whole life making sure no one could take care of you the way I do. Making sure no one else fit. Ruining yourself for anyone who wasn't me.” His hand reaches beneath you, and the first touch to your swollen, aching clit makes your entire body tense. He circles with barely any pressure, in time to the grind of his hips, and the combined sensation is almost too much to bear. “So now I’m going to give you everything you’ve been asking for all this time. Take care of you the way I’ve always wanted to. And you’re going to be good for me and take it.”

Every edge he pulled you back from tonight, every almost, every year of wanting with nothing to show for it—all of it—collects into a single climax that tears through your body in waves. You clench around him so hard his hips stutter, and his mouth is at your ear the whole time—

That's it—that's my girl—you've been waiting so long for this, haven't you? So long. I know. I know. I've got you. Feel that? That's all for you. You earned this—you earned every bit of it—

—and his voice is the anchor you cling to while the rest of you drowns, his name the only word left in your mouth, your mind, your heart.

He slows, letting you breathe as your aftershocks tighten around him in involuntary pulses. And you wait for it—for his hips to drive forward one final time, for the heat of him to fill you from the inside the way you've always imagined it would.

He pulls out instead, and the sudden emptiness makes you frown, your hips pressing back against nothing, searching for him.

“Zayne—why did you—” You turn your head, and the confusion must be written across your face, because his gaze softens even as he strokes his cock, slick from you, in long pulls.

“Not tonight, sweetheart,” he says, and the two words form a promise that makes your heart flip—that there will be other nights, that this is the first and not the last, that he’s already planning the ones that come after. “Tonight I want to see it on your skin.”

He straightens behind you, settling both hands on your hips. His thumbs press into the dip of your lower back, pressing circles over the skin there.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the day you asked me to put my hands on you by that pool. And I've thought about it every day since.” His palms trace the canvas of your back a final time. “Marking you. Imagining how pretty you'd look with the evidence of what you do to me all over your body.”

“You don’t have to imagine, Zayne. I’m right here.” You arch your back for him in shameless offering, and the sound he makes at the sight is low and wrecked and strips away any remaining possibility that either of you will ever recover from this night. “I’ve always been right here.”

“You're going to be the end of me,” he says through a ragged sigh. “You know that. You've always known that.”

“Promise?” you murmur, tilting your hips higher, giving him more of yourself.

His laugh is barely a sound, and his hand picks up speed, rougher now, knuckles brushing against your skin with each tight stroke. You watch his lips part, watch his brow furrow, watch the moment arrive on his face before you feel it on your skin—the warmth of his release spilling across the small of your back in pulses, painting your body with the proof that he was here, that this happened, that you belong to him in a way no amount of respectable distance will ever undo.

He stays like that for a while, breathing hard, looking at you looking at him. His expression softens into something so affectionate it makes your chest ache, and he leans down and presses a long, lingering kiss between your shoulder blades. 

“Promise.” His hand finds yours on the pillow, squeezing once before pressing a kiss between your shoulderblades and lifting himself off you. “Now don't move. Give me ten seconds.”

“Was that an order? Because I've been told I'm bad at those.”

He grabs his pants from the floor, sliding them up over his hips. “Nine seconds.” 

You hear the tap running, the drip of a towel being wrung out in the sink. He's back before you can count to four—warm cloth in one hand, cold glass of water in the other—and sits beside you on the bed.

He cleans you with a care that shouldn’t surprise you but makes tears prick behind your eyes anyway, following the path his mouth traveled earlier, rewarming the cloth twice because it cooled too fast and he noticed before you did. He wipes your thighs, the backs of your knees, places that don't need cleaning but get attention anyway. When he reaches the small of your back, he presses his lips against the clean skin there one final time before setting the cloth aside.

He helps you into fresh pajamas—a matching flannel set he selects from the second drawer of your dresser—lifting your arms, guiding them through the sleeves, smoothing the fabric over your shoulders and down your back. The gesture is so careful, so him, so entirely removed from everything his hands were doing ten minutes ago that a tear actually escapes down your cheek before you can catch it.

