noelle's dream box

his sharp grin loomed above you. watching you over the rim of his copper-framed glasses. and within his eyes, you saw something that terrified you.

hearts.

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo perfectly prepared your jar. he cushioned the bottom with soil and moss. a slab of bark laid on side, with a network of flourishing, pink mushrooms growing along its length. a polished pebble for you to perch on, right beside the singular, blooming daisy where you could sleep. he wasn't a monster, after all…

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo watched you with fascination as you tapped on the glass helplessly, your wings batting and your tears shimmery. so fairy dust was real.

"please."

your tiny hands smacked into the glass. peering up at the man as he sat at a table and chair. "please, why won't you let me go? I'll do anything."

he had scooped the jar into his hand, levelling you with those terrifying blues. "now, why would I let something so pretty go?" he crooked his head, snowy hair dangling to the side.

"i've waited for you for many years, sweetheart. don't be selfish."

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo would give you everything you ever needed. food wasn't an issue, every day, he fed you something new. a juicy strawberry. honey and puffballs. mango slices. crackers. one time he even tried to hold you in his palm and feed you a small piece of vanilla cake.

you bit him.

he smiled.

"I suppose even pretty things can be feisty." his grip tightened on you, ever so slightly. a thumb brushing over your wings that fluttered erratically.

"let me go! you monster!" you squeaked.

he tutted, stroking his thumb over your back in a tender path. "sshhh, sweet thing. you'll bruise your little lungs…"

he continued the motion until your wreckless squirming melted. your head limped on his knuckle, your limbs still, and your head droopy.

he chuckled, carefully scooping you back into your jar. "thankfully, I've studied your kind extensively. I know you intimately, sweetheart."

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo sometimes lets you out of the jar, but only when you have manners. he doesn't have to worry about you flying away, because he always so meticulously ties your wings with a silk ribbon.

"remain still for me, okay?" he hushed at you, kissing your head as you thrashed and shouted at him.

he even tied it into a pretty bow, before he set you atop one of his books.

"why do you do this?" you huffed, balling your little fists as you helplessly tried to flutter your wings. "how can you be so twisted to keep me here?"

satoru always spoke to you as if you were a flower. even lowering his head to be at eye level with you. lashes fluttering, almost droopy in the presence of your beauty.

"am I so twisted for being in love with you?"

the way your eyes gaped at him made him smile. he brought his pinkie to gently poke at your head. "what? am I?"

"you're insane…" your murmur sounded frightened. fear looked pretty on you, too.

"maybe," his voice lowered to a whisper. "or maybe I'm just very dedicated to my work."

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo made little tools out of silver to help fix your hair. he'd do the usual routine of scooping you out of the jar, tying your wings and sitting you on his palm, before he set to work on carefully helping you.

"I made these for you." he'd say affectionately.

and when you didn't respond, he blow a bit of air onto your wings until you squirmed and giggled.

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo makes sure to let you have a little soak in one of his favourite teacups with some warm water. no, he doesn't peep at you. he's not a creep. a pretty little lady like yourself needs her privacy, after all.

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo sometimes takes you out to dance you around the windowsill when the moon shines just right. he lets you hold onto his pinkies. twirls and dips you all night long. treating you as delicate as a flower as he watches you with awestruck eyes.

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo brings you bundles of flowers to drink nectar from. he'll nudge your chin up so gently with his index nail and feed you himself. makes sure you don't choke.

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo wraps you up in his glasses cloth when it gets too cold, or sometimes even scoops you into his pocket where you can nap to the sound of his heartbeat.

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo despite being so gentle, would remind you what kind of man he was. not all of the times he plucked you from the jar were for your benefit.

at times, he'd tie your wings a little tighter. laying you out on a leather-bound notebook and analysing you piece by piece.

"fascinating," he mumbled, prodding at your arm with a flat, wooden stick. applying pressure. testing. "your limbs are stronger than they look. is it your magic, I wonder?"

he spoke about wanting to take you apart. bit by bit, to understand you better. when you gave him a horrified look, he chuckled, cocking his head as he tickled your wings.

"what, sweetheart? wouldn't it be intimate?"

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo wouldn't ever hurt you. he didn't think he had it in him. you were too soft, too elegant, too pretty. it broke his heart whenever he'd see you weeping in your jar.

"don't cry… please don't cry," he'd whisper as he laid his head beside the jar. watching you with sullen blue eyes.

you'd cry for him to let you go, and it ached a deep part of him.

"I can't. I'm sorry, sweet thing." his lips brushed the glass, a sincere apology from a man so sadistic. "I need you." came his shaky breath.

"I need you here. with me. please don't hate me."

 𔘓  ·  yandere researcher!nerdjo saw you staring at the wall of wings while he worked, once. silent and wide eyed.

he sorely misinterpreted you, tilting his head with a crooked smile. "do you like any of them?"

scooping you out of the jar, he cradled you in his palm. "I could make you a dress… would you like that?"

your look of horror bewildered him, and when tears streamed down your face, he rushed to soothe you. brushing away your tears with a petal plucked from a flower on his desk.

when you told him why you wept— because you thought the wings were your fallen brethren, his face twisted. almost disgusted that you could compare your pristine, perfect wings to those baneful butterflies. still, his shoulder shook with a little laugh. he found it morbidly amusing.

"oh, my sweetheart. of course not," he cooed at you. "those are butterflies. you are the only fairy I've had in my grasp."

pale lips brushed your little head, ever delicate. as he whispered. soft, lovingly.

"that's why you're so special to me."

you didn't look too convinced. your small sniffles broke his heart, so he sighed as he gently nudged you over. till you were slumped over his thumb and forefinger.

"sweetheart, please don't insult yourself so," he lightly scolded. "butterfly wings are so brittle. so dull. but yours…"

his other index slowly, tenderly brushed down your spine. tracing your wings in that same gentle, sick fascination he always had.

"yours are pristine. delicate… perfect."

his shaky breath tickled your wings, and they twitched. his throat ran dry. heart hammering a bit faster at this little, intimate moment.

with a gentle squeeze to you, he leaned down. pressing a slow, velvet kiss to your wings. smiling into them as they fluttered and you pitched a whine.

"see?" satoru breathed, lips brushing over their little twitches. his smile was soft, sick.

"these are all mine. my special little sweetheart."

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. art cred: @/poafie (ig)

🌷♡ enjoyed this piece? consider joining my patreon or commissioning me <3 I appreciate all the support!

     He would burn Gotham to ash for you if you asked sweet enough. And unfortunately for him, this was not a well-kept secret.

     The manor buzzed with idle chatter, silverware clinking against porcelain as another suffocating family dinner dragged onward. Bruce spoke of patrol routes. Dick laughed too loudly at something Jason muttered beneath his breath. Tim looked half dead over a cup of tea, carefully brewed to his liking. 

     Damian, however, heard none of it.

     His pencil glided across paper with the precision of a surgeon’s blade. Every line deliberate. Every curve memorized. You lived inside his mind so vividly he no longer needed reference photos. He knew the exact shape of your smile, the way your eyelashes kissed your cheeks when you slept, the slight tilt of your head whenever you teased him.

     “Damian.”

      Nothing.

     “Damian.”

      Still nothing.

      “DAMIAN.”

     His head snapped upward, emerald eyes narrowed sharply toward Dick.

     “Holy shit,” Dick laughed, leaning back in his chair. “You’re gone gone. I called your name like five times. What are you drawing?”

     Damian’s expression flattened instantly. “Nothing that concerns you.”

     Jason, ever invasive, leaned over his shoulder before Damian could shut the sketchbook.

     “No fucking way.”

     Damian’s jaw clenched as Jason snatched the book fully from beneath his hand. Pages flipped one after another, each sheet revealing you in different forms. Smiling. Sleeping. Reading. Just existing.

     Entire pages dedicated to the slope of your lips alone.

     “You’re drawing them?” Jason asked, somewhere between amused and disturbed.

     “I draw many things,” Damian answered coolly, though the slight twitch in his brow betrayed him. “They simply occupy my thoughts at the moment.”

     Jason barked out another laugh, flipping faster now. “Dude. This whole sketchbook is about them.”

     Damian finally looked irritated. “They are my muse. I fail to understand why this conversation persists.”

     A dangerous pause.

     “Can I have that back now?”

     The table fell quiet as Jason slowly returned the sketchbook. Damian placed the sketchbook carefully before himself once more, fingertips brushing over the page like it contained something holy.

     The manor frightened you the first few times you stayed over. It groaned at night like something ancient lived beneath the floorboards. Endless hallways stretched into darkness, swallowing light whole. Portraits watched from the walls with unmoving eyes, and every creak sounded like the beginning of a horror film.

     Yet none of it seemed to matter once Damian wrapped himself around you. His chest pressed firmly against your back, warmth seeping through the cold air of the room. One arm draped over your waist possessively while his breathing ghosted against the nape of your neck.

     Safe. That was the word you associated with him most. Safe enough to fall asleep to the sound of rain striking the windows. Safe enough to melt entirely into his hold.

     Unfortunately, your bladder did not care about romance.

     You shifted slightly, grimacing as Damian’s grip instinctively tightened around your waist.

     “Dami,” you whispered hoarsely. “Damian, I have to pee.”

     A low grumble vibrated against your spine. Half asleep and deeply offended by your attempt to leave him.

     “Beloved,” he muttered, voice rough with exhaustion, “ignore it.”

    “I physically cannot.”

     Another irritated sound escaped him before his hold finally loosened. Though not without one last squeeze, as if reminding you he expected, wanted, your return immediately.

      You slipped quietly from the bed and padded toward the bedroom door. Yet, The second it creaked open, regret settled into your bones. 

     Darkness. Endless, suffocating darkness stretched through the hallway, interrupted only by a few dim lamps flickering near his siblings’ doors. You stared into the corridor. The corridor seemed to stare back.

    Absolutely not.

   Slowly, carefully, you shut the door again before turning toward the bed. Damian remained half sprawled against the mattress, dark hair messy from sleep as he blinked at you through heavy eyes.

    “Damian,” you whispered.

     He hummed softly in response.

    “My love.”

     One green eye opened further at the name.

    “The hallway is dark.”

     Damian stared at you for a long moment. “It is two in the morning,” he replied flatly. “It is supposed to be dark.”

    You shifted awkwardly. “Dami… I’m scared.”

     Then, without another word, Damian pushed himself upright from the bed. Exhaustion clung to every movement as he stood, grabbing the nearest sword from beside his dresser purely out of instinct before realizing where he was.

     You blinked. “Why do you have that beside your bed?”

     “That is not the current issue.”

     Damian stood there for another second, sword still loosely hanging at his side while sleep fought to keep his eyes shut. The sight would have been intimidating if not for the fact his hair pointed in six different directions and one side of his shirt sat crooked on his shoulder.

    You tried not to smile. Tried. Failed miserably.

    “You are laughing at me,” he accused quietly.

    “You grabbed a sword to walk me to the bathroom in your own home.”

    “And?” His expression remained painfully serious. “If the manor decides to unleash horrors upon you at two in the morning, I will be prepared.”

     A laugh slipped from your lips before you could stop it. Soft and warm and enough to make something gentler flicker briefly across his face.

     Damian sighed dramatically as he moved toward the bedroom door. “Come. Before your paranoia convinces you the wallpaper can eat you.”

     “You say that like this place doesn’t look haunted.”

    “It is gothic architecture.”

     “It is a vampire convention.”

    His hand wrapped around the doorknob before pausing. “That was one time. And Dracula was surprisingly polite.”

     “DAMIAN.”

     A ghost of a smirk touched his mouth as he finally opened the door. The hallway remained just as terrifying as before. Darkness swallowing the endless corridor whole while old wooden floors creaked beneath each step. Somewhere deep within the manor pipes groaned like a dying animal.

     Immediately, you latched onto the sleeve of Damian’s shirt. He looked down at your hand. Then at you. Then quietly shifted closer.

      “You mock me now,” you murmured.

     “I am adapting to your irrational behavior.”

     “Mhm.”

      The two of you walked slowly through the hall, Damian slightly ahead as though shielding you from shadows themselves. The dim lamps cast golden light across his features, catching against sharp cheekbones and tired green eyes. Even half asleep he moved like something lethal.  

     Another creak echoed somewhere downstairs. You froze instantly. Damian stopped too, gaze narrowing toward the darkness ahead. His grip on the sword adjusted automatically.

     “Probably Father,” Damian muttered.

     “Probably?”

     “Or Grayson attempting to make midnight cereal.”

     “That does not help.”

     A smaller hand suddenly shot from one of the side hallways. You nearly screamed. Damian physically recoiled backward while instinctively lifting the sword.

     “Woah! Jesus Christ!” Tim whisper-shouted, both hands raised immediately. “Why do you have a weapon?!”

     Damian looked genuinely offended by the question. “Why are you emerging from shadows like a Victorian child with the plague?”

    Tim blinked slowly. “I live here.”

    “An unfortunate decision.”

    You pressed both hands over your mouth trying desperately not to laugh as Tim’s exhausted eyes shifted between the two of you.

     “…Did you seriously escort them to the bathroom?”

    Damian’s face hardened instantly. “You will speak carefully.”

    Tim stared for another long second before sighing deeply. “I’m going back to my room.”

   “An excellent choice.”

   “You are both insane.”

    Tim disappeared back into the darkness just as suddenly as he appeared, leaving silence to settle once more.

     You looked toward Damian, barely holding yourself together now. “You almost stabbed him.”

     “He should not lurk.”

    “He was walking.”

    “Incorrect. He was skulking.”

    Another laugh escaped you, softer this time. 

     Damian looked at you for a moment too long after that. Something in his expression gentling so suddenly it nearly stole the breath from your lungs.

     “There,” he said quietly, nodding toward the bathroom door ahead. “Safe from the horrors of Wayne Manor.”

    “You’re making fun of me again.”

    “Only slightly.”

    You moved toward the bathroom before pausing at the doorway. “Will you wait for me?”

    Damian looked almost offended.

    “Beloved,” he said, voice low and certain, “I would wait lifetimes for you.”

     The city bled neon beneath Robin’s boots. Rainwater clung to the edges of rooftops, turning Gotham into something slick and silver beneath the moonlight. Patrol had dragged longer than expected. Two separate break-ins. A car chase through Burnley. One extremely irritating encounter with Killer Croc in the sewers that left Damian smelling faintly like mildew.

     He was exhausted. Worse, he missed you.

     The realization annoyed him more than the bruising ache settling beneath his ribs. Missing someone should not feel this consuming. This distracting. Every glimpse of warm apartment windows made something deep inside him ache with the memory of your laugh.

     Damian landed silently against the fire escape outside your apartment building, cape fluttering behind him. He told himself he was merely checking on you. Gotham had been increasingly dangerous lately. Drake had mentioned heightened gang activity near your neighborhood.

     That was the only reason he was here… obviously.

     Your bedroom window slid upward easily beneath practiced fingers. Darkness greeted him first. Then warmth.

     Your apartment always smelled like you. Faint traces of your favorite perfume and laundry detergent and something softer Damian could never properly describe without sounding absurdly poetic. It hit him instantly the moment he climbed through the window.

     And there you were, asleep. A small lamp near the couch cast golden light across the room, illuminating the mess of blankets tangled around your body. One of his hoodies swallowed you whole, sleeves hanging past your hands while the Gotham Knights shirt he’d lost three weeks ago clung loosely against your legs. His clothes.

     Damian went still. Something dangerous flickered low in his chest.

     You had fallen asleep waiting for him. Your phone rested beside your cheek, screen dark now, though several unread messages from him remained visible in notification previews.

Dami: Patrol ran late.

Dami: Do not wait awake for me.

Dami: I mean it.

     His jaw tightened faintly. You had ignored him. Like you always did when it came to him coming back late.

      The sight should have irritated him. Instead, warmth spread slowly through his chest with enough force to make him uncomfortable. You looked impossibly peaceful like this.

      One leg half hanging off the couch. Hair messy across the pillow beneath your head. Lips parted slightly as soft breaths escaped you. Completely defenseless. Completely his.

     Damian removed his domino mask quietly before stepping closer.

     The floor creaked beneath his boot. Immediately, your face scrunched slightly in your sleep.

     “…Dami?”

     His entire expression softened, “Yes, habibti.”

     Your eyes barely opened. Heavy with exhaustion. “You’re late.”

     “There was a situation downtown.”

    “Mhm.”

    You shifted deeper into the blankets before blinking at him slowly. “Did you get stabbed?”

    “Not tonight.”

    “Good.”

     The simplicity of your concern nearly killed him.

      You reached blindly toward him then, still half asleep. Damian stared at your outstretched hand for exactly one second before taking it immediately. Your fingers curled weakly around his glove.

      “There you are,” you mumbled.

      Damian exhaled quietly through his nose.

      Ridiculous. You had reduced the grandson of Ra’s al Ghul into something unbearably soft. 

      He crouched beside the couch carefully, gaze scanning over you with clinical precision despite the tenderness threatening to ruin him. 

     “You continue stealing from my wardrobe,” he observed quietly.

     A sleepy smile appeared instantly.

    “You like it.”

    “That is irrelevant.”

    “It smells like you.”

     His pulse stuttered.

     You were too tired to notice the way his shoulders locked instantly beneath the suit. You were dangerously unaware of the effect you had on him.

     Your eyes drifted shut again slowly. “Was waiting up,” you murmured. “Wanted to make sure   you came home okay.”

    Home. Not back. Home.

    Without another word, he stood carefully before lifting you from the couch with effortless precision. You stirred only enough to curl instinctively against his chest, face pressing into the space beneath his neck.

     “Tired,” you whispered.

     “I know.”

    Your arms wrapped lazily around him anyway.

    Damian carried you toward the bedroom in complete silence, footsteps impossibly gentle for someone trained to kill before he could properly read. Moonlight spilled across the sheets as he lowered you carefully onto the mattress.

      Yet the second he pulled away, your fingers caught weakly against his sleeve.

    “Stay.”

     The word came out barely audible. Damian looked down at you for a long moment.

As he pushed through the front door of the hockey house, the familiar scent of stale pizza, laundry detergent, and whatever Tucker had cooked earlier greeted him. He kicked off his shoes near the entrance and rolled his neck, already mentally planning his evening. That's when he noticed you and Garrett sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen island, textbooks spread across the countertop.

Dean slowed, not because Garrett was studying, that wasn't unusual lately, but because Garrett looked utterly miserable. "Jesus," Garrett groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Remind me again why you want to pursue a career in this?" His eyes narrowed at the open psychology textbook like it had personally offended him. "Not memorizing the difference between operant conditioning and classical conditioning isn't the end of the world, G."

Dean couldn't help smiling. Somehow, whenever you were around, the house felt lighter. Before either of you could react, he crossed the room and made a beeline toward the kitchen island. Garrett spotted him first, a knowing smirk immediately tugged at his mouth, one which Dean blatantly ignored it. You barely had enough time to look up before all six-foot-two of him folded himself around you.

One arm slid around your shoulders, the other wrapped around your waist as his face buried itself in your hair as he let out a long, exhausted groan. "If you're having trouble distinguishing classical and operant conditioning, just make flash cards," You advised Garrett, as though you weren't currently trapped beneath an oversized hockey player. "Handwritten ones. They always helped me."

Without even thinking about it, your fingers slipped between Dean's where his hand rested against your stomach. The gesture was entirely unconscious. Dean's tired brain barely registered it, but Garrett's definitely did. "Are we not going to address the overgrown golden retriever currently hanging off your shoulder?" Garrett questioned, motioning toward Dean.

In response, Dean didn't move, in fact, his hold only tightened around your waist. You rolled your eyes at both their antics. "Are we not going to address the fact that you're here 'studying' on a Friday night because you refuse to admit your feelings for Hannah and couldn't stand the thought of her going out with Justin tonight?" The reaction was immediate, Garrett immediately went red, really red.

His jaw clenched as he snapped his attention back to his notes with exaggerated concentration. "Your girl is disturbingly insightful, Di Laurentis." He muttered which made you scoff as you playfully nudged his shin with your foot from across the table. “Damn straight she is.” Dean’s answer came instantly, low and smug, with a kiss pressed to your forehead that you unconsciously leaned into which made Dean's stomach do something profoundly embarrassing.

For a few moments, only the rustle of paper and the hum of the refrigerator filled the kitchen. Then you reached across the counter and squeezed Garrett's hand, your expression softening. "Hey, G," You muttered softly as Garrett's eyes slowly lifted to meet yours. "For what it's worth, I don't think Hannah likes Justin nearly as much as you think she does." Garrett squeezed your hand back, hope flashing across his face before he could hide it.

Dean watched the exchange quietly, body still wrapped around you. He didn't notice the way his thumb kept tracing small absent minded circles against your waist. He did notice that when you smiled at Garrett, he felt oddly jealous of his best friend for getting that look. And for the first time in a very long time, Dean couldn't help but wonder if maybe his attachment to his childhood "friend" wasn't quite as platonic as he'd always pretended it was.

2. Self-Care Day with Summer

Safe to say Dean had a shitty day.

All he wanted now was you. He wanted to kick off his shoes, collapse onto his bed, and bury himself in your arms while your fingers lazily carded through his messy hair. He wanted your soft voice filling the silence, your hand rubbing slow circles across his back until the tension seeped from every tight muscle in his body. The guys would never let him live it down if they knew, but Dean really couldn't bring himself to care.

As he pushed open the front door of the hockey house, the familiar sounds of shouting commentators and button mashing greeted him. Logan and Tucker were planted on opposite ends of the couch, controllers gripped tightly in their hands as they battled it out on the TV. An empty pizza box sat abandoned on the coffee table, surrounded by half-empty Gatorade bottles and crumpled napkins.

Dean barely spared them a glance, his eyes immediately sweeping areas where you'd probably be. The kitchen, empty. The dining room, nothing. No backpack tossed over one of the chairs. No oversized sweatshirt draped over the counter. No mug of tea you'd inevitably forget to finish. "Looking for your girl?" Logan's amused voice pulled him from his search. Without taking his eyes off the television, a knowing smirk spread across his face.

Dean didn't even bother correcting him anymore. "You seen her?" He asked, already craning his neck toward the hallway as if you might magically appear. Logan shrugged one shoulder. "She was here with Wellsy earlier. Upstairs probably." That was all Dean needed. He took the stairs two at a time, each step creaking beneath his weight. His exhaustion momentarily forgotten, as he headed straight for his bedroom.