His thumb finds it, though, and wipes it away without comment, without concern, without making it into something you'd have to explain. He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders, tucking the edge beneath your chin the way he's done since you were small, and reaches for the glass on the nightstand.

“Drink,” he says, holding it to your lips.

“I’m fine—"

“Humor me.” The corner of his mouth lifts, barely. “I’ve been humoring you all night.”

He watches as you drink, gives a small nod of approval once he’s satisfied you’ve had enough, then sets the glass on the nightstand. He pulls on his t-shirt—you mourn the loss of his bare chest immediately—and slides under the covers beside you.

When you curl against him, his arms wrap around you like a reflex he's done fighting.

“I should resign,” he murmurs. 

“You should absolutely not resign.”

“This is a rather significant breach of professional boundaries.”

“I don't care about your professional boundaries. I care about you staying in this bed.”

He lifts his head to look at you in the lamplight. With his hair wrecked, glasses long gone, and an expression so open and unguarded, he looks…younger. Lighter. Like something heavy has been set down after years of carrying it.

“Stay,” you whisper. “Not as my butler. Not as my anything. Just stay.”

His arm tightens around your waist. You feel his heartbeat match yours, both rhythms slowing to something calm. His chin settles on the top of your head, and for a while neither of you speaks, but the silence is nothing like the one that scared you an hour ago.

“Mm,” you hum against his chest. “I always get what I want eventually.”

“You do.” His thumb traces a lazy circle on your shoulder. “It’s your single most irritating quality.”

“And yet you keep indulging me.”

“You are exceptionally difficult to say no to.”

“So stop trying.”

“I suppose that would simplify my schedule considerably.” He pulls you closer. “Free up the hours I currently spend on damage control and cold showers.”

“See? Efficient. You love efficiency.”

“I do love efficiency.” His mouth presses against your hair, and you feel him smile. “Though I suspect you're going to be far more work than you were before tonight. Not less.”

“Probably.”

“Almost certainly.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” His fingers find the spot behind your knee—the left one, the one he knows is ticklish—and you yelp, squirming against him, your laugh bright in the quiet room. He catches you before you can escape and pulls you back against his chest. “Now promise me you’ll ring the bell again tomorrow.”

“That depends. Will you read me more Austen?”

“If you behave.”

“And if I don’t?”

His teeth graze your earlobe, tongue teasing the sensitive skin just below. “Then I suppose I’ll have to resort to alternative methods of tiring you out.”

You give his chest a playful shove and he catches your hand, kissing each knuckle one by one. You melt closer, curling yourself tighter against his chest, letting the cadence of his breathing, the warmth of his arms, the undeniable sense of home pull you under.

The house continues its symphony through the night—wind whistling through the cracks, pipes bellowing deep in the walls, wood floors sighing under the weight of the night.

it hasn’t just been tonight. recently, things just haven’t been the same. maybe your four year relationship has run its course… you’re even suspicious he’s cheating on you. your three times a week meet-ups and sleepovers have swindled down to one, with excuses of work or prior engagements. whenever he is with you, he’s always on his phone, typing away or stuffing it into his pocket when you walk into the room. in the car is usually when you’d chat and laugh, catching up on each other's days. that has become a one sided interview of you asking him questions while his mind is so clearly elsewhere. he replies with one liners or asking you to repeat yourself three times before you give up.

you saw your life with katsuki, forever and always. as someone who’s never cared for marriage growing up, katsuki has been the first person who’s made you imagine that day. handsome in his suit at the end of the aisle, most likely crying and swearing too many times in his speech.

but recently those thoughts of forever have come crashing down quicker than you can handle.

“or a break? just some time apart,” you take a deep breath, you’re trying your best to make eye contact in this busy restaurant. a date he’s finally put together after weeks. “i just need time apart.”

you’re at your limit! you want to scream. i’m sure you’re cheating on me! you’re always so secretive on your phone!

but you’ve already grieved so much privately that you’re exhausted at this point.

“baby, what?” you can tell he doesn’t know where to start, but it’s satisfying to see him looking anything but sly or holding something back. 

his eyes are wide, the red veins visible like he’s already cried his heart out. you notice his fingers, dying to grab you from across the table. he pushes his plate to the side.