"Y/N?" He called, knocking lightly before twisting the doorknob. The room was empty, bed neatly made, and the hoodie you'd stolen from him last week was nowhere to be found. Dean frowned. Without even realizing what he was doing, his phone was already in his hand, your contact pulled up from muscle memory. His thumb hit the call button before he had a chance to even think twice.

The phone rang twice before: "Hi, Dicky!" Dean physically recoiled. "What the hell— Summer?" His eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "What are you doing with Y/N's phone?" An exaggerated scoff crackled through the speaker, he could practically see Summer rolling her eyes. "Contrary to popular belief, Dicky," Summer huffed. "She doesn't belong to you. She was my friend first."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, a fresh headache blooming almost instantly. "Just give her the phone, Summer." He heard muffled voices, the sound of the phone changing hands, and then: "Hi, Dean." It was amazing what two simple words could do. The knot between his shoulder blades loosened. His jaw unclenched. The lingering frustration in his body eased just from hearing your voice. A smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.

"Babydoll," He murmured, unable to hide the relief in his voice. "Where are you? And why on earth are you with my hellion of a sister?" Your soft laugh drifted through the speaker, warm enough to make him wish you were standing beside him instead. Somewhere in the background, Summer barked an offended, "Dick." You laughed harder before finally answering. "She called me this morning after my eight a.m. class. She was having a bad day, so I drove into Manhattan to spend the day with her."

"You drove all the way to Manhattan?" Dean blinked. "Of course I did, Summer needed me." His heart did that stupid thing it always seemed to do around you. You hadn't hesitated. Summer needed someone, and you'd simply gone. No complaints. Just packed your things and made the drive because someone you cared about asked. There was another shuffle on the other end before Summer snatched the phone back. "Retail therapy works wonders, Dicky," She announced proudly.

"She'll be all yours tomorrow, but today?" Summer continued, smug satisfaction dripping from every word. "Today she's mine. Love you. Bye!" Seconds later, the line went suddenly dead. Dean stared down at his phone for several long seconds before letting out a disbelieving laugh. Of course Summer would steal your phone. Of course she'd hang up before he could get another word in.

But none of that was what stuck with him. What lingered was the realization that the second his sister admitted she was struggling, you'd dropped everything and driven nearly four hours just to make sure Summer didn't have to be alone. No hesitation. No expectation of anything in return. Just because that's who you were. Dean had always known you had the biggest heart of anyone he'd ever met. Today, though...

Today, he caught himself wishing he was more than just a friend.

3. The Injury

"Let her through! She's with the team!" Garrett's authoritative voice cut cleanly through the chaos surrounding the arena tunnel, commanding enough that even over the frantic chatter, blaring arena speakers, and the lingering roar of thousands of fans filing toward the exits, everyone nearby turned their heads. However, you barely heard him. Your heartbeat thundered so loudly in your ears it drowned out almost everything else.

"I'm the captain of this team," Garrett interrupted sharply, stepping between you and security. "She's family." The guard hesitated only a second before stepping aside. The moment the path cleared, your feet carried you forward before your brain had a chance to catch up. Garrett fell into step beside you, one steady hand settling against the middle of your back as if he could feel the way your entire body trembled.  

"How is he?" Your voice barely sounded like your own. Garrett's jaw tightened. "The medic thinks he'll be out at least two weeks." His expression darkened. "Mild concussion and a fractured ankle." Hot fury ignited beneath your ribs. Not at Dean, but at the player who had recklessly swept his stick between Dean's legs. You'd watched it happen. There'd been no attempt to play the puck. It was just a cheap shot.

A dangerous one.

Your hands curled into fists as the replay flashed through your mind all over again. "He keeps asking for you," Garrett continued, his tone softening. "Won't let anyone get a word in." Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched. "He's being more annoying than usual," Garrett added with a tired sigh. "Logan and Tucker are about five minutes away from knocking him unconscious themselves."

That definitely sounded like Dean. "I should probably go micromanage before they make good on that threat." Garrett chuckled under his breath and pulled open the door to the medical room. The sight waiting on the other side nearly made your knees buckle. Dean sat propped awkwardly on the examination chair, his hockey pants and jersey still on, shoulder pads discarded in a heap beside him.

His normally perfect blond curls were damp with sweat and flattened where his helmet had been, several loose strands sticking out in every direction. A medic knelt beside him, carefully supporting his injured ankle while a PT intern shined a light into his eyes, checking his pupils. Logan and Tucker both stood on each side of him, still wearing their jerseys, neither looking remotely interested in getting changed until they knew Dean was okay.

"Garrett went to get her, just wait." Logan reminded him patiently, keeping a firm hand planted on Dean's shoulder the second he tried to stand again. "Let the medic finish checking you out, man." Tucker coaxed like the mother hen he was. Dean opened his mouth, ready to argue then his eyes found yours. It was almost eerie, like he'd sensed you before you'd even stepped through the doorway.

The tension visibly drained from his shoulders. Relief flooded his features so quickly it made your chest ache. "Babydoll..." He breathed, every ounce of stubbornness disappearing. "Thank fuck." He sank back into the chair, extending both hands toward you without an ounce of hesitation. "C'mere... please." There wasn't a universe where you wouldn't. You crossed the room in two quick strides.

The second your fingers slipped between his, Dean gripped them like a lifeline. Like he'd been holding himself together by sheer force of will until you walked through that door. Your eyes immediately began searching him. A faint scrape along his cheekbone. Fresh bruising already blooming beneath one eye. A split lip. The ugly swelling around his ankle. "You scared the hell out of me, Dean." You whispered, your voice catching despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

Dean's thumb swept absentminded circles across the back of your hand. Whatever pain medication they'd given him had softened the hard edges around his eyes, leaving him wearing a crooked, hopelessly boyish smile that somehow made him look younger. "How's your head?" You asked gently, your free hand lifted almost on its own, brushing one stubborn blond curl away from his forehead before tucking it back into place.

Your fingertips lingered there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, wanting the reassurance that he was really here. Dean leaned unconsciously into your touch. "Never had any complaints, babydoll." He punctuated the line with an exaggerated wink. An audible chorus of groans filled the room. "Oh my fucking God." Logan muttered, eyes rolling. "He's concussed and still flirting." Tucker complained, rubbing both hands down his face.

You felt heat instantly flood your cheeks, but ultimately chose to ignore it. "Oh, you're absolutely fine." You huffed, rolling your eyes as you tried to tug your hand free. Only Dean wasn't having it. His fingers tightened around yours and with one gentle pull, he drew you closer until you stood between his knees, your bodies only inches apart. The teasing grin he'd been wearing slowly faded.

Something quieter settled over his features, something almost fragile. His thumb continued tracing slow circles across your knuckles, grounding himself in the simple fact that you were here. That he could still hold your hand. "Thanks for being here." The words came quietly. Without the usual confidence. Without a joke to soften them. Just plain, raw honesty. You didn't even have to think about your answer.

Your other hand rose to cup his cheek, brushing over the rough stubble beginning to grow along his jaw. "There's nowhere else I'd be." Dean's breath caught. Those five simple words landed somewhere deep inside his chest, slipping past every wall he'd spent years carefully building. He'd spent so long convincing himself that what he felt for you was just harmless, a silly crush that would eventually go away.

But watching you burst through security with tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. Feeling your hands check every bruise like you could somehow erase the pain. Hearing you tell him there was nowhere else you'd rather be. It unraveled him. The feeling he'd been trying so desperately to bury came rushing back all at once, stronger than ever. Because for one terrifying moment on that ice, he'd thought he might open his eyes and not get to see you looking at him like he was the only person in the room.

4. Tucker’s Deathbed

Dean: Might wanna stay away tonight, Tuck’s got one hell of a cold.

Respectfully, there was no way in hell you were listening to that text. Your psychology paper on stress sat half-finished on your laptop, several journal articles scattered across your desk, but they could wait another night. Tucker couldn't. Besides, you knew exactly why Dean had texted you. He wasn't trying to be controlling, far from it.

He knew how often you caught whatever bug was going around campus, and the last thing he wanted was for you to spend the next week sniffling and miserable. It was sweet, but it was also completely futile seeing as your mind was already made up. You quickly shoved your laptop shut, gathered your keys, slipped your feet into your sneakers, and headed out the door before you had the chance to think twice about it.

Ten minutes later, you were pulling into the familiar driveway of the hockey house. The porch light cast a warm glow over the worn wooden steps, and the second you let yourself inside, the usual atmosphere felt...off. There was no music blasting from Logan's room. No laughter echoing through the halls. No Tucker humming while experimenting with whatever recipe had caught his attention that week.

Closing the front door behind you, your gaze immediately landed on the couch. "Oh, sweet Tuck." Your voice softened into something almost maternal. Tucker looked absolutely miserable. He was cocooned beneath two thick blankets despite the thermostat being turned up, curly hair sticking out in every direction, cheeks flushed an unhealthy shade of pink. A mountain of crumpled tissues littered the coffee table beside half-empty glasses of water and an abandoned mug of tea that had long since gone cold.

Setting your purse onto the nearest chair, you crossed the room quietly until you stood beside the couch. Your hand found his forehead with featherlight pressure, careful not to startle him awake. The warmth beneath your palm made you hiss. His skin was damp with sweat, far warmer than it should've been. He cracked one sleepy eye open before lazily batting your hand away with all the strength of a disgruntled toddler. "You're gonna get sick, Y/N." He mumbled, voice rough from congestion.

"Have you taken anything? Eaten?" You asked, purposely ignoring him. A weak shake of his head made you frown as he burrowed farther beneath the blanket until all you could really see was the top of his head. Without another word, you disappeared into the kitchen. Opening cabinet after cabinet, you smiled when everything was exactly where you'd expected. If there was one thing Tucker took almost as seriously as hockey, it was cooking.

Rolling up your sleeves, you got to work. Butter melted with a quiet sizzle before onions, carrots, and celery joined the pot, filling the kitchen with the comforting aroma of sautéing vegetables. Garlic followed moments later, its rich scent curling through the house. You shredded leftover rotisserie chicken Tucker had prepared earlier in the week, added handfuls of fresh herbs from the windowsill, poured in the homemade stock, and let everything simmer low and slow.

Nearly twenty minutes later, the soup bubbled gently on the stove, filling every room with warmth. Which was probably why the front door swung open. Logan stepped inside first, Garrett followed, and Dean came in last. All three stopped dead in the entryway as the unmistakable scent of homemade chicken noodle soup drifted toward them. Dean's gaze found you almost instantly, it was second nature nowadays.

You stood at the stove in one of Tucker's aprons, sleeves pushed to your elbows as you stirred the soup with practiced ease. Something deep in his chest squeezed painfully the more he looked at you. God, you looked like you belonged there. Like you'd always belonged there. His stomach flipped at the domestic image. The thought came so naturally it almost scared him. He could picture this years from now: Coming home after practice. Finding you in a kitchen making dinner, scolding one of the guys for skipping lunch.

It was such a simple fantasy, one he had absolutely no business imagining. "I thought I told you to stay home." Dean's voice carried equal parts exasperation and concern as he crossed his arms against his chest. "Last I checked, none of you know how to cook," You replied matter-of-factly while ladling soup into bowls. "Tuck needs homemade soup not whatever sodium-packed excuse for soup you three would've heated up from a can." Their silence spoke volumes.

Oh how you loved being right.

You slid two steaming bowls across the island toward Garrett and Logan who were openly salivating. "Sit and eat." Both men obeyed immediately, neither needed to be told twice. "You're my favorite person ever." Logan declared, already reaching for a spoon. "I've been saying that for years," Garrett chimed in, grinning as he accepted the bowl. "Thanks, sweetheart."

Dean watched the exchange in silence, eyes never leaving you as he watched you carry another bowl into the living room. You crouched beside Tucker, placing the soup carefully on the coffee table before setting cold medicine and a bottle of water beside it. "There we go." Your fingers brushed his forehead once more. "A little less warm." Tucker managed the weakest smile imaginable before taking a tentative bite.

Within minutes he looked noticeably more alive. Color slowly returned to his face as warmth spread through him. Dean, however, couldn't stop watching you. Couldn't stop noticing how naturally you slipped into caretaker mode. You remembered everyone's favorite meals. You always noticed when one of them skipped breakfast. You always looked after them without ever expecting anything in return.

It was simply woven into who you were.

"Serious question." Logan's voice pulled everyone's attention back toward the dining table. You looked up, brows furrowing and mentally preparing for what Logan was about to say. He pointed his spoon toward you. "Why has literally nobody wifed you up yet?" Your eyes widened, heat creeping up into your cheeks as you blinked at him processing his words. A nervous laugh escaped as you simply shrugged one shoulder instead of answering.

Thankfully, Logan accepted your non-answer. "Wild." He muttered before returning his full attention to the soup in front of him. You let out a quiet breath of relief, completely missing what happened across the room. Tucker slowly lifted his gaze as Garrett did the same, both men turning towards Dean in perfect synchronization. Dean was already glaring at them, if looks could kill both hockey players would already be six-feet under.

Garrett bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling and Tucker looked seconds away from bursting out laughing despite the gruesome cold. Because they both knew. They'd watched Dean stare at you from the second he'd walked through the front door. Watched his eyes follow every movement you made. Watched the way his expression softened whenever you smiled his way.

Logan, blissfully unaware of the silent conversation unfolding beside him, happily shoveled another spoonful of soup into his mouth. Dean barely noticed, because despite his two smartass friends smirking at his obliviousness, his attention had drifted back to you. Back to the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you rinsed dishes. Back to the quiet hum you made under your breath while cleaning Tucker's kitchen.

Back to how effortlessly you took care of people you loved.

You were a catch. Dean had always known that. He'd known it long before anyone else started noticing. Long before Logan blurted it out over dinner. The problem was, other people were starting to realize it too. And someday, someone was going to look at you the way Dean already did. They'd flirt with you. Take you out. Learn your coffee order. Memorize the little wrinkle that appeared beside your nose whenever you laughed.

Most importantly, they'd get to call you theirs. The thought alone lodged itself beneath his ribs like a skate blade carving into fresh ice. It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did. You were his childhood best friend. He should've been thrilled if someone made you happy. Instead, all he could think was: I hope they don't. And that terrified him far more than any hockey game ever could.

5. The Male Gaze

"Hey, Y/N, is it true that Archer Beckett asked you out?" The question left Beau's mouth so casually you'd think he was asking you about the weather. Dean, on the other hand, nearly inhaled his beer. He coughed violently, setting the bottle down with a little more force than intended as carbonation burned the back of his throat. Beside him, Garrett didn't even attempt to hide his grin, his shoulders already beginning to shake with silent laughter.

Across the table, you took another leisurely sip of your piña colada, completely oblivious to the internal crisis unfolding three feet away. "He did." You confirmed, shrugging nonchalantly. Dean's entire body went rigid, his jaw locked so tightly he could feel his molars grinding together. Archer Beckett, of course it had to be Archer fucking Beckett. The lacrosse captain had been circling you for weeks like a damn shark.

Every time Dean turned around, Archer was "coincidentally" showing up wherever you happened to be, outside the psych building, in line at the campus coffee shop, even at Malone's after games. Dean had noticed, he noticed everything when it came to you. "What'd you tell him?" Hannah wondered from across the table, tucked comfortably beneath Garrett's arm.

Dean sat a little straighter without realizing it, every muscle in his body tensed as he waited for your answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Garrett and Beau exchanging identical shit-eating grins. Again. Lately they'd been doing that a lot. Assholes. You swirled the straw around your drink absentmindedly before answering as though the conversation couldn't possibly be less important. "I told him I wasn't interested."

Dean forgot how to breathe. Relief washed over him so suddenly it nearly made him dizzy. It came in one overwhelming wave, loosening the knot in his chest before he'd even processed why. His shoulders relaxed and the death grip he'd had on his beer bottle eased. A part of him, a part he'd spent months trying very hard to ignore, felt absurdly, ridiculously happy.

"The guy's relentless," Garrett observed, lifting his beer toward his lips. "I'm honestly surprised he backed off that easily." Dean caught the smug smirk Garrett aimed directly at him over the rim of his bottle. The silent message couldn't have been clearer: You hear that, Di Laurentis? She turned him down. Make your move, idiot. Dean responded by silently mouthing, I'm going to kill you to which Garrett's grin only widened.

Thankfully, you remained blissfully unaware of the silent death threats being exchanged across the table. "I need another drink." You stood, gathering your empty glass before pointing toward the bar. "Anyone want a refill?" Everyone but Hannah declined. Dean opened his mouth to offer to go with you, but the opportunity disappeared before the words reached his tongue because you were already weaving through the various crowds of people toward the bar.

His eyes followed instinctively as they always did. He watched as you smiled at Allie the second you reached the bar, leaning comfortably against the polished wood as the short brunette reached over the counter to squeeze your hand before beginning your drink. Dean couldn't help smiling too. "Dude, you're so whipped." Beau's voice yanked him back to reality. Dean managed to drag his gaze away from you just long enough to glare murderously at his best friend.

"At least pretend you're listening to us instead of staring at her like she hung the moon. You've watched her walk to the bar like four times already, man." Garrett interrupted, amusement dancing across his face. Dean scoffed at Garrett's words, opening his mouth to rebuttal before Hannah held her hand up stopping him. "Dean, at least try to hide it better." Hannah teased, smiling far too knowingly.

"Wellsy, don't encourage them." Dean groaned dramatically. "I'm not encouraging anything." Hannah's smile only grew. "I'm just observing." Dean rolled his eyes dramatically before looking back toward the televisions mounted behind the bar. Or at least, that was his intention. Instead, his attention landed on you again, watching as your eyes were fixated on Shane Hollander as he carried the puck through the neutral zone while Ilya Rozanov shadowed him stride for stride on the television screen.

Dean smiled despite himself, only you would get distracted by hockey while ordering drinks. Then he noticed them. Three guys at the opposite end of the bar. One of them glanced your way, then another. A fourth turned completely around in his stool. Dean's smile vanished instantly. They weren't watching the game, they were watching you. His grip tightened around his beer bottle until his knuckles turned white.

One of them, a tall brunette with an easy grin and far too much confidence nudged his friend before climbing off his stool. Dean's pulse immediately picked up as he watched the guy walk straight toward you. "I just love it when he gets territorial." Beau snickered as Hannah immediately elbowed Garrett in the ribs hard enough to earn an exaggerated grunt, though the smile she was unsuccessfully trying to suppress betrayed her.

They'd all noticed. Of course they did.

Dean didn't bother with them, his gaze was solely on you, stomach twisting unpleasantly. He had absolutely no right to feel possessive. You weren't his girlfriend. Hell, you weren't even remotely close to being his. You could flirt with whoever you wanted. Accept drinks from whoever you wanted. Go on dates with whoever you wanted. The thought alone made something ugly twist low in his stomach.

Jealousy.

Because it wasn't just that he didn't want Archer Beckett asking you out anymore. He didn't want anyone asking you out. He didn't want another guy making you laugh. Didn't want someone else memorizing your coffee order. Didn't want someone else bringing you flowers during finals week because they knew you were stressed. Didn't want someone else being the person you instinctively reached for.

He didn't want to be just your best friend anymore. He wanted to be the man sitting beside you. The one whose hand you'd reach for beneath the table. The one you'd kiss goodnight. The one you'd introduce as yours. Thankfully, after a few gruesome minutes which really seemed like decades, he watched as the brunette returned to his friends a few moments later. Empty-handed; no longer smiling and head hung low. Only then did Dean realize he'd been holding his breath.

You followed shortly after, balancing two frozen piña coladas with practiced ease, once again, completely oblivious to the emotional crisis currently unfolding inside Dean's head. "What'd he want?" The question escaped before Dean could stop it. You slid Hannah's drink across the table before answering. "Oh," You shrugged, hand waving dismissively as if it was no big deal. "He wanted to buy me a drink, but I told him my boyfriend was waiting for me."

Silence.

Dean stared, his brain stopped functioning altogether.

"Boyfriend?" He echoed weakly. You looked at him as though the answer was obvious, a tiny smile tugged at your lips. "I knew he wouldn't question it if I pointed at you." Dean's heart slammed against his ribs. You'd said it so naturally, so effortlessly. As if pretending Dean was yours had come as easily as breathing. You reached across the table without thinking, your fingers wrapping gently around his forearm, the simple touch nearly undid him.

"You don't mind, do you, Dean?" You looked almost worried, like the possibility of upsetting him genuinely bothered you. Across the table, Garrett looked ready to burst into laughter. Beau had outright stopped pretending to hide his grin. Even Hannah pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Yet, Dean barely noticed. He was too busy imagining what it would've felt like if your words had actually been true. My boyfriend. God, he wanted to hear you say that again.

Not as an excuse, not to get rid of some random guy at a bar, but because you meant it. The realization settled over him with startling certainty. He wasn't just protective. He wasn't just attached because you'd been friends forever. He wasn't just comfortable around you. He was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with his best friend. And judging by the three idiots trying and failing not to laugh across the table, everyone seemed to know it before he did.

He swallowed hard, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before forcing himself to smile. "Course not, babydoll." You smiled back, satisfied with his answer, completely unaware that the tiny lie had just shattered what was left of his resolve. Because the truth was, Dean minded more than he could ever admit. Not because you'd called him your boyfriend, but because he wasn't. God, he wanted to be. More than his next championship. More than hockey. More than anything.

+1 The Hat Trick

The sharp November air nipped at your cheeks the second you stepped out of the car, your breath curling into soft white clouds as you made your way toward the entrance of the Briar arena. Even after countless games, countless Friday nights spent wrapped in Briar blue, there was still something magical about hockey nights.

The bright arena lights reflected against the freshly resurfaced sheet of ice, music boomed through the speakers as students flooded into the stands. Your eyes immediately searched for one player in particular. Dean, it was always Dean. The knot that had lived in your stomach for the past two weeks loosened the moment you spotted number sixty-six gliding effortless laps around center ice during warmups.

He was back. After the concussion and the fractured ankle. After countless days of sitting beside his bed while he complained about being benched, insisting he was "perfectly fine," and begged you to sneak him out of physical therapy. The team medic had finally cleared him that morning. Watching him skate again should've filled you with relief. Instead, your traitorous brain decided to notice how his practice jersey stretched across his shoulders every time he leaned into a stride.

How the muscles in his thighs flexed beneath his hockey pants as he dug his edges into the ice. How one damp blond curl escaped beneath his helmet while he stretched against the boards. You tore your eyes away with an embarrassed cough. Absolutely not. There was a hockey game to watch, not Dean Di Laurentis looking unfairly attractive while doing literally anything. Beside you, Hannah caught the direction of your gaze, hiding a knowing smile behind her cup of hot chocolate.