“what have i done? why d’you want one? speak to me here.”

his voice cracks on the last word but he catches himself by sitting up straight, giving up on his internal battle and grabbing your hand across the table. it all breaks your heart, causing you to look away from him.

you clench your eyes shut, “we’ve not been the same recently and i’m not accusing you of anything but i’m so sure you’re keeping a secret from me.”

you yank your hand away from him, looking him in the eye. “you’re always texting on your phone and i know when you’re lying, katsuki. i ask you who it is and you say deku or kiri, but i know it’s not.”

even now, you can tell you caught him out. you think he’s stopped breathing, no words coming out his mouth as his lips part. then his shoulders slump and his hand comes up to rub roughly at his face. he mutters into his palm but you can’t hear a thing.

“i can’t believe… fuck. i’m not fuckin’ cheatin’ on you. i’d never do that shit. you hear me? i’d never.” he grits his teeth.

you don’t reply, just continuing to blink at him.

“yn, baby. i love you. i wouldn’t do that to you.” he presses, desperate to hold you or bring you home to talk privately. or just for you to understand him.

“i do know katsuki. well, i think i do but recently everything has been so weird between us.” you sigh, looking down at your matching untouched soup, “we haven’t been together as much as usual. it feels like your mind is always elsewhere when we’re together. you’re always anxious and texting before we go out. i hate it. i want to go back to how we were.”

you’re about to start whining at him. “i’ve missed giggling, sex and flirting with you. everything feels so serious and i don’t know why.”

you don’t cry, you’ve cried about this for the past week before coming to this decision. “i think we should break up.”

bakugou grabs your hand from across the table, refusing to let go even when you lightly tug. 

“we’re not breakin’ up.” he says sternly, “i’m fuckin’ this all up, i know i am. i know i’ve been weird as hell recently. i can’t tell you why though.”

you scrunch your nose like a bad smell has wafted in. “why can’t you tell me?”

“i just can’t. it’s for a good reason though. promise.” he pleads, forcing a smile on his face but it only comes out awkward, bordering on scary. too much teeth, eyebrows raised.

you shake your head, “no, no. i’ve been crying over you, over our relationship for the past week now. you either tell me now or i’m gone, katsuki.” you frown harsher, breaths shaky. “you’re cheating, aren’t you?”

“i said i’m not! i’d never do that shit—,” he scoffs, disgusted at the idea. 

“show me your phone!” you demand, again yanking your hand away from him and instead, holding out your palm. 

bakugou pauses, swears under his breath. the pro hero is flustered, hair a mess from taking his hand through it repeatedly.  “i know how this looks. i can’t—.”

“then we’re over.”

bakugou practically growls across the table as you cross your arms. “no we’re not. i fuckin’ love you. i’ve been all over the place recently but just wait—“

you roll your eyes, “wait for what? i’m hearing words with no meaning, katsuki.” 

without releasing a single tear, you rise to your feet. “i’ll see you later to pick up my stuff. goodbye—,”

“for fucks sake. fine. sit your ass down. i’ll tell you. don’t say shit to me after.” bakugou crosses his muscled arms in his crisp white shirt across his chest.

“depends on what you show me,” you mutter but bakugou levels your stare.

“sit down, baby.”

there’s always that certain something in your boyfriend's tone that makes you listen. the same tone that makes his agency listen to him, civilians and villains alike. for you there’s a wisp of care behind it, that he’s aware of how sensitive he’s made you as of recent.

you plop back down in silence.

“remember you’re askin’ to see this. don’t get mad once you see it.”

“you’re gonna show me the woman you’re cheating on me with and expect me not to get mad?” you’re petty now, waving away the waiter that’s about to walk over. “c’mon get on with it.”

bakugou rolls his eyes, “i should spank you for this. like hell i’d ever cheat on you.”

your eyes widen. it’s not the time for sexual jokes. “fuck off, katsuki.” you’re about to kick him under the table.

though he pulls out his phone from his pocket, unlocks it with his face and slides it across the table to you.

his home screen is a photo of you sitting on a picnic blanket in the park from last year. you’re smiling at him, a punnet of strawberries on your lap in a long gingham maxi dress.

your heart rattles against your chest. he isn’t so evil to make you read through the text messages with his secret lover is he?