Thankfully, the referee's whistle echoed through the arena, signaling the start of the game before she could say anything. The opening puck drop snapped your attention back where it belonged. The first period against Harvard flew by in a blur of hard checks and blistering speed. Dean looked like he'd never left the lineup. He was everywhere. Breaking up passes through the neutral zone. Winning puck battles along the boards. Setting crushing screens in front of Harvard's goalie.

Even when he wasn't scoring, he dictated the pace every time his line hopped over the boards. Midway through the first period, Garrett intercepted a sloppy pass just inside Briar's blue line.Without hesitation, he banked the puck off the boards toward Logan, who exploded down the right wing with Tucker keeping pace on the opposite side. The three connected like they shared one brain.

Logan faked a slapshot which allowed for Tucker to intercept, cleanly sliding the puck into the goal. The red light flashed, the goal horn erupted, and the arena exploded. You shot to your feet along with Hannah and everyone else, cheering until your throat burned. Dean was the first one to reach Tucker, wrapping an arm around his shoulders before shoving his helmet affectionately.

By the middle of the second period, Logan buried one of his own after Dean fought through two defenders behind the net to feed him a perfect no-look pass. A few minutes later Tucker struck again on the power play after Garrett rifled a shot from the point that bounced straight onto Tucker's stick. Everything Briar touched seemed to turn into goals tonight. The chemistry between the four upperclassmen was almost unfair to watch.

Every pass landed tape-to-tape. Every line change happened seamlessly. Every player seemed to know exactly where the others would be before they even got there. At the end of the second period, Briar held a comfortable 3-1 lead against Harvard. "Dean is going to lose his mind when he sees you in his jersey tonight." Hannah leaned closer with an unmistakably mischievous smile, which made a blush climb up your neck as you instinctively glanced down.

Dean's navy blue jersey hung almost to the middle of your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands completely. You'd borrowed it from Beau after he'd insisted Dean deserved a little 'extra motivation'. "He hasn't even noticed." Hannah smiled knowingly, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Trust me babe, he'll notice." Before you could ask what that cryptic statement meant, the buzzer sounded meaning that the third period had officially began.

Harvard came out desperate. Every shift became increasingly physical as the numbers of the clock counted down. Bodies slammed into the glass hard enough to make the boards rattle. Unfortunately, the referees' whistles remained suspiciously quiet. You hated when games turned like this, knowing that the desperation made players reckless. Halfway through the period, Dean carried the puck through the neutral zone with impossible speed.

One defender challenged him, luckily Dean was able to effortlessly slip around him effortlessly only for a second to step up. Dean toe-dragged the puck between the man's skates. The crowd collectively rose to its feet, only before he could shoot, a Harvard defenseman drove him shoulder-first into the plexiglass. Your breath caught as the impact thundered through the arena. Dean, however, bounced off the boards, somehow maintaining possession before spinning away from another defender.

He never even looked shaken, instead he cut toward the slot. Garrett anticipated the play perfectly. One crisp pass was all it took for Dean to snap a wrist shot through the two defenders. The net rippled as the goal horn blared yet again. You were already on your feet before you realized you'd moved. Dean pointed toward the student section as his teammates swarmed him in congratulatory helmet bumps. For one irrational second, you could've sworn he was looking directly at you.

When you finally sat back down, Hannah's grin could've powered the entire arena. "Told you." You shoved her shoulder, which only made her grin widen. "Oh, shut up." Only, you were smiling too hard to sound annoyed. Barely ninety seconds later, Dean struck again. Logan forced a turnover at center ice and immediately passed to Garrett. In response, Garrett threaded a pass between two Harvard sticks that had absolutely no business making it through.

Dean picked it up in stride, one fake forehand made the goalie drop in anticipation to which Dean calmly pulled the puck back to his backhand and slid it between the goalie's pads before anyone could react. Another goal and another explosion from the crowd. Your hands hurt from clapping, voice embarrassingly hoarse yet you couldn't find youself to care. The scoreboard now read 5-1 which in turn made Harvard's frustration boil over.

With just over two minutes remaining in the third period, one of their forwards blindsided Logan long after he'd dumped the puck in the net. Gasps echoed around the arena as Logan crashed awkwardly into the boards. Dean was halfway across the ice before Logan even climbed back to his skates, Garrett and Tucker followed immediately after seeing Dean shove the Harvard player backward with enough force to send him stumbling several feet.

Luckily, the freshmen on Briar's bench dragged the upperclassmen away before punches started flying. One minute remained. The arena buzzed with nervous anticipation despite Briar's lead, your lip was caught between your teeth watching as Garrett and Dean wordlessly communicated with one another. No words were exchanged. Years of playing together had made communication almost instinctive.

Garrett stole the puck near Briar's blue line and Dean was there in an instant, already alert. Garrett feathered a perfect stretch pass through the neutral zone. Dean caught it in stride without breaking rhythm. One defender remained, shifting left as the the defenseman followed. Dean snapped the puck back right through his own skates, slipping around him with breathtaking ease. The goalie lunged. Dean, however, waited until the last possible second lifting the puck cleanly beneath the crossbar.

The red light flashed and the horn sounded. For a heartbeat, the arena went completely silent, then every single person inside exploded. "A HAT TRICK BY #66, DEAN DI LAURENTIS!" The announcer's voice echoed through the building. Without thinking you threw your arms around Hannah, the two of you laughed as you nearly toppled into the row in front of you, hugging each other while the entire team tackled Dean beneath an avalanche of helmets and gloves.

Six-two. Final. Dean Di Laurentis. Hat trick.

You'd never been prouder. By the time you and Hannah reached the tunnel, your heart was still racing, body buzzing with adrenaline. Players filtered through in small groups, laughing loudly as they relived every goal. Garrett appeared first and Hannah didn't hesitate. She practically flew into his arms, you couldn't help but beam as Garrett caught her effortlessly, spinning her once before pressing a kiss against her forehead before dipping down and pressing one to her lips.

Then, Dean walked through. His helmet had disappeared somewhere during the celebration, blond curls damp with sweat, sticking up in every direction, cheeks flushed from exertion. When his eyes caught yours, everything ceased to exist. The coaches. The teammates. The reporters. The noise. There was only you. In two quick strides he was right in front of you. One second there was a few feet separating the two of you and the next, his hands were around your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the concrete.

A startled laugh bubbled from your lips as your feet left the ground. Instinctively, your arms wound around his neck, fingers brushing against the damp curls at the nape of his neck. He held you impossibly close, burying his face against your shoulder for the briefest moment as his heartbeat hammered wildly against your chest. He'd just scored a hat trick. The arena had chanted his name. Thousands of hats had rained onto the ice. Yet none of it compared to this. None of it compared to having you in his arms.

You melted into his embrace without hesitation, holding him just as tightly. "That was amazing!" You laughed, pulling back just enough to cup his flushed cheeks between your hands. Your eyes sparkled with so much pride that it stole what little breath he had left. "A hat trick, Dean! I'm so fucking proud of you." Dean couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him with so much unfiltered admiration. Maybe no one ever had.

His eyes drifted downward before he could stop them and his breath caught. You were wearing a jersey, but not just any Briar jersey. His. His last name stretched proudly across your shoulders, and the white number on the front rested directly over your heart. Something inside his chest squeezed so painfully he almost winced. It really shouldn't have affected him the way it did. It was just a jersey. Just fabric. Except, it wasn't. Seeing his name on you awakened every selfish, possessive thought he'd spent months trying to bury.

It looked right. Far too right.

"You're wearing my jersey." The words escaped almost reverently. Your gaze followed his before a rosy blush crept across your cheeks. "Oh." You smiled sheepishly, smoothing the front of it with your palms. "Beau practically insisted. He claimed it was good luck since you guys are only two games away from another Frozen Four." Yet, Dean barely registered your explanation. His thoughts were spiraling too quickly. His jersey. Your smile. The way you'd waited for him in the tunnel instead of celebrating with everyone else.

The way you'd hugged him before anyone else had the chance. The way you'd looked absolutely radiant cheering for him from the stands. His mind replayed every moment from the last few months in painful succession. You showing up with homemade soup when Tucker got sick. Driving hours just because Summer needed a friend. Holding his hand while the medic checked him over after his injury. Calling yourself his girlfriend just to get another guy to leave you alone.

Every forehead kiss he'd lingered on a little too long. Every hug he'd held a few seconds longer than necessary. Every excuse he'd made just to have you close. He'd spent months convincing himself that wanting you around all the time was normal. That missing you after only a few hours was normal. That getting irrationally jealous every time another guy looked at you was normal. Only it wasn't. It had never been normal. He couldn't keep pretending anymore, he wouldn't.

"Dean?" Your voice was soft, tinged with concern now that he'd gone completely quiet. Your thumb brushed gently across his cheek. "You okay?" His eyes found yours again. God. How had he been so blind? He was so unbelievably in love with you it almost hurt. A helpless laugh escaped him as he shook his head once, mind made up. "Fuck it." Before doubt had a chance to creep back in, he surged forward and captured your lips with his.

The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant. As if he was giving you every opportunity to stop him. You didn't. Instead, your surprised gasp melted into a smile against his mouth before you kissed him back with equal certainty. Every ounce of fear he'd carried for months dissolved in an instant. His hands slid more securely around your waist, holding you like he'd dreamed about doing for far too long.

Not because he was afraid you'd disappear, but because after wanting this for what felt like forever, he couldn't bear to put even an inch of distance between the two of you. Your fingers disappeared into his blond curls, gently scratching at his scalp as your tilted your head deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against his. Dean nearly melted. The one thing he'd imagined over and over whenever his feelings became impossible to ignore. The reality was infinitely better.

When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved very far. Your foreheads rested together, noses brushing. His eyes searched yours almost nervously, as though waiting for someone to tell him he'd imagined the whole thing. Instead, you smiled completely enamored. "Took you long enough." You whispered, your lips brushing his as you stole another quick kiss simply because you could. Dean let out a breathless laugh. "You mean," He searched your face in complete disbelief. "We could've been doing this the whole time?"

A sheepish grin spread across your face as you nodded. Dean stared at you for a long moment, then groaned dramatically. "God..." He dropped his forehead against your shoulder. "I really am such a clueless bastard." You laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. "It's okay, I still love you." Dean practically tackled you into another kiss, finally hearing the words he'd been waiting for months to hear without knowing it. "God, I fucking love you too, babydoll." He muttered against your lips.

Finally. Finally. Finally.

Off to the side, Hannah bumped Garrett's shoulder with a knowing grin. "See you guys at Malone's?" Dean didn't even glance in their direction. "Sorry, Wellsy." His answer came automatically, one hand absentmindedly tracing circles against your back. "I've got a lot of lost time with my girl to make up for." Because, now that Dean had you, there was absolutely no way in hell he was letting you go anytime soon.

You got up early that morning. At least, you thought you did. It was hard to tell what time it was when the sun never changed its position in the sky.

As promised, Pascal set up a communication line with the androids yesterday. He seemed a hint out of practice; clearly, it had been ages since he’d had a reason to chat with the other beings of this planet.

Eventually, Pascal got them to agree to arrive. The details beyond that were lost to you.

Instead of worrying about it, you sat on the wooden platform of the upper tier of his village, swinging your legs off the edge. You regaled Pascal with stories of your universe, enjoying the last few hours you had left to spend with him. A gentle breeze brushed against you, rustling your clothes and bringing with it the scent of flora, the eternal blooms that thrived under the light. Beyond the forest, you periodically spotted boars and deer roaming about, feasting on never-ending expanses of greenery.

It was while you were telling him about the hell that was navigating subways that the Androids arrived.

A small convoy of people, four from the looks of it, crossed the bridges hung onto the trees, approaching Pascal’s village in a uniform fashion. They marched at a steady pace, one after the other, boots filling the same slot as the person in front of them.

Right off the bat, you clocked something strange about them. 

They all looked completely identical. It wasn’t just in the clothes they were in, but everything, from the way they walked, to the weird masks they wore over their eyes, down to the straightness of their hair. 

Strangest of all, though, was that they all had weapons hovering behind them, held up by a ring of pale yellow light. Mainly swords, though one had a polearm from what you could glean.

The group stopped at what functioned as the entrance to the village, heads tilted up to face you and Pascal, expressions neutral. Their presence caused the hair on your nape to prickle, suddenly nervous. They were (probably) your only way to get home, you couldn’t afford to give a bad first impression.

You trailed after Pascal as went to meet them, clunking down the ladder that creaked precariously under his weight. Resisting the temptation to hide behind him like a child, you stood at his side, waiting for someone to start.

The ‘leader’ of sorts spoke first. “Pascal.”

Pascal’s gears churred, a noise you recognized as him feeling pleased. “It’s good to see you again, 18.”

18? What a weird name, you thought. She was the tallest of the bunch, though the rest weren’t far behind. Her hair draped to her shoulders, bangs cut at an interesting diagonal line, but she pulled it off somehow. Her weapon was bigger than the rest, resembling a heavy greatsword. How a spinning circle of light held it up, you had no idea, and even less idea how the damn thing was used, considering it was as tall as her. 

Maybe it was for aesthetics? 

The android merely nodded, then turned her gaze toward you. “This is the human you told us of?”

“That’s right,” your friend confirmed.

18 examined you for a few seconds, standing unnaturally still. Then, she turned her head over her shoulder, motioning to the girl at her right. The girl took the hint and approached you, closing the distance in two long strides. 

Before you could do anything, her gloved hands clasped your face, tilting your head this way and that, sparing little concern for the comfort of your neck. You opened your mouth to voice your panic, but she took the chance to hook a thumb behind your teeth and pull it open wider, peering into your maw. Reflexively, you tried to jerk back, a garbled complaint bubbling up, but your struggles didn’t move her. Either, she was ignoring the way you were pulling at her arm, or she was entirely oblivious to your discomfort.

It was when she put a palm to your throat, fingers nudging into the underside of your jaw, that she froze. You had no idea what she was searching for, but she seemed to have found it in the way your heart hammered in your chest. As quickly as she had grabbed you, she let go, staggering backwards like you’d burned her.

“It’s true,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with emotion. “She– she’s human.”

In an instant, 18 and the other android locked onto you, crowding your space. Touchy hands wandered all over your body, pawing at your flesh, treating you like a novelty. Someone pinched your waist, and you squealed, batting them away.

“Hands off!” You yelped, and they all retracted from you, surprise evident on their faces. 

Chatter burst forth from them, the group babbling to each other rather unsubtly. Their conversation moved too fast for you to follow, only allowing you to catch the occasional word, like human and His Majesty, city. Pascal and you shared a glance; the robot shrugged unhelpfully. 

Then, it stopped altogether. 18 took her spot at the front again and pressed an arm to her chest, elbow raised outward, and bowed to you. “I am 18D, an android that works under His Majesty. My companions maintain similar positions in His employ. We’d be honored to escort you to His Majesty, so he may aid you in returning home.”

As one, they spoke, saying, “Glory to mankind.”

Jesus, okay, you underestimated how much androids loved humans when Pascal told you about them, sort of just assuming they were bodyguards that took their jobs very seriously. But, hey, that meant they’d keep you safe during your journey to meet whoever this ‘Majesty’ guy was, right?

“We should hurry,” the second girl rushed, jittery for some reason.

As you were about to agree, you hesitated. “Wait, I want Pascal to come, too.”

At once, you were denied. “No,” she refused, stern, but not unkind. “Machine lifeforms are not welcome in the city.”

Offense surged through you at Pascal’s behalf. “What? But he’s nice! You know this!”

“It’s a rule. No exceptions.”

“You can make one–”

Pascal called your name, interrupting your bickering. His hand reached out to you, then lowered, as if he thought better of it.

“It’s okay,” he reassured you. “They have these rules for a reason. I will be fine here.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out, stuck in your throat like thick honey. You wanted him to come with you, he’d been the only person you’d known since waking up in this strange place. 

Fuck. Your chest ached with guilt, but if even Pascal insisted on staying behind, what choice did you have? You weren’t going to win this fight.

It was with a heavy sigh and the slump of your back that you conceded. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

The androids didn’t bother providing further conversation or wishing Pascal farewell, but you were not about to leave him without at least telling him goodbye. They were already marching away, but you weren’t ready, not yet.

“Wait, hang on,” you called to them. Not waiting to see if they stopped, you hurried back to Pascal, throwing your arms around the can of gears and bolts. “Thank you for being my friend,” you murmured into his shoulder.

He didn’t move initially, then cautiously encircled his arms around you in a facsimile of a hug, more so imitating you than actually understanding the action. “Of course,” he reassured you. “It was a pleasure to have you. I hope we meet again someday.”

You kept your mouth shut at that, not wanting to let him down and say this would be the last time you’d see each other, hopefully. Instead, you squeezed him tighter, then let go.

“Bye, Pascal,” you expressed, smiling sadly.

“Safe travels,” he responded, giving you a wave that you returned.

You turned around and made your way to the androids. It was obvious that they wanted to say something about your friendship with Pascal, but they thankfully kept their mouths shut. They led you away, further and further from the little village you had come to think of as your home-away-from-home. You peeked over your shoulder to give it one last look.

Pascal continued to wave at you, even after you disappeared behind the trees and descended to ground level.

A short walk away, you noticed a shape that looked distinctly familiar, tucked away under a tree with low-hanging branches. 

It was a car – an off-road land rover of sorts, specifically. Unlike the other vehicle shells you’d seen here and there, rotted frames of crumbling rust and plastic melted under the ever-present sun, this one was in good condition. A range of floodlights were attached right above the windshield, powered off and unneeded in the current daylight. From the looks of it, the roof and windows had been removed, leaving only the frame for easy access. 

You watched as 18D popped open the driver side door and climbed in.. You awkwardly waited outside, unsure where you fit. 

And then, something grabbed you. 

You were lifted like a damn feather, your indignant caterwauling ignored completely as your effective kidnapper jumped in and plopped you right onto her lap, arms looped around your waist.

“Be careful, G!” One of the girls cried out, the one settling into the passenger seat. “She’s fragile.”

Whoever was holding you – G? – cackled. “Relax, 73. She’s fine. Aren’t you, girly?” The girl leaned forward, her lips against the shell of your ear. You fully intended to pretend that you didn’t just experience a wave of shivers at the sound of her voice.

“Well, actually–” you started.

“73H is right, 5G,” 18 interrupted. “Be more careful.”

“Sure, sure,” 5G, G, whoever the fuck she was, answered lackadaisically. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep our little human safe.”

18 grumbled something that you didn’t catch under the roar of the engine turning over. In an attempt to save yourself, you wriggled, but it was useless against the unstoppable force that was this woman’s insane strength. Her arms didn’t so much as budge at your squirming.

“Um,” you spoke up above the rumbling purr emanating from the vehicle. “I can sit on my own just fine!”

5G grinned, propping her chin up on your shoulder. “Don’t be silly! I won’t let you go, you can trust me!”

Yeah, that wasn’t what you were worried about. It didn’t help that she was unfairly pretty. All of them were, really, in that inhuman way that bordered a little too close to uncanny valley, but didn’t quite fall into the steep drop yet.

You chewed the inside of your cheek. You were a novelty, after all; the last human on Earth. Maybe they’d never seen one before? You could hardly blame them for being curious.

Still, no matter how hard you tried to squash the thoughts under your heel, they persisted, whispering in your ear that you should have stayed with Pascal.

----

The entire ride to the city, the androids stared at you.

73H frequently turned around in her seat to chat with you and 5G, and 5G never loosened her hold. The only one that seemed to not be trying to pick you apart with her eyes was 18D, but with the blindfolds they all wore, for all you knew she could have been peering at you through the rearview mirror this whole time.

“What’s it like, being a human?” 73H queried.

“Um, what do you want to know?”

“Do you really produce milk?”

The question was so outrageous, you couldn’t help yourself. You choked on a laugh, then burst out into a fit of giggles. 18D chastised her, prompting 73H to apologize profusely to you, but you found it endearing.

Fanning your face, you answered, “Some people do, yeah. Usually happens after they give birth.”

“What’s it taste like?”

“73H!” 18 shouted.

“Sorry!” She whined.

5G nudged you while 18D chided 73H. “Can humans eat mackerel?”

You nodded. “Yeah, unless they’re allergic.”

“It doesn’t jam up your circuits?”

“No–” you made a face. “Humans don’t have circuits.”

“Really?” Both she and 73H asked.

As you chatted, you observed the changing scenery. The ruined structures of ancient apartments and house foundations fell away, replaced with idyllic landscapes.

It faded away, replaced with the curious chiming of music through old speakers, the sound tinny and popping. You leaned to the side to peek between 18D and 73H, watching as your driver raced towards an… 

Amusement park?

Going straight through the entrance led to a partially destroyed statue, its body cut on a clean diagonal, as if sliced in half. Rainwater collected inside it, causing its protective coating to wear off in some places and allow the bronze to oxidize.

“What’s that?” You pointed it out.

5G shrugged nonchalantly. “Records show it used to be a machine lifeform. Good riddance.”

18D drove around it and further into the park, up a few ramps. They were steep, leaving you to fall back into 5G, but she didn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

Past the houses lining the street, the space opened up greatly, a circular plaza with an open gate at the end. It was when 18D drove onto what resembled a highway that you saw it.

A bestial fortress. The vestiges of sunlight bled through the misshapen heart of its core, your desired sunset handed to you on a silver platter. To the right of it, the remnants of a ferris wheel lay collapsed upon its siding, overtaken by nature.

“I bet this place used to be fun,” 73H sighed. “Wish the roller coaster still worked.”

“There’s a roller coaster?” You looked back to spot it.

“Oh, yeah,” 5G crooned, laughing. “Just a mess now. Bet you would have been too chicken to ride it, 73H.”

“I would not have been!”

The two bickered back and forth, with 5G provoking 73H, saying that all healer units were wusses while the other insisting it wasn’t true.

The highway curved, extending parallel to the massive structure, away from the winding pillars and tracks of the doomed roller coaster. 

It was beautiful.

You feared that very beauty would grab hold of you and never let go.

Lost in thought, you didn’t notice that your ride had reached its destination until 5G was scooping you up like a soggy, wet cat again, lifting you out of the car. Looking around, you realized that 18D had parked in what seemed to be a garage lot somewhere underground. 

Just as you were beginning to panic, thinking they were about to drag you down to some creepy-ass dungeon, 18D spun around and led your group up a ramp and out into the crimson-gold lambency of the forevermore lowering sun, hanging heavy on the horizon.

The first step you took into the city left you speechless.

All around you, skyscrapers rose to greet the sky, their spires still standing tall, even after all this time. In place of glass windows with mirror-like finishes, overwhelming amounts of bright green foliage sprouted from the sides of the buildings. Trees lined the streets in thriving columns, blooms of white and pink flowering atop the leaves.

Asphalt made way for sprawling ivy and stunning flora, pops of color breathing a sentience yet unknown to you into what was once a metropolis packed full of humans. The tram line that cut through the center of the wide street blended seamlessly with the copsewood, the passenger carriage itself serving as a home for verdure.

A squirrel skittered from bush to bush and raced up the trunk of a nearby tree, chattering with another that hid in the midst of leafage. Flocks of birds circled overhead, searching for places to nest, bugs to feast upon, and treats to stash away.

Androids roamed about in small groups, two or three making their way to wherever it was they were going. Most had white hair, but it was easy to spot those that were brunette or blonde. A few even sported brilliantly red locks, a shock of contrast against a nearly all-green backdrop.

You were so used to streets that were jam packed with people and cars, a constant buzz of sound. Instead of honking vehicles and rumbling engines, there was the swish of gentle wind between buildings. Humans were exchanged with wildlife. Things of scant importance had long since decomposed.

Fresh air flooded your lungs. You could see straight up into a vivid wisteria and bell heather sky, no haze present to block out the lustrous glow of perpetual early sunset. Stars speckled the heavens in dots of cadenced flickers.

The world smelled sweet, faintly of lemongrass and something distinctly wild that you couldn’t put your finger on. For a moment, you forgot everything, captive to the beauty of a planet undesecrated by humanity.

To your surprise, many buildings and streetlights retained electricity, burning strong in the evening hours. They made constellations of one another, their silhouettes blurred into softness by still-surviving lightbulbs and the mellowed sun. When you heard the word ‘cozy’, this is what you imagined. A place of peace, full of nature, gentle on the eyes. 

If only real life was like this. Well, your real life.

The weapons your envoy possessed dissipated into sparkles of light as soon as they entered the official city boundary, embers fizzling away before you could enclose them in your palms and bring them to your heart.

“The King lives not far from the city center, in a castle,” 73H informed you. 

You cocked your head to the side. “Castle?”

A smile curled the corners of her mouth upwards. “Yes! He built it himself.”

“Oh,” you responded, lackluster.

You wondered if this ‘King’ had a proper name amongst the androids, or if he identified himself with weird numbers and letters like everyone else did, as far as you were aware. It would be kind of odd to always refer to him as only ‘the King’ or ‘His Majesty’, wouldn’t it?

It gave you something to ponder about as you followed 18D, absentmindedly taking in the scenery and moping about your universe not having anything remotely like this. Had you not been experiencing it firsthand, you would have dared to call it magical, far beyond the realm of possibility. The entire path you took to the so-called “castle” was like this, the pure essence of creation at the nimble hands of Earth.

And the castle itself – well, it wasn’t quite what you were expecting.

Granted, you didn’t know what to expect in the first place, but it wasn’t so strikingly simple in your mind’s eye.

Sticking out like a sore thumb, a structure of pure, pristine white material occupied a space you imagined might have once belonged to a church, a place of worship. If you paid close enough attention, you swore you could hear the whisper of unanswered prayers.

Compared to the decrepit skyscrapers, it looked brand new, untouched, raised from the ground and kept in a bubble of serenity, away from erosion and time. Your hands itched to dip into paint and press into its sides, leaving a reminder that you were there.

The massive doorway opened at your approach, and you walked through them, down a long path that led to a raised dais. A throne resided atop it, and on it sat a man, chin propped on his fist.

King was right.

The man had an undeniably heavy presence to him, one that had you straightening up.

You were never good with estimating, but you’d place his height around 7 feet, at least. He commanded the very air about him with his presence alone, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. 18D was tall, but the king beat her by a head or two easily.

Like most androids, his hair was a gleaming, cool white, resembling the underbelly of a fawn. It fluffed around his head in mid-length strands, and you bet it was soft as cotton. Part of you wanted to reach out and run your fingers through his wolf cut. 

Instead, you forced yourself to focus on his face. Unlike the other androids, he wasn’t wearing a blindfold, showing his pretty blue eyes; they swept over your escorts with little interest, then they settled on you.

And stayed.

Their striking hue made your breath catch. Stunning was an understatement, and you felt a smidge self conscious with how keenly he looked at you. You wrapped your arms around yourself, glancing away.

“Ladies,” he greeted. His tone was low and smooth. It passed over you, encircled you, and came to rest, a warm blanket made of affection and familiarity.

“Your Majesty,” your android companions all replied simultaneously, leaving you the odd one out once more.

The ‘King’ merely waved his hand. “This her, then?

18D rose first, thumping her fist against her chest before it fell to rest at her side.

“Yes, your Majesty. This is the human Pascal informed you of.”

In all the time that 18D was speaking, he never once looked away from you, wholly captivated by your existence.

His brows creased. “How did you end up here?”

It took you a moment to figure out he was asking you. “Oh, um,” you stammered, not expecting the unceremonious return of your vocal autonomy. “I… woke up here?”

Were you not currently busy getting the shit intimidated out of you, you would have considered a career as a wordsmith. With your talent for crafting intricate, yet easily-understood explanations, you could be a world-renowned author on any topic you craved to cover.

Surprisingly, the man didn’t ask you to restate yourself, moving on to ask, “What is your name?”

Hesitantly, you offered it, and received a dazzling smile in return.

“It’s a beautiful name,” he complimented. “You may call me Nier.”

Nier. 

Why was the king – Nier – the only one with a name? A proper name, one that sounded almost…

Human.

You thought to question it, but the comfort that came with a human name belonging to a man that was the closest to a human you’d seen overrode it.

Nier rose to his feet, coming to stand before you. He wielded power in his stance alone; it drew you to him.

“Come inside, we can talk more there,” he recommended, motioning to an opening off to the side. You nodded and let him guide you away from your escorts.

The door slid shut behind you, giving you privacy. Inside, you found what looked like a completely normal home, although made of the same material as the rest of the castle and his throne.

Where you expected Nier to sit you down on the couch, or at the dinner table, he kept walking until he reached the end of a hallway. He raised a hand and pressed it to the blank wall, and a hidden door parted, revealing another small room. An elevator.

You entered it with him, and soon felt the floor rise beneath you and carry you smoothly upwards. For how long, you had no way of knowing, having no indication of what floor you were on. It could have been seconds or minutes, but by the time the door opened again, you were disoriented and a hint dizzy. Nier, of course, was none the wiser, focused on bringing you into a bedroom, of all things.

Your first instinct was to think it was his bedroom – but the more you took in the details, the less that seemed likely. For one, there was no indication of anyone having lived in it; the sheets on the bed were untouched, not a wrinkle to be seen in the comforter or pillowcase, both as equally white as everything else. There was nothing on the nightstand beside the bed aside from a small lamp. The desk was blank, a chair tucked neatly under it, and if you opened the wardrobe, you’d bet there was nothing inside it.

“What…” you breathed aloud, confused.

Nier finally let go of your hand and stepped further in. “This is for you,” he said, like that gave you any sort of enlightenment on the environment.

“For me?”

“Yes,” he affirmed, laying his hand on your shoulder. Faintly, his finger brushed over your neck, the sensation little more than the lightest trace of a feather. But there was too much else going on for you to notice it properly, your focus drawn every which way. 

At his direction, the subtle persuading, you took a seat on the bed, bewildered to find that it was soft and comfortable, contrary to the blockiness you were expecting. Nier crouched in front of you, coming to rest on one knee, an arm laid lazily across the raised one. Even brought down to this level, he was nearly head-on with you, easily able to maintain eye contact.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said.

“I insist,” he asserted. “I am most happy when I serve.”

Your heart fluttered.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” He suggested. 

So, you did exactly that; you told him how you went to sleep in your world, and woke up in this one. How you met Pascal, and asked him to contact the androids with hopes that they could aid you in returning home. Now, you came to Nier with the hopes that he’ll be able to help you return to where you’re supposed to be.

“Her name is Accord,” you told him. “She’s an android, like you. Can you contact her?”

His head tilted to the side, and he put a hand on your thigh, above your knee. “Don’t worry,” he soothed. “We’ll help you get home. It’s our responsibility as the servants of humanity to serve you, and keep you safe.”

You gave him a thin, watery smile. 

“Thank you, your Majesty–”

“Nier,” he corrected.

You swallowed down the dryness in your throat. “...Nier.”

The delighted expression he gave you caused heat to rise to your cheeks. You looked away, and that’s when you heard it, a distant, muffled noise.

You spotted a nearby window where the noise came from. You turned to peer out of it, where you found dozens upon dozens of androids standing on the street below. They all hollered and flailed their arms about, heads bobbing like little whack-a-moles.

Beside you, Nier grumbled, “News travels so fast… I apologize, I hoped we’d have more time before they learned you were here.”

Leaning closer to the window, you awed at the amount of people gathered. “Are they all… here to see me?”

“Of course, they are,” came his soft reply. “You are a miracle to us.”

You peeked at him, and found him smiling tenderly at you, his expression warm and gentle. He gave you a slight nod, and you took it as permission to interact with the amassed people. Slowly, you raised a hand, and waved it at them.

Your reward was an explosive round of cheers that barely reached you, the androids jumping and waving back at you. Despite yourself, your lips tugged upwards, the tightness in your chest loosening. 

If nothing else, it was nice to know the androids were excited to see you.

Nier rose from his spot. “I’d like to show you the rest of the castle,” he explained. “If that’s alright.”

There was something about him that made you feel safe. He was kind, and you knew he’d protect you. When he extended his hand, you took it, fingers gliding into his palm.

“I’d love to see,” you said.

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Come, then. There’s much to show you.”

divider by cafekitsune ♥

(reminder to put your age in your bio/pinned before you follow me or I will block you)

[NieR masterlist]

A year. Twelve months. Fifty-two weeks. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours. Five hundred twenty-five thousand and six hundred minutes. Numbers marking your new beginnings, a blank canvas, a fresh start you dreamt of in your darkest hours.

The daughter of the sage of teaching – a title that came and still comes with many expectations. u had been determined to study under anyone but your father. Looking back, though, you often found yourself wishing you had simply remained his little girl. That you had never grown up. Never experienced what followed.

Your first master tried to do unspeakable things to you which rewarded him with a fate far crueler than being stripped of memories and shipped off to a distant land. What he left behind was a girl who would spend years wondering whether she could ever truly trust again.

Your second master had the highest, almost unachievable expectations of upon hearing you were Beldaruits offspring, and yet you could never truly fulfill any of them. He demanded perfection and each failure resulted in failing to live up to your father’s name. Years that should’ve been spent gathering practical experience or traversing the outdoors in search of adventures were spent in the great hall. The library was your only approved destination.

On visits to your father, you simply lied. You spoke enthusiastically about your teacher and your progression as a witch. Anything to prevent being the root of the slightest hint of concern on your father’s mind, especially regarding your experience with your first apprenticeship.

Your current master was an exceptional witch, but his lessons rarely ventured beyond anything other than theory with practical classes being held in the great hall along with the same peers, each and every time. You didn’t spend time with any of them outside of your studies, you didn’t see the need or want of building lasting relationships. It was unfortunate but nothing could be done and your first experience shaped you into someone closed off, distrustful and distant.

Even after passing your second and third test, the wall around you remained the same – inside and outside. You were stuck looking at fish and handed another stack of books.

It’s taken a whole hour upon finally graduating from your teacher’s side for you to gather your belongings packed in advance and flee the great hall. Leaving behind everything you’ve ever known with your head in the clouds of becoming a teacher yourself, one your students would love studying under.

Your father was truly ecstatic when you confided in him. A broad smile lingering on his lips, a proud one. He suggested you stay with his former student who achieved the very goal you set for yourself. You were intrigued, his name – Qifrey – echoed through the entirety of the great hall laced with rumors and ill-will. With a combination of skepticism and the refreshing enthusiasm of new beginning you agreed.

And now it’s already been a full year of being with Qifrey. And what a year it has been.

He never cared about your familiar relations and status; he let you discover parts of yourself without any hint of prejudice.

As you lie beneath the stars you feel a lightness traveling throughout your body, dread mingling with fascination. A combination of realizing the vastness of our universe and the sheer limitless opportunities to discover; the universe, the earth, the seas, the mountains, the land, the dunes – discover yourself. Since the very second you arrived and set a step outside in the wide outdoors of what would be Qifreys atelier you felt entirely grounded, a contentless you hadn’t experienced ever before spread inside you.

Qifrey encouraged you finding a magic that is entirely you, a magic only you could create. He never pressured you, ever so patient. You passed the fourth test, prepared for the second, shared the same birth year; you weren’t his apprentice but at times you still felt like you learnt more in a year than in all the years studying under your master.

Knowing a vast number of spells is important, flexibility is given. So many hours spent studying all kinds of spells, history and controlling the elements, you knew quite a lot of everything but perfecting one branch wasn’t in your cards until then. You simply weren’t allowed to truly find yourself. A jack of trades, master of none – better than master of one; it never applied to you. You felt stuck in a magic being taught and not felt.

In retrospect you never truly felt yourself, never got to discover what makes you whole. You had a title to your name and traumatic past; your personality was assumed without an exchange of words. A child prodigy laced with unvoiced loathing. Yet, Qifrey let yourself be discovered by himself.

Relying on him was a difficult task, you lost your basic sense of trust decades ago. Through his continuous acts of kindness, reassurance and unconditional acceptance you found progressively more faith in him. Each word and every action led you right to this point.

You spent countless hours lying under the ancient canopies sprawling out above you but for the first time you shared this moment with Qifrey. The blanket you brought outside with you barely fits the two of you, yet you strangely don’t mind. You always kept your safe distance, until now. Perhaps it’s the way he asked you for permission to lie on his blanket, in his garden; to be close to you. Always asking, never questioning.

Your shoulders almost touch while you keep glancing over, your inner debate of whether you want this to happen or not is ever so present. Sorting your emotions is a difficult task and your uneasiness is clearly visible in your confession. Qfrey noticed, too. He sits up, body turned to you as he looks you straight in the eyes. He left his glasses inside, it’s the first thing you notice, the second being how mesmerizing he looks with the soft moonlight hitting his waxen skin. The latter is followed by an alarming realization spreading in your abdomen. You stare at him in disbelief, as you’ve only ever read about this sensation in books and you truly didn’t believe it to be true.

“Is everything alright?” Concern clear in his voice. You nod. “Was I too close? Did I accidentally touch you? I can lea-“ Qifreys ramblings were cut short with you shaking your head timidly.

A minute passed gazing into each other’s eyes, neither wanting to break the silence or finding the right words. You can’t bear the stillness; it creates a dreading and suspenseful feeling.

As you consider pushing yourself from the ground in a sitting position, desperately wanting to flee the situation creating progressively more emotions you have experienced in the past two decades, a timid whisper echoes through the night. “May I hold your hand?”

The world stops for a moment before spinning out of control, the lightheadedness inside you spreading. Not knowing how to react, you focus solely on him. Qifrey has averted his gaze, seemingly ashamed and nervous altogether while you keep watching him motionless in time.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t... I shouldn’t have asked. I should’ve known bett-“ You interrupt him for the second time tonight, with a hand placed on his. You press your eyes shut, it’s been years since deliberately touching someone else, as you avoided all kinds of physical touch even shaking hands.

A burning sensation lingers on the skin of your fingers, still he feels cold. You feel flushed and agitated, the hint of confidence from a moment ago gone. Still, you gather what little courage is left and open your eyes, just to peek. What awaits you is an equally nervous Qifrey, skin glowing in an equal blush of pink, the faintest smile on his lips.

“Tell me if you want me to stop and be honest, please.” The emphasized lying on the plea strengthens your trust in him as you let him take your hand in his. Albeit all the hard work around the atelier and garden on top of spellwork and assisting Olly, his fingers feel incredibly soft, tips forever tainted by light hues of ink. The hands creating magic you feel deeply connected to, the kind of spells leaving you in awe because of their sincerity. The hands of the one and only witch making you fall in love with spellcrafting in whole new ways.

You certainly don’t want him to stop holding your hand. The newfound closeness creating a strange feeling of comfort you haven’t felt until this very moment.

Growing a little bolder you move just a few inches closer resulting in your shoulders touching. Your blush creeping to frame your cheeks and ears in an entirely new shade of red.

“Thank you for trusting me.” A whisper told an inch too close to your ear. It sends shivers down your spine in all the right ways, the uneasy feeling in your stomach changing into a far more pleasant than you expected. It feels nice but you aren’t sure you even earned this feeling. Praise has always been something that came along with the addition of still needing to be better, faster, stronger – study harder. Nothing you ever did was ever quite enough but with Qifrey it was entirely different. He often showered you with praise and handled you with grace.

He never broke a single boundary. Always asking, never questioning.

Time taught you to trust him. Which is precisely why you dare to take another step. You roll on your side facing Qifrey. The night sky stretches far and wide while you lie beneath the stars in the cold late summer air. He mimics your movement, never letting go of your hand. He moves them to rest just below the height of your necks. When he intertwines his fingers with you a new wave of emotions hit you creating a nervous smile on your lips.

Qifrey frees your fingers from his own and a quiet sound of disappointment follows but is quickly met by consolation in form of his lips placed on the back of your hand. Until now you didn’t realize just how little space is left between your bodies. His lips touching the skin of your hand feel incredibly soft. Your vision is focused on his mouth while he never averts his focus from you, always searching for a single hint of discomfort.  

A lingering smile as he takes a few moments for you to sort your thoughts. You don’t show any signs of panic or recoil because right now there is only space for pure, unfiltered joy – one you didn’t feel in forever. A realization hitting you – this is freedom.

Freedom is lying underneath the stars on a random Tuesday, holding hands with the witch you are unbelievably infatuated with.

A second realization hitting you. This is love. The one you read about in books you hid underneath your bed because fiction was deemed unworthy under your master. You used to daydream about a starring role in romance. You often thought about being capable of experiencing a positive emotion as heavy and yet, here you are.

You wonder if Qifrey feels the same, perhaps it’s entirely platonic. An answer followed promptly with kisses to each fingertip starting with the smallest. He takes his time, savoring every fleeting moment.

“These fingers are meant to create wonders, not doubt in yourself.” He presses a lingering kiss to the center of your palm. “These hands possess the power to change your fate.” His lips brush against the inside of your wrist, just moments long enough to feel the quickening of your pulse beneath his touch. A gentle smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Magic flows through these very veins.” The faintest whisper escaping him, his thumb tracing the delicate lines of your hand. “I long for the day you see yourself through my eyes.”

You stare in disbelief, processing the content of the spoken confessions until you feel an unfamiliar burning sensation in your eyes. Tears forming, tears you didn’t think you could emit. “May I?”

Always asking, never questioning.

Qifreys thumb glides across your cheeks to catch the ones escaping your eyes. He hushes you, whispers the softest words of encouragement, only intensifying the sensation. Decades of emotions stashed under a façade progressively crumbling and now they are bursting at the seams, each and every single suppressed feeling surfacing at once. It feels nothing short of overwhelming.

It’s a reflex, it has to be – another explanation isn’t realistic. You closed the distance between your bodies and buried your face in his chest. It feels neither right, nor wrong. Qifrey is certainly as surprised as you seem about your own actions, still his hands find their way on your back resting their motionless, contemplating permission.

You let yourself be held while your tears fell flawlessly wetting his shirt while apologizing profusely in between heart wrenching sobs. “Promise me you’ll stop apologizing for openly showing your feelings.” A stuttering exhale followed by seeking eye contact is what marks another new beginning. Qifreys words echo in your mind creating yet another glimmer of hope.

Being held is astonishing, a warm and comforting sensation creating a fuzzy feeling in your stomach. You don’t remember hugs feeling this safe and soothing. Qifreys arms around you are the calm after the tempest within yourself. He truly feels like the peace you always dreamt of. You never thought you’d find freedom in a person and still, he’s right here arms wrapped around you while silent tears keep falling.

For once in your life, you don’t feel like hiding yourself, you want to be seen by him. Stripped of each and every layer you built, peeled until there is only you left. Vulnerable. Your eyes never leave his while Qifrey face leaves a hint of hesitation in his expression which is only amplified by his sharp inhale.

Your lips meet for just a fleeting moment.

Qifrey looks seemingly distressed about his sudden action, clearly despising himself for acting impulsively. You can’t take the horrified expression on his face especially when his concerns are unfounded. After all, you both spent three hundred sixty-five days together, never missing a single one. You both learned about each other’s mannerisms, learned to interpret your body language and speech patterns. How you truly felt beneath simple words was obvious to you.

A scorching hot sensation tucked in your ribcage, expressing elation to the point of bursting.

Leaning back in to lock your lips with his. A lingering kiss fading the world around you. Jolts of lightning surging through your body, an enchanting feeling you’ve never felt as intensely as of right now.

Your key to freedom isn’t finding yourself, it’s losing yourself to him; rebuilding and reconstructing you in the process. Insecurity and paranoia will be a constant companion as you move forward. Until now every delight led to despair, every elation was met with humiliation.

Trying to avoid the feelings of negativity tainting your thoughts, the kiss turns more desperate only breaking apart to catch your breath. Qifreys lips feel contradicting, intoxicating and addicting but also comforting and hopeful. Vulnerable, a feeling you have explored countless times, yet you were only met with malice.

Your past experiences with human connections left you feeling inadequate, inferior and unworthy of even an ounce of affection. When you’ve only ever been shown shame and disgrace it slowly becomes your personality; and change is difficult. Still, you dare to hope.

“You only ever see imperfections.” A breathy whisper placed on your lips.

But only you knew. Everything else was the same as ever. The slow wind getting chiller as the night rised. Coco was moving around lighting candles as the shop was getting darker. You could see the curiosity in her eyes as she moved around, seemed distracted by her own mind. You know she was counting the seconds as much are you were, but her reasons are far less stressful. You were still being carried in the improvised "canguru pouch" mom made. You have memorized her heartbeat at this point, if one day you ever go blind and lose your sense of smell, you could find her with just her heart. Quite poetic, actually. Coco's mom organized the earned money from the costumers, today was one of those busy days. Coco folded and stored different fabrics, each in their respective place she had learned in her desire to help her mother run the shop. It made you sad how easy of a future Coco could have had if things weren't going the way they are. She would have inherited her mother's shop, her mind sharp and trained to keep it open until the day she passed it to her own kids, or decided to follow a different path in life. But it was still a distant future, one only you knew was not going to happen.