“can you just tell me? i don’t want to read them.”

he shakes his head, “no or you’re still gonna think i’m fuckin’ around. look yourself.”

bakugou looks slumped. jutting his jaw to his phone.

you take a deep breath and you tap open his text messages. the green app opens into a load of chats. first being your chat with him, saying what time you’re going to arrive at his apartment. 

your heart skips a beat at the next name. a woman’s name.

“who the hell is…,”

then you read the next woman’s name.

“wait… are these my—,”

it’s your best friend, your childhood best friend. second on the list is another childhood friend of yours, not your shared friends with katsuki, but your friends.

next is momo and mina on the list.

then deku, kirishima, kaminari and shouto.

you frown up at your boyfriend, “why are you talking to my friends?”

but you don’t give him time to answer, tapping open the text messages with your best friend.

immediately, your hand flies to your mouth and just as quickly as you skim read the texts, you lock the phone.

“don’t show me anymore!” you whisper. “what the fuck, katsuki!”

bakugou grunts, staring at his stretched fingers. “that explain it? i’ve just been scared shitless. a fuckin’ pussy.”

you’re reacting like… like you just saw that he’s going to…

“you’re going to propose to me?” you say breathlessly, through your fingers.

“that was gonna be the plan if i could ever get the stupid words out or if you don’t break up with my dumbass before i can.” 

you stare at your handsome, gorgeous, love of your life across the table from you at this fancy restaurant. you have to wave away the waiter again who wants to take your dirty plates and stare down this beautiful man. despite it all, now the truth is out, he looks less anxious, as if a literal shiny diamond stone has fallen off his back.

“you were asking them if i’d want to get my nails done.”

he nods, arm resting on the length of the table as he slouches in his seat. bakugou struggles to make eye contact with you. instead he’s filled with embarrassment and rosy red cheeks. “yeah. i know you don’t get them done usually but i was thinkin’ of all the possibilities.”

“and you were double checking if i’d like the ring.”

his eyes dim, flickering over at you, “i know you’ll love it. just overthinkin’ everythin’.”

“you were asking if you should do it tonight.”

he sighs loud and dramatic, “every time i see you i ask them beforehand. one time you were wearing comfy clothes on a date so i thought you wouldn’t want it then ‘cause of photos, another time you were upset about work so that wasn’t the day. i was thinkin’ of takin’ you abroad somewhere but all our ‘places’ are in this city. then whether i should get professional photographers? i wanted to do it today, it’s the reason i’m sweatin’ through this goddamn shirt.”

you gasp, “i thought that was the guilt from cheating on me. i honestly thought you were going to break up with me. taking me out on one good last date before putting me down like a dog.”

“baby,” he lightly chuckles, then throws his head back, “guess it’s not a secret anymore. i fucked that up.”

you pout, “i still haven’t seen the ring, honey.”

bakugou lifts his head up and you rub your foot against his under the table, “i’m honey now?”

“you’re my sweet bumblebee.”

bakugou’s flushed cheeks don’t let up so he rolls his eyes in defence.

“what did mina and momo say?”

“askin’ them for advice. how they’d like to be proposed to. didn’t really matter ‘cause you’re not them. mina wants to it to happen on a yacht. she needs to get a man first.”

you kick his shin lightly, a small smile on your cheeks. “well i feel better now i know we’re not breaking up.”

“i felt like throwin’ up every time you’ve told me you’re on your way or i’ve been on my way to you. that’s why i’ve been so quiet. tryin’ not to blow up over my dashboard.” he curses, clicking his tongue and looking anywhere but your face.

finally, you let the waiter take your plates and you and katsuki really look at each other. it’s as if you both release a deep sigh from the pit of your stomach.

“sorry for thinking you were cheating on me.” you say, rubbing your foot along his shin.