(⁠=⁠^. .^⁠=)S

The sun has long gone, the moon was as bright as ever. The grass was humid Underneath your paws as you waited outside.

You knew what was going to happen, so it would be foolish and dangerous to wait inside, there is no way you can guarantee your survival if you stay inside, even with Coco. With this, when Coco's mother decided to close the shop, you left and stayed outside, and now here you are, waiting right in front of it, there is some foots separating you from the front door, but you were ready to flee if needed.

The only problem, you don't have a plan. You couldn't make one.

How could you convince qifrey to take you with Coco? It couldn't be that hard actually, you just hope she loves you enough to not leave you behind.

'Am I.. really letting this happen? I feel so coward in doing this, I have all it matters to change the future, yet I am just waiting outside like a fool.' you blamed yourself.

'I could change this, i could give Coco a better future if I try. But what about the consequences? What could possibly happen? If only I was sure of the future, even if I know what's waiting.'

The truth is, you know the future. Long ago, you had readen the manga, but that was in a distant past. Your memories are foggy and incomplete, you don't even know how you got this feline body.

But there is one thing you are sure of, and it is of this very specific day. The day everything changes on the life of your beloved owner.

But you aren't sure of anything besides that, you would have to learn with her how things work in the life of the witches.

Tump! You heard the smack of boots against wood.

Qifrey was here. It was time.

Your heartbeat spiked, you saw the moment he fleed and a dense energy took the house, a bright glow coming from Coco's room and the sound of glass cracking was heard as the crystal begun to spread.

You saw it, Your mom leaving the front door scared, her breath uneven and her face scared.

Your ears started to ring, muffling all the sound around you. You shrinked and puffed your tail, your ears flat against your head and your eyes blown, dark pupils shrinking to adjust to the light and fear. You arched your back and backed away a feels steps as she stopped in front of you before the crystals got her feets.

It grew around her body, her eyes searched for you one last time, her face forever freezed in the last emotion she felt, fear.

For her life, for yours, for her daughter's.

In her mind, the last thing she saw was your scared little body, watching her with guilt.

And then, silence, or at least you think there was silence. You couldn't know, your ears ringing and your heartbeat the only thing you could hear.

And you stayed there for God knows how long, letting the situation sink deep in your mind, and the guilt rotting in your bones.

'It is your fault.' the thought hammered in your brain as you sat in front of her crystalized body. A numbness spreading in your body slowly, the world around being shut down to begin a panic attack.

Do cats have panic attacks? You hoped not.

But it was getting hard to breathe, your fur covered body was getting heavy and dense.

You lowered your head, the grass starting to switch colors and distorting into unknown shapes. Where you going insane after loosing your mother?

Before you could feel the sharp edges in your form, everything stopped suddenly. You turned your head fast to look behind you.

Qifrey landed in front of the crystal statue, but he was quick enough to see the unnatural way your eyes glowed the second you turned your head to look at him. The glow was gone as fast as you turned your head, but he saw it.

He choose to stay silent about it, watching you carefully before speaking:

"Let's go, it's not safe to stay here any longer." And he turned around to walk away, a sleeping Coco in his arms.

You didn't wait to follow after him.

You both walked for a while, the wind and leaves shaking where the only thing you could hear. Qifrey had his steps silenced in some way, not a single sound leaving his boots, but you didn't complain, not like you could anyway.

You arrived at a little camp, definitely his, there was blankets on the dirt and a little fireplace with a singular spark, shilly illuminating his stuff. He carefully left the sleeping Coco close to a tree and you sat beside her. Watching as he quietly put his things away, you couldn't help but to think back to the house you just left behind.

Now things are changing, and you are no longer sure of the future.

You would have to get used to headaches in order to recover some memory about the story.

Your thoughts were cut short as Qifrey took Coco again and didn't wait for you before walking east, you following right behind him in the dark.

'Can he even see? It's so dark around here.. even for me.' you didn't let your mind wonder further, choosing to walk beside him.

You both walked and walked and walked, maybe for some good 40 minutes before he stopped close to a cliff. More ahead was a chariot. One very similar to the one he fixed the same day.

He didn't hesitate, getting close to the chariot and talking with the owner before entering. He held the door for you, and you quickly followed after him, jumping on inside as the door closed and it started to move, leaving the ground.

You looked around on the small floor, close to Qifrey's feet's, but he scooped you in his lap after setting Coco on his side. His eyes soft and tired as he ran his fingers through your black fur.

"We are going to arrive in my Atelier by the morning, you should rest too." His soft voice coaxed you. Even with his kindness, your ears were still flat in your head. The guilt never left you.

But soon, the tiredness finally catched up with you, your eyes heavy and your slow purr was the only thing awake in you as you relaxed in his lap. Qifrey let a small sigh as his eyes turned sharp and his hand stopped in your head.

(⁠=⁠^. .^⁠=)S

You woke up with the feeling of small arms holding you safely in a careful embrace.

As you opened your eyes, you noticed you were outside, Coco was carrying you, a blanket covering her body, you could hear her sniffing, trying to hold back her tears, the weight of everything getting to her. You fully wished you could hug her, instead you purred and rested your head in hed chest. She hugged you tighter, as if trying to keep you forever.

"Coco?" Qifrey asked a little ahead, turning back on his heels and approaching her as he noticed her tears.

"What's the problem?" He asked carefully.

"Mama.. how could I leave her? I promised I wouldn't do that. I—"

"Coco.. you shouldn't blame yourself. You didn't know what could happen." Qifrey turned to the atelier, grabbing a kind of plate hanging from the wall. "Here, you should wash your face."

He opened the plates and water filled the space left, forming a ball for water.

That... Wasn't the first time you saw this magic, but it was very interesting to watch.

"This is were you are going to live from now on." Qifrey finished.

Coco lowered you on the ground, rushing to hold the "ball of water" with her hands. Analyzing it carefully. Her sadness giving place to curiosity. "Um.. this is..?"

"It's water!"

"Humm.. but it is floating on a ball.."

"Ah, almost forgot!" Qifrey deliberately ignored her statement, instead opening the door and rushing inside. "Let me get you some fresh new clothes." He vanished, leaving you and Coco by the door.

"Ha? Wait! How do I use this thing? Can I grab a bucket or something?" Coco panicked, still holding the magic water device.

You boldly entered, taking a feel steps ahead of Coco, giving the atelier a good look. To the side, you could see pink hair and curious eyes watching Coco.

".. Sr. Qifre—"

"Don't worry! This magic is easy to handle." The new girl eased, assuming a cute posture as Coco finally noticed her. The pink girl looked at you, her smile growing bigger.

"YOU HAVE A CAT? Wooow, he's so cute! Can I pet him?" She lost her posture, rushing to get closer to you as you watched her curiously.

"Ah... This is Miss paws.. she is actually a girl cat.." Coco corrected, getting shy from the approach.

"Hello there, Coco and miss paws! Here, let me help you with that, this is called a Water Droplet Floater." The girl took the device in her hands. "You open the lower plate and the water will flow!" As she explained, she poured some water for Coco, before lowering it towards you. You took the opportunity and tried yourself, sticking your tongue close to the blorb and the water started to flow, allowing you to drink from it.

"This is really cool, thank you!" Coco thanked her.

"Thank you for the thanks! By the way, I'm Tetia!"

"Ha? Oh, nice too meet you Tetia, I'm Coco."

As they talked, you finished drinking, now paying attention to the new blue haired girl that arrived, her light blue hair and expression sounded familiar to you, but you couldn't get the hold of who or why.

"If Tetia starts to get loud, just ignore her and she will shut up eventually." The new addition to the group adviced. In her hands laid a kind of plate holding something you couldn't see doing to your height. The girl looked at you with the same expression she had the whole interaction, but you could see the glow in her eyes as she looked at you. Maybe a discreet fan of cats, huh?

'I don't remember how many girl Qifrey had as apprentices, but I'm sure there are more than two at least.. where is the other ones?' you stopped to pay attention to the girls, instead, you decided to take advantage of your small body and little need of manners to start exploring the atelier, walking around the stone floor and leaving the front door.

Coco and the blue haired girl watched as you left around a corner, Coco was close to calling out for you, but Qifreys arrival distracted her from your explorer self.

As you walked carefully, you took note of the places you could nap or climb, if you were going to stay here for now, you should make yourself home at least. The atelier was a cute place, there was rugs and plants everywhere, stairs that would go up and down, it looked easy to get lost in here, but every corridor had different decorations and doors, making each one unique.

You saw bathrooms, a kitchen, closed doors you couldn't open for obvious reasons and a lot of interesting things to be curious about, things only witches know how it works.

'Could a cat be a witch?' you suddenly asked yourself. Maybe you could cast spells with the tip of your claws or tail.

'Maybe it won't be that bad.. Coco will get used to this place quickly, I'm sure of it.' you thought, and getting close to an open window, you climbed all the way to the windowsill. A cold breeze greeted you with the warm sun, outside there was a vast camp of grass and some trees, flowers popped here and there around the grass and very far ahead you could see a tiny dirt path leading somewhere.

'Yeah, i won't be bad..' you concluded, sitting and appreciating the view, you also took this opportunity to think about what is going to happen next. 'I should have stayed close to Coco, I actually have no idea of what is going to happen after today. And thinking about that, what am I going to do now? Could I help in some way? Should I just stay low and let things move for themselves? No... I don't want to laze around, I want to do something to help, but what?' you wondered, the question laying heavy on your mind. You want to help somehow, but in what exactly could a cat be useful? That got you to think.

'This.. this isn't actually my real body, I need to remember that.. Maybe Qifrey can help me get my human form again? I know turning into a cat has something to do with that brimhat witch.. probably..' the holes in your memories were sure going to be a hassle..

'Gosh, if only I could get my memories in place..' You lamented with a mournful meow. Your tail flicking from one side to another to show your stress.

You were unaware of your surroundings, too deep in your own little head to notice the white haired men approaching you.

"Here you are, Coco was worried for you, little one." he offered to you, making you jump from surprised and taking a little laugh from him.

You meowed in protest. 'Don't go scarring cats like that! What if you make me lose one of my lives?'

"I'm sorry, did I scare you?" He joked. "Let me make up for you getting you some food, what do you think?"

His offer got a meow of approval from you, your mood easily improving. 'Qifrey sure is a good person! You are climbing in my list of cool people very fast!'

He started walking, having you to accompany him in the way of the kitchen

You indead where hungry, you didn't bother to eat the other day, too busy having your last moments with mom. The thought made you sad for a minute, i would always do, you still blamed yourself for not doing anything to help, but you decided to not drown in it.

As you follows him, you failed to notice the 180 turn in his humor, his expression suddenly getting serious. You also failed to remember you actually knew where the kitchen was, and the place he was leading you was very far from it.

You both stopped in front of a door, was that the kitchen? Didn't look like it. The tension grew by the second as Qifrey turned to look at you, you stared back at him, a bad feeling starting to grow in your stomach.

He was not getting you food, that's for sure.

And it was clear he wasn't when he grabbed you by the nape before you could flee, a scared and desperate meow left you before you could understand what was happening.

He quickly opened the door and closed it after entering holding you, a soft click following after. The image of the door slowly faded, leaving only the wall behind it.

1995

The bathroom mirror was fogged at the corners, a faint ghost of the too-hot shower you'd taken to steady your nerves. Your hair sat twisted in a towel, damp strands slipping free to cling to the back of your neck. Mint still coated your tongue—sharp, clinical—fighting the sour knot lodged in your stomach.

You sat on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows on your knees, the little white stick balanced face-down on the counter like a cruel, silent clock.

Two minutes. Maybe three.

You didn't look. You couldn't. Not after so many disappointments. Instead, you focused on the tiles beneath your feet, following cracks and crooked grout lines as if they could anchor you.

Your husband was somewhere else, wherever he pretended to disappear when he didn't want to be around, through another round of tests. It almost felt like he'd run out of hope. You told him you could manage, and he hadn't argued. He never did anymore. It was easier for him to believe the London doctors were right that your body was the problem. That the blame lived solely with you.

Your thumb rubbed over your wedding band, restless, before your gaze drifted to the test again. One line. Not pregnant. Of fucking course.

You didn't even bother tossing it. Just shoved it into the bottom drawer with the others, a quiet little graveyard of plastic reminders.

A long breath slipped out of you as you reached for the blow dryer. If you stayed in this bathroom any longer, the silence would suffocate you. So you moved. You dried your hair the way your mother always preferred, tapped concealer beneath your eyes to chase the shadows, and applied cherry-sweet gloss that didn't quite mask the bitterness in your mouth.

The car hummed to life. Rain smeared across the windshield in thin, watery threads as the wipers dragged back and forth. You called your mother because you didn't know what else to do and because she always answered.

“Sweetheart?” Her voice crackled through the speakers, warm but cautious. “Are you on your way to the clinic like you promised?”

“Yeah.” Your grip tightened around the steering wheel. “Thought they'd closed patient applications, but when I called this morning, they said they could give me an appointment.”

“Well, they know whose daughter you are, sweetheart.” The closed circle was preferred there, and you were not part of it for a long time.

“Mom… who did you tell I'm back?” A pause. The kind that drops straight into your stomach.

“Only family,” she said too carefully. “You know how word travels—”

“Mom.” Sharper this time. “Who did you tell?”

Another pause. Heavier.

“Yoongi,” she finally admitted, as if the name itself might crack something fragile between you. “He's the family doctor now. The practice is his.”

Your grip slipped. The car drifted half an inch before you straightened it, heart pounding.

“You—what?”

“He took over after Doctor Kim passed. Someone had to.” Her voice softened, apologetic in a way that made everything worse. “He's grown into it. Everyone says he's doing well.”

You couldn't speak. Snow streaked down the windshield, blurring the world into a wash of white color.

“Sweetheart,” she tried again, gentle now. “I didn't want to worry you. He'll take good care of you. That's what matters.”

You pressed harder on the gas—not enough to be reckless, just enough to feel the car obey you. To feel like something was still under your control. But the truth stayed cold and steady:

Nothing about walking into that clinic felt controllable. Not with him waiting behind the door.

Not when everyone had once whispered you should've been his.

You could still hear those whispers now—the same ones Princess and Hoseok endured. Every family gathering, every quiet comment: Yoongi looks at her like she's already his. People never forget things like that.

You pictured him as he was the last time you saw him: twenty or so, all sharp edges and quiet certainty. And you—running off to London with a boy who never fit your family's world. You left without looking back.

Until you had no choice.

“Mom,” you said, voice thin, “I can't just—”

“You can.” Her tone steadied. “He's a doctor. And he's good. That's all you need to remember.”

But that wasn't all you remembered.

Suddenly every memory of your shared youth resurfaced. Him brushing a stray strand behind your ear while you read. Letting you put your cold feet, wrapped in fuzzy pink socks, in his lap. Stealing his grandfather's whiskey collection together. The way he'd stand behind you, fingers warm on your hips, when he asked you to join him for dinner at his grandparents' house.

And the way all of it fractured when you met Luke.

It had been so easy then—slipping your hand into the athlete's, letting him drag you to campus parties, bright lights and loud music and a life that felt fast enough to escape your hometown. You told yourself Yoongi would understand. Told yourself he never wanted things like that.

But the look on his face the day you told him you were thinking of running away—tight-lipped, unreadable, eyes shuttered—you carried it with you for a decade.

Now your wedding band digs into your skin, a reminder of every choice that led you here.

“Sweetheart,” your mother murmured, softer still. “This is what's best. For you. For the family. Just… go. Yoongi will understand.”

But your pulse refused to settle.

All you could see was the way Yoongi used to look at you—careful, quiet, as if one wrong breath might shatter you. There was a time he'd have done anything you asked. But the heartbreak you caused him when you ran away might have been too severe for him to even talk to you after all these years of no contact.

Now you were the one breaking.

And the cruelest part?

He was the one you had to ask for help.

The clinic smells the same. Antiseptic, faint sandalwood and vanilla—like the ghost of Doctor Kim and Min still lingers in the walls. The waiting room hasn't changed much either: several couches along one wall, a table stacked with outdated magazines, and old photographs of the original sanatorium back in Korea. 

Except now there's a new nameplate on the reception desk. 

Dr Min Yoongi, M.D. 

You tug at the sleeve of your jacket, trying to still the jitter in your fingers. The receptionist greets you kindly enough, asks you to fill out a form out of formality of course, and you force your hand to move across the paper, though every line blurs the longer you try to focus. Your throat feels raw, dry, like it doesn't belong to you anymore. 

You hand the clipboard back, barely recognizing your own signature, and sink into one of the couches. The leather is stiff and colder than you remember. Your palms press flat against your thighs as though anchoring you to the room, to this moment, to the inevitability of what comes next. 

A memory flickers—Doctor Kim once pointed to the wall of black-and-white portraits, telling you the oath is more than medicine. It's legacy.

A door clicks open somewhere down the hall. Slow, measured footsteps follow.

“Dr. Min will see you now,” the nurse says, a polite smile you can't return.

Your body locks. For a second—maybe two—you can't move at all. Then your legs carry you forward on instinct, stiff and unsteady, like you're walking straight into the past.

And then—

Yoongi.

Older now—lines carved deeper around his eyes. The white coat looks like a perfect fit, hugging his shoulders, with the stethoscope slung carelessly around his neck as if it belongs there. He stops when he sees you, just for a second, something flickering across his face and his heartbeat stops. You can tell because you are a perfect mirror for him right now. 

“Y/N.” His voice is low, steady, and nothing like the boy you remember. He is a man now. 

You look him over without meaning to, his long-ish hair is long gone; instead, they are trimmed short. You wonder whether he cut them after you left, or if it is a recent change. They defined his personality so much back in the day and made him look like the young version of his grandfather—minus the scar.  

The folder in his hand with your name on it. Your old life lay open beneath his fingers.

You finally take a slow step forward, the click of your heel against the tile louder than it should be. He doesn't move, doesn't speak again—just watches you with that same quiet intensity that always used to make you lose your train of thought. 

“Hey.” It escapes softer than you intend—half greeting, half plea. Please don't hate me. The corner of his mouth twitches. The ghost of something.

“Come in,” he murmurs. “We'll go over your records.”

He turns, and you follow, close enough to breathe the faint trace of his cologne—fresh grapefruit and saltwater. Something clean. Something painfully familiar.

The exam room door closes with a soft click. He moves an armchair aside for you, gestures toward the seat, then circles back to his desk with the old beige folder—the one his grandmother once filled with careful notes.

“So…” He flips through the first pages, yellowed with time. His grandmother's handwriting. Then Doctor Kim's. Then silence where the rest of your life should have been.

“…your records go back to '84,” he murmurs. “Chronic hypoglycemia. Recurrent fainting. You were supposed to keep glucose tabs on you.”

“I did,” you say. “Most of the time.”

He glances up, one brow arched. “Most of the time.” Dry. Familiar. Cutting in a way that pulls at something deep in your chest.

“I got better,” you insist weakly.

“That's not how hypoglycemia works.” He hums, skeptical. “Either you managed it, or you didn't.”

You force a small nod. “I managed.”

He hums again, unconvinced, flipping through the pages.

“The last record I have is from right before you left.” He doesn't say when you left me, but the air bruises anyway. “You missed your follow-up that summer.”

“Didn't think anyone kept track.” You let out a hollow laugh.

He lifts his eyes. And there—beneath the professionalism—something raw gleams through.

“I kept track.”

You break eye contact first. Your heart stutters, but you hide it behind a practiced smile. He leans back in his chair, tapping the pen against the folder.  

“So,” he continues, leaning back, pen tapping lightly against the folder, “tell me what's changed. Symptoms? Medication?”

The words knot in your throat. You open your mouth, close it again. The pressure behind your ribs builds until your breath stutters. 

You take a deep breath and try to steady yourself. You can do this. Just say it. But your voice catches, a whisper on the verge of breaking. You open your mouth, then close it. Then open it again. The words are stuck, trapped somewhere between your throat and your chest. 

“Y/N?” he prompts gently, raising his brows at you.  

“I… I didn't know how to—”

“How to what?” His voice goes soft. Patient. Dangerous. You look at him.

The room tilts with the weight of every memory you shouldn't be remembering. The boy who tucked your hair behind your ear. The boy who waited for you outside the library. The boy you ran from.

“It's complicated,” you whisper.

“I—” you start, but the folder feels heavier in your hands than it should, like it's full of every mistake you've ever made. “I just… I didn't know how to—” 

“How to what?” He tilts his head slightly, patient, unreadable. 

You glance at him, and your stomach twists. Because it's him. The same boy who once wanted to be more than friends, who almost… almost could have been everything, if only you hadn't left. If only you hadn't run. You can't tell him. You should not fucking tell him about it. Not now. Not here. Not with the weight of the years being apart pressing down between you.

“I… it's complicated,” you murmur, voice trembling. “Some things… they're better left to the doctor, I guess.” You close your eyes, replaying the stupidity you just said. His eyes narrow slightly—not in anger, but in that way that always made you feel seen too deeply.

“I am the doctor,” he says gently. “You know that, right?” 

You force a laugh, bitter, shaky. “I know.” But it's hollow, echoing in the room. You glance down at your hands, knuckles white. “It's…” You bite down your lip.  

“You trust me, don't you? Y/N?” He studies you, silent, and for a heartbeat, you swear he sees right through the façade. The doctor is there, yes—but so is the boy who used to wait for you at the library steps. Your throat burns. Of course I do. Always have. But trust isn't simple. Not with him. Not when the past threatens to bleed into the present. You are fucking married and should never think about him like this anymore, but you cannot help but stare at his barren fingers, no wedding ring in sight, or the way he scanned your hand and saw one with a flicker of disappointment on his face.  

Maybe he thought that you came back because you got a divorce. Maybe you just got enough of London. Or maybe he thought you came back to him. 

None matters. The wedding ring is still on your finger, while your bed is oddly cold in the mornings when your husband leaves you without saying goodbye and comes back when you've already fallen asleep.  

You cannot give your husband a baby, and you desperately want one. To find a purpose in life again. 

“I—maybe… maybe we shouldn't—” 

“Shouldn't what?” His voice drops, quiet now, almost intimate, carrying the weight of every memory between you. “We're not talking about us. We're talking about your health, Y/N.” 

“You never called me that.”  

He blinks, the faintest shadow of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“Called you what?” 

Your throat tightens. “Y/N.” The syllables feel foreign when you say them out loud—too formal, too detached. “You never called me by my name.” 

For a moment, the air between you is heavy with the weight of things unsaid. 

“Why is it not Lark anymore?”  

“Because,” he says quietly, “Lark flew away.” 

“You make it sound like she never came back.” He exhales through his nose, slow and steady, and you catch the faintest trace of that same grapefruit scent again.  

“Maybe she didn't,” he murmurs. “Maybe this version of her just looks the same.” 

You want to say something sharp, something that'll put distance between you—but the warmth in his voice disarms you. He's not accusing. He's remembering. And that makes it worse. That's what breaks you, and the tears start to fall before you realise that.  

You didn't think that your first encounter after such a long time would go down like this. You didn't think you missed him as much before he opened the door and looked at you, really looked at you. Not only with his eyes.  

He freezes at the first glint of tears, just for a fraction of a second, enough for you to notice the tension in his jaw. Then, carefully, almost hesitantly, he reaches for a tissue from the box on his desk. 

“Are you okay?” You shake your head, unable to speak. Your hands clutch the folder in your lap like it's a shield, though it does nothing to stop your shoulders from trembling. 

“I… I thought I could handle it,” you whisper finally, voice breaking. “Seeing you here… it's not what I thought it would be. I didn't know it would hurt this much.” 

He kneels slightly by your chair, careful not to crowd you, and hands you the tissue without a word. 

“Why didn't you call or write, Larkie?”  

The nickname hits like a pulse beneath your skin—soft, familiar, and unbearably intimate. You forgot how it sounded in his voice, how it carried a kind of quiet belonging that no one else ever managed to replicate. 

You swallow hard, staring down at the white tissue in your lap. “Because I was a coward,” you admit, barely above a whisper. “Because if I heard your voice again, I would've come back.” 

“You could've,” he says softly, like it's the simplest truth in the world. 

“No, I couldn't. Luke had the contract, and I needed to make a life for myself, outside of the family.” You shake your head.  

“But you're back now, aren't you?”  

“Yeah,” you breathe, your fingers tightening around the folder in your lap. “I'm back.” 

“But this is not why I'm here today…”  

“Then why are you here, Larkie?” Yoongi's voice drops, careful, almost hesitant, though his eyes never leave yours. 

“I… I,” you whisper finally, voice trembling. “I...we can't… I can't have a baby.” 

The words hang in the air, fragile, and your hands clench the tissue like it's the only thing keeping you grounded. 

For a heartbeat, he says nothing, just studies you, the way he always did when something mattered more than the surface. Then he exhales slowly, a quiet, steadying sound. 

“Who told you that?”  

You swallow again, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from spilling over. “The doctors in London… they said it's me. That my hypoglycemia is affecting my hormones…” Your voice catches, and you trail off, unable to finish. 

“Well, it sure can suppress ovulation, alter luteinizing hormone pulsatility, and compromise follicular development. But—this is not a deterministic outcome. We need a full endocrine panel: cortisol, thyroid, FSH, LH, estradiol…” Yoongi's hand twitches toward the folder, but he doesn't touch it. Instead, his gaze sharpens, steady and piercing, yet there's no judgment there—only focus, only concern. 

You bite your lip, forcing the words out. “I… I just wanted a child. I wanted—something that could be mine…” Your voice trembles, catching on the emotion you've kept buried. 

“Did Luke get tested?” He had to ask, and you had to answer. 

“They say everything is fine on his end.” Yoongi exhales slowly, hearing your words, leaning back just enough to let the tension settle between you, but his eyes never leave yours.  

“I'd like to see his results and re-test that hypothesis.”  

The precision in his words, the clinical layering over the personal, makes your chest ache. This is Yoongi—the boy who once waited for you in the library, the man who now speaks with authority and care, and yet somehow… still sees you. You inhale shakily, letting yourself cling to that thread of hope, fragile but real. 

“Luke… he's sort of… given up,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “He doesn't think we'll ever be able to have a child. He… he stopped hoping a while ago.” Yoongi's brow furrows slightly, the clinical part of him sharpening instinctively.  

“How long have you been trying?” His voice is calm, controlled, but there's an undercurrent of concern you can't miss. 

“About three years.” You glance down at your lap, swallowing hard. 

He leans back slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to read the weight behind your words. “Three years… and no interventions in that time, aside from whatever was recommended abroad?” 

“Just the tests. Medications, cycles, vitamins… but nothing really worked. And Luke… he just stopped trying. He thinks it's me, that it's always been me.” You shake your head. 

“We'll reassess everything, just get him down to the clinic.”  

“Okay.....uhm. I'll try my best.”  

“I need to go. I promised mum I'll come by.” You slide the folder to his desk and stand up. A lie. You just need to get out of here as soon as possible. If he's going to look at you that way any longer, you'll succumb.  

“Of course, I'll give you the next appointment as soon as I'm done going through your file.”  

You take a few steps toward the door, the weight of the conversation pressing against your chest, making each movement feel heavier than it should. Your throat tightens and your stomach twists as a sudden realisation hits. 

You spin back, breath uneven, and before you can stop yourself, you throw your arms around him. His hands freeze for a fraction of a second, then settle firmly on your back, steadying you. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling that faint scent of grapefruit and ocean that has somehow stayed the same all these years. 

Yoongi's lips brush the top of your hair, soft, deliberate. “Larkie…” he murmurs, voice low, almost reverent. 

“Thank you.” You say into the crook of his neck and stay for a moment longer. Tears still prickling in your eyes. But for the first time in years, the future doesn't feel quite so impossible. 

“I'll give you a baby. I promise.” 

You let yourself into the apartment, the key clicking too loudly in the lock. The faint scent of his aftershave hangs in the air—sterile, faintly chemical, not like Yoongi's almost natural scent. You curse yourself for comparing them right now. You didn't think of Yoongi this way for years, and it took one glance at him for your brain to shut off asap. 

The sound of the television droning in the living room greets you before he does. 

Luke is on the couch, shirtless, shoulders hunched forward, eyes fixed on the sports channel like it holds the meaning of life. The light from the screen paints his face in harsh flashes of blue and white. There's an empty glass on the coffee table, a half-melted ice cube swimming in what's left of his scotch. 

“Where have you been?” he mutters without looking up. 

“I had an appointment,” you reply, setting your purse down a little too carefully. Your heart is still thudding from earlier — from Yoongi's voice, his steady hands, the promise he didn't mean to make. 

“Another doctor?” Luke hums that low, dismissive sound he uses when he's already decided not to care.  

“Yeah. Just… a check-up.” You hesitate. Especially with telling him it was Yoongi you went to see. 

“Still trying to fix what can't be fixed, Y/N?” His laugh comes dry, sharp around the edges. You freeze. He doesn't see it—or maybe he does and doesn't care. He takes a sip of his drink, eyes never leaving the screen.  

“You should stop wasting money on this, Y/N. We've done everything. It's not happening.” Something inside you cracks at his tone. Not the words, but the emptiness behind them. The surrender. 

“We haven't done everything, not even nearly” you whisper. “You gave up.” 

That gets his attention. He turns his head slowly, eyes narrowing, his once-golden hair now dulled from stress and sleepless nights.  

“You think I gave up? You think I wanted this?” 

“I don't know what you want anymore, Luke.” 

He scoffs and gets up, moving past you toward the bar cart. His back is tense, the faint outlines of muscles twitching as he refills his glass.  

“What I want is a wife who doesn't keep dragging me through pity appointments. What I want is peace. You think it's easy for me, living off your father's money? You think I don't hate this?” 

“Then why did we come back?” You take a step forward, your voice small but steady. 

“Because we didn't have a choice.” He downs the drink in one go and turns, jaw tight. 

“I had a job, we could have lived a bit–” 

“You wanted a goddamn baby. You can't work and have a baby at the same time. Jesus. Your parents hate me already.” He smacks the glass down on the table and looks you in the eye. You've been together for a decade. It is impossible for you not to recognise this look of I'm right, you're wrong.  

“Don't do that,” you whisper. “Don't make it sound like I'm asking for something unreasonable.” He runs a hand through his hair, pacing, restless, as if he's trying to shake off your words  

“It's bad enough we are back in this fucking city, with your fucking family. You dragged me back, and now you're running to another fucking doctor!” You blink, the tears stinging now.  

“What are you even saying—I didn't drag you anywhere. You said yes. You said we could try again here.” 

“I said yes because there was money here,” he bites out, and suddenly it's too quiet. “Your trust fund. Stability.” He scoffs, turning away. “What else was I supposed to do? Sit in London and watch my career die?” 

“So that's what this is about?” The words land like a slap, hot and hollow. He exhales sharply.  

“It's always about reality, Y/N. You think the world runs on wishes? You think crying in another doctor's office is going to change a goddamn thing?” 

“Yoongi doesn't think it's hopeless.” You step closer, voice trembling but certain. You feel the glass fly past you, shattering against the wall behind you with a loud crash. You don't even flinch anymore. 

“The fuck?!” Luke's head snaps toward you right away, eyes narrowing. “Yoongi?” He says the name like poison. “That's what this is really about, isn't it?” 

“No, Luke—” You freeze, not really sure how you can save this colossal fuck up.  

“Don't lie to me.” His laugh is low, humourless. “Of course it's him. It's always him. Min fucking Yoongi. Christ, I should've known the minute you mentioned seeing a doctor here.” 

“He's just helping us,” you manage, but your voice comes out thin. 

“Helping us?” He takes a step closer, the air between you sharp with tension. “He's wanted to fuck you since you were of age. You think I didn't see it? You think I didn't notice the way you lit up whenever he walked into a room?” 

“Stop it. He was my closest friend and that's it.” 

“Why stop?” His tone grows colder and crueler. “Because you know I'm right? You never got over him. That's why you ran to him the second we got back. You could've gone anywhere, but no—you go to him.” 

“I didn't know he took over as the family's doctor.” Tears sting the back of your throat, but you force yourself to meet his stare. 

“You always do this—hide behind innocence when you know exactly what you're doing. You married me, but you never stopped wanting him.” He shakes his head, a bitter smile twisting his lips. 

“You're out of line.” Your hands ball into fists. “Luke, listen to me,” you say, voice shaking. “He's just a doctor. That's all. There's nothing between us. There never was.” 

“You expect me to believe that?” He lets out a sharp, disbelieving scoff, his shoulders stiffening. 

“Yes,” you whisper. “Because it's the truth.” No, it's not. 

“Then why does it sound like you're defending him more than you ever defend me?” He stares at you like he's trying to see through you, eyes rimmed red from the drink and the anger.  

“Because he's the only one still fighting for us right now. He wants to help, Luke. He thinks we still have a chance—” You close your eyes, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “You said you wanted a family as much as I did, but now you've just… stopped trying. Please, Luke. Just one last time. Go down to the clinic, get tested. If there's nothing left to fix, I'll stop too. I swear.” 

For a long moment, he says nothing. Just breathes, the sound heavy and tired. Then he nods once, curt, like it costs him.  

“Fine. I'll fucking go and jerk one off again.” He barks out, tired of arguing. 

“Okay,” you whisper. “Just one last time.” You nod, biting your lip hard to keep the sob down. 

You stand there in the half-lit kitchen, the smell of whiskey and glass dust in the air, and realize that even his promise feels like a bitter goodbye. You feel it deep in your bones. This is the beginning of the end.  

But you're not ready to accept that. You can't. You took a holy matrimonial vow to be his wife. Divorce in this family is not tolerated well or…at all. It is bad enough that you ran off and married the other man. 

The bar is exactly the way you imagined it. Very classy, but also up to date. Lots of emerald green decor, must be Hoseok's influence on Princess. Anubis is very quiet in the morning, as all its visitors come very late at night.  

You trace the edges of the countertop with your fingers, cool beneath your touch. 

Princess leans against the bar, sipping her cup of coffee, her gaze wandering out the tall windows. “It's weird seeing it like this,” she murmurs. “All empty, quiet… nothing like the chaos at night.” 

“I never pictured you as a bar owner, though.” You nod, setting your cup down with a soft clink. Princess chuckles softly, the sound warm and easy. 

“Neither did I, honestly. I'm so tired of it. But it's mine, and you know how it is in this family when it comes to ladies working.” She glances at you, eyes sharp but gentle.  

“How are you and your fella?” You smile faintly, tracing the rim of your coffee cup, changing the topic. 

“We're fine. Mark's been helping out with Anubis a lot lately.” Mark? You try to quickly mask the surprise on your face by drinking your coffee, but your irises widen. You have the question on your tongue, but opt not to force the family's expectations on her more than they already are.  

You and Princess are like little twins since birth. Your physical similarities run high, too; they used to mistake you two. She is the only one, apart from Yoongi, you trusted to keep a secret. So when you decided it's time to fly, she never told a soul. Nor that you kept in touch. Yoongi didn't tell anybody either. But…he had no one to tell, apart from his grandma at the time. He knows you'd never dare to run for the hills when his grandpa was among the living. The punishment would be too severe. 

“It's good to have someone you can rely on, innit?”  

“Sounds like you've got a lot on your mind, Y/N. More than just Luke, huh? Everything fine?” Princess studies you for a moment, her gaze softening. You used to wear your hair like hers, but the long, honey-glazed ponytail just feels like you more.  

“Yeah… more than I ever expected.” You glance down at your cup, swirling the coffee idly, thinking of Yoongi, the fertility tests you've done this past month, the tension in your marriage that seems to linger. Even your parents sense it now. Sunday tea after service is awkward and you don't remember it being that awkward, ever.  

“Well… at least you're here now. Back home. You've got people who care enough to notice.” You nod slowly, letting the silence settle, but there's so much understanding in her eyes. Luke doesn't look at you this way anymore. 

“But he doesn't, and it's killing me–” a loud crash from the back room echoes through the empty bar. A set of curse words follows, from a voice you don't really recognise.  

You ready yourself to stand up from the bar stool, but loud, quick and heavy footsteps going up the metal stairs stop you. Princess moves behind the bar to see what exactly is going on when Namjoon shows up at the stairs at the end of the bar, rushing to the landline behind the bar. Jacket unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, the usual calm in his expression you remember replaced by the clipped efficiency of a man used to handling messes. He is aged, but like fine wine. He's also jacked up, not the skinny boy you remember anymore.   

“What the hell happened?” Princess calls over to him as he rushes past her. Dialling a number.  

“Peaches cut herself,” Namjoon throws over his shoulder, voice low but tight. “Badly, by the looks of it. She dropped a wine bottle, and a shard cut her.” Princess curses softly under her breath. 

“She needs to go home and sleep, dammit. I told her to take last night off.” 

“She won't rest. You know how she gets—always trying to prove she's fine.” The phone clicks as Namjoon pauses, listening to the ring. He exhales sharply. You watch him, stunned for a moment. The room feels both familiar and strange, the faces older, the air heavier.  

“I need you to get down to Anubis, ASAP.” He barks into the phone and slams it down again, running back towards the stairs, only to stop himself right in front of the curved railing. 

“Y/N?!” His eyes catch yours, widening slightly in disbelief before softening into recognition.  

The sound of your name snaps through the room, echoing faintly against the marble and glass. For a heartbeat, you forget how to breathe. 

“Hey, Joon.” You manage a small nod and a shy smile. His mouth parts, but no sound comes out. Just a flicker of emotion that crosses his face too fast to name. Relief, maybe. Guilt. Surprise. All tangled together. 

“When did you get back?!” Namjoon's voice carries across the empty bar, low but charged. 

You blink, startled by how easily the question breaks through the noise in your chest. “A few weeks ago,-” you say softly, your fingers tightening around the edge of your coffee cup. 

“Namjoon-oppa?” A small voice carries itself from downstairs, unmistakably said Peaches. 

“I gotta go down. But don't you dare leave without saying goodbye again.” Ouch. You nod curtly and move your cup towards Princess, trying to suggest you'll need one more. The sound of Namjoon's expensive shoes fades beneath the low hum of the morning traffic outside, leaving you and Princess in the quiet aftermath. 

“Guess the gang's really getting back together, huh?” Princess exhales softly, folding her arms on the bar. 

“You hated it when people called us that.”  

“Hated it, yes. But somehow it feels right.” Princess smirks, shaking her head. “Having you back, I mean.” You let out a shaky laugh. A piece of you stayed here when you left. A piece that you've returned to now. A piece that is now walking through the front door in a plain flannel shirt and a medical bag in one hand.  

His gaze scans the sunlit room briefly before settling on you, and the air around you tightens. The late morning light spills through the tall windows, warm but sharp, highlighting the lines on his face that weren't there when you last saw him. 

“Morning,” he says, voice low, calm—like a tether to something steady, but a small smile plays on his lips upon seeing you sitting there.  

“Yoongs,” you murmur, almost instinctively. “Morning.”  

“Morning, Yoongs!” Princess lets out a soft whistle, amusement in her tone.  

He doesn't respond, just studies you for a moment longer than is comfortable, the quiet intensity in his eyes making your stomach twist. 

Then, softly, just for you, he says, “Second coffee, and no breakfast at all.”  

You stiffen, caught off guard. Somehow, even after all these years, he remembers all your bad habits. Heat creeps up your neck at the sudden callout.  

“I—uh…” you mutter, feeling like a small child being scolded.  

“It's fine. Just for today. At least I can take blood samples.” You blink, caught between embarrassment and relief.  

“Right… the blood samples,” you murmur, your voice almost a whisper. Yoongi moves past you with his usual measured grace.  

“I'll see to Peaches and come get you after I'm done, Larkie.”  

You watch him go down the stairs until you cannot see a single strand on his hair. You pause, looking back at the bar, glancing back at Princess, who's leaning casually against the counter with her arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her lips. 

“Don't look so worried,” she teases, tilting her head. “It's just Yoongi. Not like he's going to bite—well, not literally anyway.” 

“You've been here. I haven't.” You let out a nervous laugh, the sound catching a little on your nerves. 

“And? It's still the same Yoongi.”   

“I—he's… different now,” you murmur.  

“He's just older. Still broody. Still annoyingly precise.” She grins, nudging you lightly. “And you're the same too! Just like I remember you.”  

“Only entirely different.” You whisper more to yourself than to her.  

It's a lifeline before you walk into Yoongi's world again. Or if you two can reconcile your friendship in the first place is so far, questionable. 

“You still can't look at it?” Says Yoongi while screwing the cap onto what you guess is a vial of your blood. You glance away quickly again, opting to count the ceiling tiles instead.

“Nope.” No, you can't. That hasn't changed one bit. Looking at the needle while it pierces through your skin and blood was always something you could not withstand.

“You used to cover your face with your sleeve,” he says, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. “Said it helped.” 

“And you used to hold my hand.” His hand stills mid-motion, that small smile on his lips faltering just enough to make your chest ache. 

“I did,” he says finally, voice low, almost careful. You glance at him then, the morning light catching the edge of his profile—older now, sharper somehow, but still familiar in all the wrong ways. You look into his eyes a bit longer than you anticipated, getting lost in them. Oh just how wrong this is for you to feel. And for a moment—just one—the world feels like it's 1984 again. 

“Anyway–” you cough, clearing your throat, “Luke mentioned you might be able to retrieve the samples afterall, so he doesn't have to…you know?” Yoongi lets out a quiet scoff that turns into a soft laugh, shaking his head. He caps the second vial, labelling it neatly before glancing at you from the corner of his eye.      

“Ah, yes. Luke,” he says dryly, rolling the name like it's a bitter pill. “Man was thrilled to see me again and again, you know. Practically radiating joy.” 

“Crap, I knew I should have gone with him. Was he mean?” You ask with little soul within your body, because you just know Luke would never be nice to Yoongi. Ever.

“Mean?” he repeats, his tone light but edged with irony. “He stood five feet away, arms crossed, looking like he was about to throw a punch if I so much as breathed wrong.” 

“He's always been like that with you.” You can't help but laugh. The sound slips out before you can stop it.  

“Oh, I noticed,” Yoongi replies, dry amusement flickering across his face. “He gave me this look when I walked in—like he couldn't decide whether to shake my hand or sanitise it.” 

“And what did you do?” You snort, covering your mouth with your palm.  

“I smiled,” he says simply, as if that's an explanation enough. “Said, 'Good to see you too, champ.'” 

“You didn't.” You burst out laughing this time, shaking your head.  

“I did, kill 'em with kindness they say…” he insists, mock-offended. “He nearly combusted on the spot.” 

The laughter fades slowly, leaving behind a warmth that feels both familiar and dangerous. The corners of his mouth lift just slightly, that old, knowing look softening his features. 

“I already retrieved them. They're currently in the freezer labelled… Shelley's legacy, he insisted,” Yoongi leans against the metal cupboard and glances at the ovulation test you took earlier.  

“Larkie?” He calls, his voice softer now, almost intimate. “The results came from the lab this morning.” You straighten in your seat at the sudden shift in his tone—no longer teasing, no longer the easy warmth that had filled the room a heartbeat ago.  

“And?” you ask, even though your stomach already twists in anticipation. He exhales through his nose, slow and measured, before turning the paper toward you. His thumb rests at the edge of the page, tapping once before he speaks. 

“Everything looks… promising,” he says finally, voice low, deliberate. “Your hormone levels are fine enough. You may have hypoglycemia, but it is not severely affecting your ovulation cycle. Not in my expert evaluation.”  

“You don't have to make it sound so… scientific.” You blink, trying to process the words, the weight of promising pressing against your chest. Relief fights with disbelief, and your fingers curl tightly in your lap. Yoongi leans a fraction closer, his gaze darkening, almost magnetic.  

“In other words,” he murmurs, thumb lingering at the corner of the paper, “you can conceive. Your body just needs a little… attention.” 

The room feels smaller somehow, charged with something between reassurance and something else you can't name. That familiar, dangerous warmth settles along your spine. Even as your pulse hammers in your ears, you notice the slight curve of his mouth, the deliberate softness in his tone.

“I… but they kept saying” you start, voice catching, unsure if you're speaking to him or to the paper in your hands.

“Shh,” he interrupts softly, almost tenderly, stepping just close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him. “This is very good news. We're doing great.” Tears well up in your eyes upon hearing his soothing words. 

“I'll need to run a few quick checks. Just to be sure everything lines up, and we can try insemination today. If that's the method you guys wish to use.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, the magic begins.” 