“nah, i’d think i was too with the way i was actin’. i just want it to be fuckin’ right. everything you’ve dreamed of,” he rubs under his nose, a light pout on his lips as he talks.

“i never really dreamed of marriage so anything with you would be perfect, honey.” you soothe, then you frown, “does that mean you were trying for propose on the boat ride we went on last month? wait… do you have the ring on you now?”

bakugou subconsciously taps his slacks pocket. the velvet box right in there.

he’s got no time to reply because you’re already jumping halfway across the table, “let me see it, kats. let me see!”

“i’m not showin’ you now! you see it when i propose properly. i’m not proposin’ today. the moment’s gone.”

he’s acting like a grump, it makes you want to coo, grab his cheeks and kiss him all over. usually it’s him calming you down, telling you everything will be alright but what’s a relationship without shifting responsibilities?

“did you think i was going to say no?” you smile, your head resting in your palm.

bakugou still can barely look at you, especially with you beautifully smiling at him without a care in the world. he’s missed this with you, desperately. everything has been so painfully stressful regarding you because he needs to have it perfect. he couldn’t not have the proposal be perfect.

bakugou shrugs, an awkward laugh as he scratches his head, “well yeah, baby. there’s a possibility you don’t want my ass forever.”

“hm. okay.” you grin.

that gets him frowning, leaning over the table to get closer, “wait, you’d say yes. wouldn’t you?”

“i’ll let that be the surprise whenever you propose!”

“baby.”

“bakugou katsuki.”

“you’re gonna be a bakugou whether you like it or not.” he grunts and your giggles flow out uncontrollably.

“that’s the confidence we need, honey.” you hum and bakugou rolls his eyes, stretching his jaw side to side as he stares you down. “but in all honestly, wait a little. you’re going to be nervous either way but just wait till you’re calmer. we’re in no rush.”

bakugou sighs. “can i ask you questions? so it’s perfect whenever i get the balls to do it.”

“ask away.”

“do you want your nails done?”

you shrug, “they hardly ever are so it’s okay if they’re not.”

bakugou jots that down mentally. “you’d want photographers, right? for your insta?”

that gets you laughing, “i would. do you have any right now waiting on your command?”

bakugou’s blush deepens, “sorta. i have one that’s about fifteen minutes away if i were to do it.”

your lips go into an o shape. “that’s cute, katsuki. wow.”

“i’ve prepared some stuff,” he says shyly, “i was gonna do it here. this is the first restaurant i took you to four years ago.”

you blink, taking in the space once again. this was the exact same booth also! he was stuttering away that day, swearing too much while you giggled at every other word he said. you were already obsessed with him. he was planning on already asking you to be his girlfriend.

“fuck. you didn’t even notice, did you?” he rubs his palm over his face.

“i was too focused on the fact that you were cheating on me!”

“i wasn’t!”

“i know that now!”

the waiter swiftly walks over sliding your mains over the table. the smile on your face stays, in fact you feel elated right now. the best you’ve ever been with katsuki. and katsuki, well. he feels like he failed a mission but gained you again along the way.

“no more proposal talk. i’ll sort it later. how’ve you been? really? i hate that this has made you cry. i’ll make it up to you.” he rambles, pulling your chair closer to the table by his foot. “gonna spend these next few days with you. apologise for everythin’.”

“i do miss kissing you.”

“i’ll kiss you all over. ‘m sorry.”

“and i miss going on casual dates and hearing about work and laying on the sofa doing nothing with you.”

bakugou nods, taking it all in. “we’ll go back to how we were. i missed you too.”

katsuki ends up proposing to you, completely unexpected, two months later. he told you it’s easier if you guys walk to the brunch spot he wants to take you to. so through the park, holding hands, bakugou rambles on, somewhat nervously about how much he loves you. you don’t think anything of it, already wanting to bring him in for a cuddle and a kiss. but everything switches when he drops onto one knee.

one by one your friends and family appear. getting up from benches and his friends, from behind trees.

there are two photographers that are present. just like you wanted. you’re going to have so many options for your instagram dump.

and when bakugou asks you the question, you give him the same answer you would have said months ago.