Yoongi's theatrics start the moment he glances at you in a very ugly medical gown, sitting on the pink chair with spreads, looking like you still can't get over the fact that he will lay his eyes on your most intimate part. The fact that he's pretending this is some mix between surgery and magic show has your mind whirling.  

On the other hand, you have no idea what you expected him to do when he said there is no other ob-gyn in today. You cannot tell this to Luke. Ever. Luke would die if he knew. No….you would definitely die if he got to know. 

You lie back in the pink chair, your ridiculous medical gown barely covering you, feeling like a star in a low-budget rom-com.  

“I cannot believe this,” you mutter.  

“Believe it,” he says, snapping gloves on with a flourish that makes a sharp pop. “Now, deep breaths. The speculum appears in the corner of your eye, and you lose it.  

“Nope. Yoongi–I can't–you–ugh” you sputter, squirming as the shiny metal instrument gleams like it's mocking you from the tray. If you can't muster the fact that he will have a full view of your vagina, not only from outside but inside too. Suddenly, the thought of Yoongi putting the little swimmers right into your uterus sounds crazy.  

Yoongi arches an eyebrow, completely unfazed, and grins. He sits down at the roller chair and moves closer to your now clasped shut legs.  

“Ah-ah-ah,” he says, wagging a gloved finger. “We cannot proceed with the doors closed, my dear. Full cooperation—or at least… partial.” 

“I said I can't,” you protest, trying to tuck your knees closer, like somehow that will protect your dignity. “Yoongi–”  

“Why?” He asks, putting the speculum back on its tray. You swallow hard, trying to find words that won't betray how flustered you are.  

“Because… it's you.” 

He blinks, caught off guard for the briefest second. “Me?” 

“Yes… You,” you continue, voice trembling despite yourself. “We grew up together. I've known you since forever… and now… you're here, looking… at me like this.” You gesture vaguely to the chair, the gown, the speculum. “I… I just can't… not with you looking like that.” 

“Like what?” He tilts his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips. 

“Like you care a little too much.”  

Yoongi's smirk softens slightly, just enough that it stops feeling teasing and starts feeling… deliberate. “Care too much,” he repeats, almost like he's tasting the words. Then his gaze drops to your hands fidgeting with the hem of the gown. “Well, yes I do, you're my person, remember?” 

“It's not… I mean… I shouldn't feel this way. It's just all the paranoid crap Luke splurts about. It's ridiculous.” You flush, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole. He leans just a little closer, the chair creaking under him.  

“Not ridiculous,” he murmurs. “I never stopped being your person, Larkie. Let me give you the baby you want.” He nods, a faint smile curving his lips. He is doing this for you. You are desperately trying to cling to the thought of this having the outcome you desire. So if this is what it takes….fuck it.

“Okay….Deal.” You swallow hard, feeling your heart still racing, and nod. Yoongi slides slightly closer, lifting the speculum again, but this time with deliberate care, holding it gently like it's a fragile tool rather than a weapon. 

You exhale, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly, and realise: somehow, even in this ridiculous, awkward scenario, you trust him enough to let him continue.

Another month passes by. Days go by way too fast. 

The faint gleam of his rings catches the light as he drums his fingers against the polished surface. When your mum lured you in for afternoon tea, you did not expect the Kkangpae to be sitting in your father's chair, having “chat” with you.  

You've been in this room a hundred times before, but never like this. Never when the silence itself feels like an accusation. 

“I know what you did,” he says, quieter now, almost thoughtful, “how you used our grief to make space for yourself.” 

“I didn't–” you start.  

“You did, because if it weren't for his passing, you'd be married off to who you were supposed to.” He snaps before you manage to speak. 

“You saw an opening, and you took it.” His tone turns colder, the words landing with the precision of a blade. "Clever girl." 

“You make it sound like—” Your pulse stumbles. 

“But it seems to me you've come to change your mind. You've been spending a lot of your time with Yoongi instead of your husband, dearest.” He leans forward, the faint curl of a smirk tugging at his mouth. The words hit harder than you expect — not because they're untrue, but because of how casually he says them. 

Like gossip. Like fact. 

“Yoongi's helping Luke and me out.” Something in your throat tightens. The sentence feels rehearsed, thinner than you meant it to be. 

Kkangpae's smirk doesn't fade. If anything, it deepens. “Helping you,” he repeats softly, as if trying the word on for size. “That's a very generous way to describe it.” 

“It's medical. Clinical. That's all.” You meet his gaze, trying to hold your ground. "We have reconciled our friendship but that is it."  

“Sure it is, dear. Sure it is.” He laughs, and you are left puzzled. Not because you don't know why he is telling you this, but because you are not sure of Yoongi's intentions yourself, or yours, as a matter of fact. 

Joggers pass by in blurred streaks, dogs pull their owners along winding paths, but the bench you and Yoongi occupy feels like its own small planet.  

He sits with his arms draped over the backrest, legs long in front of him, head tilted back as he watches a cluster of birds dive across the pale sky. For once, he looks… young. Unburdened. Almost peaceful. 

Almost. 

“Who's living in the main house?” you ask, biting down on the overly sugared cinnamon bun. The frosting sticks to your lip, and you swipe it away with your thumb before it can drip. 

Yoongi watches the motion without really watching it—eyes following, mind somewhere else entirely.  

“It's not the main house anymore,” he says after a moment, voice low, steady. “Hoseok's place is. Since his dad took over as kkangpae.” 

“Oh.” You swallow, suddenly aware that the sweetness on your tongue does nothing to soften the heaviness settling in your chest. “So… who's in it now?” 

“Just my mom.” He says it simply, but the space after the words feels too big. “She won't leave. Says the walls keep her company.” 

“That sounds lonely.” 

Yoongi huffs a laugh—dry, humorless. “She's always been lonely.” 

You let the bun rest in its wrapper, appetite fading. “Have you… talked to your dad since the funeral?” His expression shutters. A breath. A blink. A tightening of his mouth that says don't push this. 

“Not really.” Dismissive. Practiced. A clean cut where a wound should be. You look down at your hands, brushing the cinnamon dust off your fingertips.  

“Yoongi…” He turns to you so quickly you feel the shift of the bench beneath you. Not angry. Just—present. Intensely present. 

“What?” he asks, softer this time. 

You open your mouth with something gentle, something meant to comfort him, but the words melt when you see his face. His hair falls across his brow in the wind, a few loose strands trembling against his cheek. He doesn't bother fixing them. He just watches you watching him, and something inside you tilts. 

A gust pushes your scarf against his jacket, and the two fabrics catch like they're trying to knot themselves together. You reach to tug it back, but Yoongi's hand moves at the same time. 

“Larkie…” he says, your name rupturing from his chest rather than his throat. A warning. A plea. A confession. 

You shouldn't look at his mouth. But you look just there, as if it is some instinct.  

He notices. Oh, he notices. His gaze dips—slow, agonizing—down to your lips, then up again, dragging heat across your skin like a finger made of fire. 

“Why does it feel like this?” you blurt out, nervous.  

“Like what?” He whispers, and his voice slips into the space between your ribs.  

“Like I haven't been gone at all,” you whisper, and the words break on the way out. Yoongi inhales sharply—barely a sound, but enough to shift the gravity between you. A cyclist passes by, wheels crackling over gravel. A dog barks. Someone laughs. Life moves. But you two stay still.  

“Because your heart never left.” You breathe in—and the cold slices straight through you. It feels like stepping into the truth barefoot because you didn't lose your feelings for him. 

You see him swallow once, throat working, jaw tight with restraint. “You've been gone from places,” he murmurs, “but not from me.” You blink because if you don't, you might fall into him entirely. 

“What are you doing to me?” you whisper, and the words break on the way out. 

“I'm not doing anything,” he says quietly. “I'm trying not to.” 

You buried them. All your feelings for this male. And he dares to lean in now, a decade later—just a breath— not enough to close the distance, but enough to tell you that he could. 

Enough to tell you that he wants to. Enough to prove—without touching you— that you were never gone. Not from him. Not for a second. 

Your phone picks the worst possible second to explode with noise. Reality storms back in. 

You yank it out, annoyed, breath shaking. The caller ID flashes. Fuck. Luke. 

It's mere seconds each time you hang out with Yoongi that you tend to forget you have a husband with whom you're trying to have a baby. What you didn't realize until now is that your time together is not spent in the clinic where he should be examining the progress you are making with conceiving a baby, but anywhere but there.  

You go to IUI regularly since you first stepped into Yoongi's life at the beginning of the year and a half of it is almost gone. Luke thinks you and Yoongi are laser-focused on calculations, injections, and hopeful odds. 

The phone keeps ringing. Loud. Jarring. Like an alarm you can't silence. 

Yoongi watches you, expression unreadable—but you see the moment understanding hits him. A flash of guilt. Of want. Of something dangerous blooming behind his eyes. 

“Are you going to answer?” he asks softly. 

And suddenly, you can't fucking breathe. What are you doing? Thinking about him this way when you're a married woman for fucks sake. Your fingers twitch around the phone. You should pick up. You should. But your body doesn't move. 

Fucking letting yourself want Yoongi, looking at his mouth like you're eighteen again, when you're somebody's wife. A married woman. A woman trying to have a baby with someone else. You keep repeating those words to yourself like they actually are more than words at this point. 

The flip-phone keeps ringing in your hand, heart rioting, and realize with nauseating clarity—you don't want to pick up.

He sits in the corner booth, baseball cap pulled low, sleeves rolled down to cover his tattoos. Even like this, unassuming, dressed down, he's still magnetic. People know. They always know and feel the aura around him. You slid into the seat across from him, your smile soft but knowing.  

“You look tired,” you said, setting down your black leather prada bag. A courtesy of your husband, back in the day, where everything was at least a little bit normal.

“I am,” he admits, voice low. “Interviews, photos, then more interviews, and then launder it all undercover. You know how it is.”  You raised your eyebrows. 

“But you love it, don't ya?” Jungkook smirks faintly.  

“Sometimes. Sometimes it feels like I'm performing when the cameras aren't on.”  

The food arrived - omelette for you, pancakes for him. Of course he remembers your go-to breakfast. For a few moments you eat in silence, just enjoying each other's company. Outside the city moved in reflections across the glass wall of the café. If you'd turn around, you could see the Twin Towers looming over the city.  

And then Jungkook's fork paused halfway to his mouth. You followed his gaze slowly.  

There, by the door.  A girl in a grey blazer, black pencil skirt and designer high heels, the sunlight catching the side of her face. Hair put in an updo, lipstick bright red. She was not anyone you'd ever seen before, but you haven't set foot in this area for a decade and by the looks of Mister Jeon Jungkook, he does see her here often. You can practically hear his hormones booting up. 

“And that is?” You smiled knowingly that this woman right there has the undivided attention of this year's notorious heartthrob.  

“I don't know yet.” He blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh.  

“You look like you'd like to find out.” You leaned back, teasing him. He didn't answer right away, but the little sparkles in his eyes were telling you exactly what you needed to hear. His eyes stayed focused on the young woman, smoothing down her hair while talking to the barista. He ignores you. Man is practically imprinting like a duckling. 

To distract him before he embarrasses himself, you ask, “So what's the latest drama?” 

He doesn't miss a beat. If anything, Jeon Jungkook loves gossip.  

“So you know Princess and Hoseok have been that prodigy power match like since the dawn of civilization?” Jungkook asks, cutting into his pancakes with the resigned air of a man delivering terrible news. 

“Mm. The golden duo. Heaven's chosen children. The family's favorite future merger.” You hum in response, knowing these kinds of things from your own experience. 

“Exactly,” he nods, leaning back like he's about to get comfortable with the chaos. “Everyone's spent years planning their hypothetical wedding like it's a UN summit.” 

“And now…?” you prompt. 

“And now Hoseok,” Jungkook says, lowering his voice like a confession, “is planning to propose.” 

Your fork stills. “Propose propose?” 

“Yeah.” He gestures with his knife for emphasis. “Like—get on one knee, speech memorized, ring that costs more than your apartment, the whole cinematic montage.” 

“But she's dating that Mark.” You blink once. Twice. But Jungkook doesn't. It wouldn't be the first time men of this family disobeyed any rules of morality. Except…Yoongi. He didn't do it to you while someone else definitely would.

 “There it is. The problem of the century.” Jungkook laughs, sharp and ironic. 

“And the family?” you ask even though you already sense the answer.

He tips his head toward you, eyes full of amused disbelief. “They despise him. Every single one. Even the cousins who barely know how to spell their own names can manage an opinion about how Mark is 'not a fit.'” 

“Let me guess—wrong pedigree, wrong temperament, wrong everything.” You smirk, flashbacking your mind to a decade ago when everyone was saying those exact words about Luke. 

“Wrong universe,” Jungkook corrects. “He thinks Sunday tea after service is actual tea not strategy meetings disguised as goddamn hot liquid.” 

“And Princess loves that,” you say. 

“Oh, she loves it to an unhinged degree,” Jungkook replies. “She thinks dating Mark is punk rock.” 

“I don't know, she looked quite in love when I saw them last time.” You laugh into your coffee.  

“You yourself goddamn know there is a difference between loving someone and being in love with them.” He gives you a look—dry, cutting, knowing. The words settle between you, warm and heavy, stirring old truths you didn't ask him to touch. 

“Princess doesn't have that with Mark. She likes the idea of him. She likes how easy he is. She loves that he isn't an obligation. That she chose him. But in love?” His head tilts. “She's never looked at him the way she's looked at Hoseok.”  

And years later...this all sounds a little bit too familiar. 

The truth hangs there—simple, brutal, undeniable. Jungkook has always spoken about other people's relationships like he's diagnosing a disease. Because he simply never had such a thing and now you wonder what he is going to be like – in love with someone. 

“But he cannot propose to her when she's dating someone else, can he?” 

Your question lands softly, but Jungkook reacts like you placed a match against something flammable. His jaw flexes; he looks away for a second, out toward the café windows where New York moves like a fever dream. 

“He can,” Jungkook says finally. “And he will.” 

You blink. “You're kidding.” 

“Nope,” he murmurs, leaning back in the booth. “Hoseok loves her in a way that makes him blind,” Jungkook continues. 

“So what's the family's stance?” you ask instead. 

“Oh, they're ready to bulldoze Mark out of the picture,” Jungkook deadpans. “They've already decided Hoseok is the right answer. They're just waiting for Princess to catch up.” 

“And if she doesn't?” 

“Then they'll make her.” His tone softens into something wry. “You know how it works. You've almost been there.” You swallow once, quietly. He notices, thus he abruptly chooses another member to shit on. 

“Alright,” he says, brushing a crumb from his thumb, “if we're gonna talk mess, let's talk Namjoon.” 

“Namjoon? The functional one?” You lift your brows. 

“Functional,” Jungkook repeats, deadpan. “Sure.” 

“Alright then. Hit me.” You chuckle into your coffee. 

Jungkook leans forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping into that conspiratorial half-whisper he only uses when he's about to expose someone's emotional crisis. 

“Namjoon,” he begins, “is down catastrophic for Peaches.” 

“Peaches? As in—” Your mouth falls open. 

“Yes,” Jungkook cuts in. “Peaches. Sunshine amongst jackals. Eyes like warm honey. Barely five feet tall and yet somehow capable of bringing six-foot men to their knees.” 

“Oh my god.” 

“Exactly.” Jungkook leans back with the satisfaction of a man reliving a comedy show. “He's been trying to play it cool, you know? 'I'm just checking on her.' 'She's going through a lot.' 'I like to make sure she eats.'” On that note he digs back to his breakfast.

“What about Mister I'll be bachelor forever?” you ask, tilting your head meaningfully. 

Jungkook doesn't even pretend not to know who you mean. He groans. Loudly. Dramatically. Like you've just summoned a demon. 

“Oh God. Him.” He drops his fork, leans back, rubs his face. “Kim Taehyung: patron saint of 'relationships are a social experiment' and 'marriage is a scam designed by the Vatican.'” 

“Still violently single then?” You choke on a laugh. 

“Single?” Jungkook scoffs. “He's in what he calls 'a committed relationship with denial'. And possibly a reluctant Pixie.” 

“Pixie? Who is Pixie?” Your eyebrows jump.  

“Owns that jewelry store on Fifth. Runs it like she's secretly a mafia accountant. Smart, sharp, doesn't take shit from anyone—except, apparently, from Taehyung.” 

“But don't tell on me. Nobody is supposed to know. I promised not to tell anybody until she has a ring on her finger. You know how it goes after a ring.” 

“He's doomed, or maybe she is?” You laugh, shaking your head.

“Completely,” Jungkook agrees, smirking like he's savoring the disaster, but his eyes linger on the young mysterious woman. 

He doesn't try to hide it this time. 

“You're staring,” you say, flat but amused, leaning back in the booth. 

“I am not.” He snaps his eyes toward you, mock indignation on his face. 

“Uh-huh.” You lift a brow. “The guy who just dropped all the family gossip for fun is suddenly… distracted. By her?” 

He freezes, caught mid-denial, and then lets a small smirk slip. 

“Right. The girl in grey who's apparently making the heartthrob of New York forget what he ordered for breakfast… nothing to see here. Got it.” 

Jungkook huffs, brushing at his hair with one hand, trying to regain composure—but the flicker of interest in his eyes betrays him.  

“I'm not—she's… interesting, okay? That's all.” 

“Then go and talk to her!” You push his arm across the table, but he's quick to recover.  

“You go talk to Yoongi first, Larkie.”  

“What?” Your mimic drops into confusion. “I… what are you talking about?” 

“You're falling for him again,” Jungkook suddenly states flatly, voice teasing but certain, “and you're trying to convince yourself it's not happening.”  

“I—That's ridiculous. I'm not—” Your coffee trembles in your hand. 

“I've known you long enough to know exactly when your heart's betrayed your brain.” You blink, searching for a way out, but the café noise feels distant now, as if the world has shrunk to the booth, to him, to this statement hanging heavy in the air. You open your mouth to reply, and he cuts in before you can spin anything. 

The words settle between you, teasing, accusing, intimate—and suddenly the café feels smaller, warmer, and impossibly charged. 

“I'm married, Jungkook.” you say, trying to inject finality into your words, though your voice wavers just enough to betray you. 

Jungkook doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. He leans back in the booth, steeples his fingers, and studies you like he's reading a particularly interesting puzzle. 

“You know what, Larkie?” he says, voice calm, almost clinical, but the smirk tugging at his lips tells you he's thoroughly enjoying the fact that he's getting under your skin. “I was fucking bluffing, but the way your hand started to tremble, makes me think I'm right.”  

You sip your coffee to stall, but it's pointless. His gaze pins you. Sharp. Knowing. Accurate. 

“You're falling for him again,” he says again quietly, almost casually, but every word lands like a challenge. “And you can try to lie to yourself all you want—but I see it. I've seen it before. And I'm seeing it now.” 

“Choose right this time, Larkie.” Your breath catches. “You can fix your mistake. You are not the first woman here to make the wrong choice.”  

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, coffee turning sour on your tongue. “Jungkook…” It's half a warning, half a plea. 

“Think about it at least.” But what Jungkook doesn't know is that Yoongi has been helping you and Luke to get pregnant. And you don't have the energy to explain to another person that you're a broken doll that needs to be fixed, just like everything in your life right now. 

“I'll see you at church on Sunday?”

“Do you remember,” he starts, voice low, almost tentative, “that place in Brooklyn with the terrible pancakes?”  

“The ones that tasted like wet cardboard?” Your head lifts before you can stop it. 

“Yeah. Those.” His mouth curves. 

“I can't believe we kept going back.” You laugh before you can swallow it down, a real one—unfiltered, sudden. And he looks at you like he's hearing a favorite song he forgot existed. Something warm slips down your spine. Jungkook was right. Fuck him. 

Yoongi's watching you, elbow on the table, chin in his hand—soft, fond, almost startled by the sound of you.  

“Feels like forever since I heard that,” he murmurs, like it wasn't meant to leave his tongue. Maybe it's the morning light catching in his hair. Maybe it's the softness in his eyes that didn't exist when your eyes met for the first time after so long. Maybe it's the stupid way you remembered—so vividly—how steady his voice sounded when he said let me help you. 

You fold your napkin, suddenly too aware of the warmth spreading in your chest. You don't feel like you're drowning when it is him sitting across from you. You don't feel scared. Or small. 

Or broken. 

Luke only gives you an awkward smile when you tell him you're going for another IUI. Not happy. Not even supportive. Just… polite. 

The kind of smile that belongs to a stranger who's pretending to recognize you. 

“If that's what you want,” he'd said, voice flat, eyes already somewhere else. 

And maybe that's what hurts most—the way he doesn't argue anymore. Or it is just a quiet before the storm. 

With Yoongi you feel… held. Held together with something you were waiting for years. Even when he's not touching you. 

“Yoongi…” you start, not even sure what you're trying to tell him. Luke rarely takes you out or at least cares whether you eat or not. Yesterday you sat down to talk to him, but somehow along the way from the bedroom to the living room full of cigarette smoke and whiskey odour, his messy hair and black circles under his eyes, you realized he is in no state able to become a father. That's when it hit you. You didn't even expect to actually get pregnant. 

Months of active IUI, months of negative tests that you suddenly started to look at differently. Almost relieved.  

Yoongi's orbiting around you almost every second day. He's...present. 

“Luke doesn't…” The name tastes stale the moment it leaves your mouth and you swear you can feel the wedding band burning your ring finger. 

You look down at your hands. “He doesn't—he's just—we don't…” another deep breath, you need to get this out. “Half the time he doesn't even notice if I've eaten.” 

Yoongi's jaw ticks, just once, before he schools his expression. He's careful not to react, but silence can be louder than shouting. 

“And here you are,” you continue, voice thinning. “Orbiting around me every other day. Checking if I'm okay. Making sure I eat. Talking to me like I'm… I don't know. Like I matter.” 

He doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just listens. 

“You're even helping me have a baby with someone you utterly hate.”  

“But I don't hate you.” He replies, turning his head towards you. 

“And that's so confusing,” you admit, the confession slipping out like a secret you didn't realize you were holding. “I chose him over you. You should hate the shit out of me.” 

Yoongi leans forward—not dramatically, not possessively. Just enough that you feel the air shift between you. 

“Larkie,...” he says softly, “doesn't matter if you wouldn't choose me in this or any other life time–”  your breath catches.  “I'd choose you.”

“Always.” For a moment, you forget how to hold your coffee cup, how to sit, how to exist. 

“Yoongi…” You barely get his name out. It slips from your lips like a plea you didn't mean to make. 

He doesn't backtrack. Doesn't soften the blow. But there's no heat behind it, no demand—just raw honesty sitting between you, warm and terrifying. 

“I'm not asking for anything,” Yoongi continues quietly. “Not a decision. Not an answer. Not some grand confession you're not ready to make.” 

“But I'll be waiting for you.” You meet his eyes, the truth crashing into you all at once, molten and quiet, “I'm not going anywhere, never again,” he finishes.  

Your morning starts with shouting before the front door even opens. Luke's voice cuts through the echo of the hallway, sharp and trembling with rage. You drop your bag onto the table, chest heaving.  

“Luke… please what—” 

“Please? Please what? Explain yourself! You said I'm paranoid and now I get this in the mail?” He slams down photographs of you and Yoongi in various restaurants or the central park, or in his expensive Rolls Royce. You freeze upon glancing at the photos that look way too intimate, romantic even, stomach dropping.  

“Those… that's not what it looks like—” but it is.  

“Not what it looks like?! He is all over you!” he roars, his voice breaking, his hands shaking as he picks up one of the photos and points at it like a weapon. “You think I'm stupid? That I wouldn't see it? You lying to me, sneaking around with him—after everything I've done for you, after everything we've built?” 

“No one else in the world could help you, except the man you were betrothed to? That's your excuse? He fucking wants you!” His eyes blaze, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the air heavier, but you breathe through it. Angry.  

“I gave you everything, Luke!” you finally scream, the words raw and shattering. “Everything I had! My time, my body, my career, my money—and I can't even pretend to cum anymore, because I just don't!” 

He recoils as if struck, but the anger doesn't die—it sharpens. 

“Have you fucking slept with him, you selfish whore?” 

“I didn't— our issues, it's not about him—it's about—” You feel heat prick at your eyes. 

“It's always about him!” Luke snaps, cutting you off. Silence crashes down after his words. You want to speak, to defend yourself, but the weight of the truth, the very real photographs, all the things you can't undo, pins you in place. 

His composure cracks, the façade of control slipping. “You don't understand anything!” he blurts, voice dropping low, almost bitter. “You know what, it's fucking fine, you can suck his dick as much as you like, you fucking whore. I've had other women either way.”  

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. Your chest tightens, and you stumble back, gripping the edge of the table to keep yourself upright. You were holding yourself on loose string to be faithful to him, and meanwhile, he was fucking god knows who.  

“What?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “You—what?” 

For the first time, the cracks in your marriage aren't just tension—they're gaping chasms. And you realise, with a shiver, that whatever you thought could be fixed between the two of you was gone a long time ago and died today.

You don't remember the drive to the church. Only the way the city bled into streaks of gray through the windshield, how your reflection in the glass looked like someone you didn't recognize—eyes too tired, lips pressed too tightly to speak. Raining season in full stream did not add any value to the painful ache in your chest. 

Everything was going perfectly in the little bubble you've created, you went for IUI, was supposed to get pregnant and your marriage to that narcissistic asshole would fix itself. But it didn't and somehow you still feel guilty because you longed to have a family. And even when you realised Luke isn't quite the father material, nor your relationship is healthy enough to even raise a baby, you still fucking want it. Just not with him anymore. 

Sitting here, in the soft dim of the church, the echo of your heels still fading across the tiled floor, it doesn't feel like hope. It feels like waiting for a doom, not a miracle.  

You lower yourself onto a pew, your hands folding instinctively against your abdomen, as if the gesture could protect what might—might—be growing there. You press your palms together and close your eyes, not to pray, but to steady yourself. 

You think about Yoongi again. About the quiet way he speaks when he's explaining something, like every word has already been measured, softened. How he never looks away when you do. And then about Luke—how his voice cracked with anger last night when he told you he cheated. While you were going for IUI's, spending quality friend time with Yoongi and rest of the gang, he was fucking everything that had a hole apparently, paying with your trust fund money.  

Seokjin's people confirmed it in less than a day. Everything.  

The words Luke said about you being a selfish whore struck harder than you expected, because somewhere beneath the fury was truth—ugly, unspoken truth. You do want that goddamn baby and maybe you cling to Yoongi because he on the contrary was trying to give you what you wanted. You still want it more than reconciliation, more than comfort. You want something to survive this. Something to make all the pain mean something. 

Maybe he's right. Maybe he isn't right. Maybe this has become something else entirely. 

The stained glass above throws muted colour across your hands—amber, rose, blue—turning you into something almost holy. Almost forgiven. 

But you don't feel forgiven. You feel like a woman who's running out of time, sitting in a church where the candles keep burning, and nothing ever really changes. 

He slides quietly into the pew beside you, the bench creaking under his weight. He doesn't speak right away—just lets the silence settle between you until it becomes something almost gentle. When he finally does, his voice is soft, careful. 

“The service ended half an hour ago.”  

You open your eyes slowly, blinking against the fractured light pouring through the stained glass. Something in your chest gives way then—something small and aching. He's here. For you. Yoongi doesn't press. He just waits, eyes on you, steady and patient. 

“I should have never left,” you sigh, trying to hold the tears at bay. “I should have listened to you and stayed.” Yoongi's gaze lingers on you for a moment, the faintest trace of concern flickering in his eyes. 

“You did what you thought you had to.” He says softly and you shake your head, a small, bitter sound catching in your throat. 

“Larkie,” he says, voice low, careful. He leans back slightly, his hands clasped loosely in his lap, his head drops down and you hear him click his tongue. 

“I thought London would be different,” you murmur. “I thought if I put an ocean between myself and everything here, I'd finally feel like I could breathe.” 

“And did you?” Yoongi turns his head toward you, the faintest crease forming between his brows.  

“For a while, maybe. Until I realized this was my oxygen, however fucked up this family is.” You stare down at your hands, at the way they tremble slightly against your skirt.  

“He was taking steroids,” you say finally, the words catching on their way out. “Said it was just to get back into shape. But then the team found out. Fired him. He called it politics, said everyone did it—but he was borrowing money to keep it going. Everything we had went into his mess and those stupid fertility treatments.” 

Yoongi's jaw tightens, but he says nothing. 

“I quit my job,” you continue, almost mechanically. “The stress, the hospital visits—it was too much. I still had student debt, bills, and Luke's anger on top of it all. I thought if I just kept quiet, kept trying, the baby would fix it.” 

“Larkie...you..”  

“Me, Yoongi, me. I was so fucking delusional. We were in huge debt already, and we both made it greater. Nothing would happen if I haven't left,” you lament, smearing the mascara with your hot tears. 

“You weren't wrong to leave, Larkie,” he says, finally meeting your gaze. 

“Oh... I sure was, Yoongs. I left because I was scared shitless to be the next Buin.” Yoongi lets out a slow breath, the kind that sounds more like restraint than relief.  

“And then mom told me you never even raised from the chair to claim your birthright.” That is the truth. His eyes flicker toward the altar before settling back on you. 

“Larkie,” he began, voice low, almost roughened by the sincerity behind it. “It didn't mean anything to me without you by my side.” Your throat tightens and your heart drops to your stomach.  

“You don't mean that,” you whisper, even though some part of you already knows he does.  

“I do. I've never meant anything more.” His voice drops lower—dangerously low. Your pulse stumbles, your breath catching as his eyes flicker from your mouth back to your eyes. The space between you seems to shrink, charged and fragile all at once. You can smell the faint trace of his cologne—something warm, clean, and familiar. 

“Yoongi…” You try to speak, but your voice comes out as a tremor. He tilts his head, close enough now that you can feel the whisper of his breath on your skin.  

“You still don't get it, do you?” he murmurs. “You were never just part of this, Larkie. You are it for me.” 

The truth hits you so hard you feel it in your teeth. You never stopped loving him. 

“You are my entire world.” 

You've spent years stacking thoughts on top of that fact like sandbags—marriage, stability, duty, expectations, the quiet hope that love could be built instead of found. But one look at Yoongi now, with his dark hair falling over his brow and that helpless softness in his eyes, knocks every barrier loose. Water pouring through. 

“My heart never stopped beating for you.”  

You see flashes—tiny, stupid memories you hadn't revisited in years: 

Yoongi tying your shoelaces in fifth grade because you didn't know how. Yoongi holding your wrist under the bleachers, thumb brushing just once before he let go. Yoongi being there when fell down and broke the skin of your knee to help you clean the wound. Yoongi sneaking out from family dinners with you. Yoongi stealing the eggnog at Christmas dinner for you. 

For a heartbeat, you forget everything else—the church, the arguments, even Luke. All you can see is him, the quiet devotion in his eyes that terrifies you as much as it draws you in. Your hand twitches toward his, fingertips brushing his sleeve. It's enough to make his breath hitch. The tension breaks like a held note about to resolve—he leans in, just barely, and your eyes flutter shut.  

Your own lips parted without your permission, a tiny, trembling gasp that seemed to invite him closer. His eyes flickered to your mouth and back, and you realized, almost with shock what is about to happen. 

Slowly, impossibly slowly, he leaned in, and your knees almost buckled at the thought. The air between you grew thick, humming with tension. Your breaths mingled, shallow and unsteady. You could feel the heat, the tension, the inevitability. 

A feather-light brush—just the most barest touch of his lips against yours. Quick, fleeting, barely a whisper of contact, but enough to make your chest tighten and your stomach coil. 

And then—the sharp click of the door swinging open shattered it all. 

“Sorry to interrupt!” came a cheerful, completely oblivious voice. 

You both jerked apart, your hands falling back to your laps as Yoongi's sharp gaze cut toward the doorway. He exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The spell was broken, leaving your heartbeat pounding in the sudden emptiness. 

“You have got to be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath.

The clinic is unusually still when you push open the door to enter Yoongi's office. The carpet muffles your steps, the air faintly smelling of antiseptic and eucalyptus. A thin stripe of warm light spills across the floor, reaching all the way to your heels. You expected to find him busy with paperwork at this time of the day, yet it seems he still has some patients.

You hear the tiny giggle before you see the little one. It's a soft, bubbling sound, the kind that doesn't belong in the sterile hush of a medical clinic. You pause, hand still hovering near the doorframe, unsure whether you should turn away or keep going. Curiosity wins, as it always does when it comes to him.

You ease the door open an inch.

And then you see them.

Yoongi is seated on the small rolling stool, turned slightly to the side, his posture loose with a kind of effortless ease you've never seen him wear around adults.

A toddler sits on the examination table, cheeks flushed, tiny sneakers kicking gently at the paper sheet beneath them. The little one squeals—another sunny giggle—and reaches out with chubby hands toward Yoongi's collar. And Yoongi… he lets them.

He leans in, lips curved into a soft, quiet smile you've never been on the receiving end of. “Careful,” he murmurs, his voice gentler than you've heard it in years, maybe ever. “You'll wrinkle my shirt.”

The baby coos at him as if deeply apologetic. And Yoongi laughs. A breathy, impossibly tender sound. 

Your pulse stutters.

He holds the syringe in his other hand, hidden from the child, ready and precise. Not rushed. Not clinical. He's slower, softer, moving like he doesn't want to frighten the baby, like he knows exactly how vulnerable little things can be.

The baby pats his cheek, and Yoongi blushes. Actually blushes.

“I know,” he whispers to them, carefully lowering their hand. “I'm sorry too.”

You should look away and give him space. Pretend you didn't just see him be gentle in a way that rattles something buried deep in you.

But you can't move.

When he finally gives the injection, the baby barely flinches. He murmurs something soothing as he places a tiny bandage decorated with a cartoon bear on their arm. Yoongi's thumb brushes the baby's skin in a slow rhythm, comforting them more instinctively than consciously.

Something sinks low in your stomach—heavy, warm. He hands the baby back with a small bow, explaining aftercare in that calm, controlled voice he uses when people rely on him. 

And then he turns.

His eyes catch yours.

“Didn't hear you come in,” he says, voice sliding back into composure.

You swallow. “I didn't want to interrupt.”

“You don't,” he answers too quickly, too gently.

The mother leaves, the door clicks shut, and the room suddenly feels smaller. Warmer. Filled with the fading echo of his tenderness. He takes a small step toward you, confusion and concern stitched beneath the dark of his eyes. You also take one small step inside the room, and Yoongi's eyes flick down to your mouth before he catches himself.

The tension is its own patient—alive between you, waiting to be addressed, examined, diagnosed.

Yoongi breaks first.

“You weren't at your appointment earlier,” he murmurs, folding his hands behind him like he's trying to keep them from reaching for you. “I was…worried when you didn't even pick up.”

Worried. He was worried.

“Yeah. I... I needed time to think.” You manage to say. He goes still again—this time with a different kind of tension.

“What happened?” he asks, voice dropping into that soft, dangerous calm he uses when he's preparing for bad news.

You inhale. The words sit heavy on your tongue.

“Luke's gone.”

“How gone is he?” Yoongi's expression doesn't change. Not on the surface. But the silence that follows feels like the floor tilting.

“When I came back from the church, he was already gone,” you continue, twisting your fingers together.

Yoongi's eyes flicker—barely. A shadow of something dark and private passes through them, gone before you can pin it down. He steps forward, just one measured pace, like he can't stop himself.

“There's… more, I didn't tell you everything yesterday,” you say finally, before he manages to get to you.

“I assumed so,” Yoongi's eyes don't leave your face. You hesitate. Then—quietly—

“He somehow…got to know….” Yoongi doesn't interrupt. He waits. Always so patient when it matters.

“About…you pursuing me. That's what our fight was about.”  

Yoongi exhales slowly, through his nose, like he's tempering something sharp before it cuts. His expression doesn't fracture—doesn't rush to defend or deny—but his jaw tightens, just enough for you to notice.

“And how do you feel about it?” he asks. Not accusing. Not leading. Just careful.

You swallow, throat tight, the question settling into you heavier than it should.

“I…” Your voice falters. You hate that it does. You clear your throat, try again. “I didn't know what to say to him.”

Yoongi watches you like he's listening for something beneath the words. A tremor. A lie. A truth you're afraid to touch.

“That wasn't the question,” he says gently.

You exhale, shaky. “I told Luke nothing happened. Because it didn't.” A pause. “But I didn't tell him it didn't matter.”

That makes him inhale slowly, chest rising beneath the white coat. He doesn't step closer, but the space between you feels like it's shrinking anyway.

Your heart thuds painfully.

He finally steps closer then.

“I didn't pursue you,” he says quietly. “But I stayed where you could find me if you ever needed me.”

There it is. The line between devotion and obsession—so thin it almost disappears.

“Am I a sinner for this, Yoongi?” Yoongi's eyes soften—not with indulgence, but with something older. He studies you like a man who has already forgiven you for things you haven't confessed yet. Not as your doctor. Not even as the boy you once knew. But as a man who has already made his peace with wanting you.

A faint, rueful curve touches his mouth.

“What for?” he murmurs. His gaze flickers to your lips for just a moment longer than it should, then back to your eyes. Your own pulse thrums in your chest, betraying the careful restraint your mind is trying to hold. 

“For wanting this–” You barely have time to register what's happening before his hand sweeps up to the back of your neck, pulling you toward him. Your chest collides against his, the wall behind you pressing cold and unforgiving. His lips find yours with a force that steals your breath, bruising, claiming. You gasp into the kiss, every thought scattering, every muscle tightening with disbelief and want.

One of your hands rests on his chest, instinctively bracing, but he doesn't pause. His other hand slides down, warm and commanding, lifting your leg just enough to anchor you against him. The sharp press of his palm against your hip makes you yelp, a sound that mingles with his low, urgent groan. His tongue slips past your lips before you can protest, exploring, claiming, and somehow, impossibly, still gentle.

Time becomes meaningless. You feel your head spin, your lungs burn, and yet you're helplessly suspended in the heat of him, the urgency of his hands and mouth. You finally manage to push one of his hands back from sliding under your skirt, just as his lips part from yours. Both of you are heaving, skin flushed, hearts hammering in the quiet of his office.

“I'm sorry,” he breathes, thumbs brushing against your cheeks as he cups your face. “I got carried away.” His eyes are fixed on your lips, now swollen, glistening with the memory of his mouth.

You try to speak, but words fail. You've never been this close to him, never felt the collision of need and control that pulses in his every movement.

“I wish…” he murmurs, nibbling at your lower lip, a slow, deliberate tease, “…you would see how much I love you.” His voice is low, reverent, dangerous in its tenderness. You can feel the weight of it, the years of restraint and longing distilled into that single, searing sentence. He leans to kiss your lips again but you raise your hand to stop him, your fingers brushing his swollen lips. 

Your voice comes out trembling, barely audible over the pounding of your own heart.

“I… I can't,” you whisper, looking up at him, your eyes searching his. “Not like this—not yet.”

He freezes, dark eyes scanning your face, the intensity in them undiminished, but patient, waiting for you to explain.

“I… I need to do this the right way,” you continue, swallowing hard. “I can't just… give in to this while I'm still married. I need… I need to divorce him.” But you already did.

His jaw tightens for a moment, just the faintest flicker of frustration—or maybe fear—crossing his features. Then he exhales slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Are you serious?”

“I am,” you say, voice firmer now, though your chest still trembles. “I want to be with you, Yoongi—crist Yoongi—I need to be with you so badly but I need him gone gone of my life.” 

“Larkie,” he murmurs, voice low, steadied with effort. “I'll call Seokjin.” 

“We have a good claim. He confessed to you that he cheated.” Seokjin says, fiddling with the gold ink pen with his family crest of a snake as a pattern. You grip the edge of the table as though holding on to it will keep you from collapsing. The anger, the hurt, the relief—they all tumble together, unmanageable, raw. 

“Can he ask for half of the trust fund?” You fiddle with your fingers, this whole Luke situation is stressing you out. You have no clue where he is or whether he's coming back at all. 

“He could try because you didn't have a prenup,” he says slowly. “But the confession works in our favor. The claim isn't equal—it's weighted. Courts don't look kindly on someone who admits to deceit and breach of trust.” 

You exhale shakily, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction. Relief fights with lingering anger. Then there is the stinging feeling of when exactly you stopped loving him and started to despise him. Was it the moment he threw glass after glass at you the first month you got back or even sooner when he blamed everything on you.

“Hey...” he leans over the table to caress your hands. You look into his eyes, hopeful, that he will say only those words you actually need to hear right now. “Let me deal with the divorce for you. Consider it done, Larkie.”  

“Seokjin…” Your voice is barely more than a whisper, but it carries everything: gratitude, exhaustion, and a flicker of something you've tried to ignore for far too long. 

He gives your hands a gentle squeeze, just enough to anchor you. 

“You focus on yourself. The rest… leave it to us. You've been carrying too much.” 

You nod, the knot in your chest loosening slightly, though the storm of emotions—anger at Luke, fear about the pregnancy, and the pull toward Yoongi—still churns beneath the surface. 

But Kim Seokjin is the best consigliere this family could ever have. How so? Because by the time you get back to your apartment, the divorce papers are neatly stashed on the kitchen counter, waiting for your signature. Luke? Gone for good.

You knock on the door, and it swings open almost immediately, as if he was expecting you. He stands there, his eyes soft with concern, and without a word, he pulls you into a tight embrace. You melt into him, letting his warmth seep into your bones. 

“Hey there, you good?” he murmurs into your hair, his breath hot against your skin. You nod, even though you're not, because you know he'll understand. He always does. 

You stormed out of the apartment the moment you saw the signed divorce papers. It is quite surprising to you that Luke out of all people would sign them willingly. You were his source of income, without you he has nothing. Not that you should worry about that anymore. Yet, the genetic predisposition of this family that stirs in you ignores the obvious elephant in the room for the greater good of your sanity. So you do ignore the way Yoongi looks disheveled, cold, or how his knuckles are bruised. He did it for you. 

He leads you inside, his hand never leaving your back, a comforting presence. You find yourself in his living room, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm light over everything. You sit down on the couch, and he sits next to you, close enough that your thighs touch. 

“You sure everything's fine, Larkie?” he asks, his voice gentle. Fuck it. Fuck, fuck, fuck.  

“No…it wasn't for a while,” you give him a little smile, shaking your head. “But it will be from now on.” 

You lean in, your lips brushing against his, soft and tentative at first, but quickly deepening. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, you climb onto his lap, straddling him. 

His hands roam over your body, tracing the curves of your hips, your back, your thighs. You moan into his mouth, your body already aching with need. You grind against him, feeling his hardness press against you. He groans, his fingers digging into your flesh. 

“You sure?” He asks, trying to catch his breath. Yet, his lips find yours again, deeper this time, and you respond without hesitation. Your hands thread through his hair, gripping lightly as if anchoring yourself to him. You feel him shiver, hear it in the soft catch of his breath, and it sends a jolt straight through you. 

Time stretches and bends around the two of you. You're aware of every small movement, every brush of skin, every whispered sound of sweet words of devotion, you hear the soft rustle of fabric as you undress each other. 

Yoongi's tongue swirls around your nipple the moment he throws your bra away, sucking it in before letting it go with a little pop. He doesn't just kiss you this time; he consumes you, a hand fisting in your hair to hold you still for his plundering tongue. He cups your tits again, biting the soft flesh.  

“Can't wait to see these swell,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with lust. He lifts you up gently, before he lays you on the fur carpet he has in front of the fireplace. You feel the heat of it rushing through your body, while his mouth begins a slow, possessive descent down your body.  

He nips at the soft skin of your stomach, his hands gripping your hips, thumbs stroking the hollows. He settles between your thighs, pushing them wide, and just looks at you, glistening and ready for him. The raw worship in his gaze makes your own breath catch. 

“Look at this perfect little pussy,” he groans, leaning down to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss to your clit. You bite down your lip hard, trying to not go crazy over how horny you are for him. 

“Already so wet for me. So ready to take my seed.” He dips his tongue inside you, a shallow, teasing thrust that has you writhing. “Tastes so sweet, my love.” 

He works you with his tongue and fingers, a relentless, skilled assault that pushes you higher and higher. He's not just trying to make you come; he's preparing you to take him. You pant for air each time his finger curls inside to find the little spot take makes you scream his name out loud, all while whispering the filthiest promises. 

“Gonna pump you so full,” he growls against your folds. “Again and again until it's dripping down your thighs and there's no doubt you're mine.”

One moment you're on your back, lost to the pleasure of his mouth, the next you're face down on the black plush carpet. Some pillow is shoved unceremoniously under your hips, tilting your ass up, presenting you for him. You have no idea when he grabbed it, only that it's there, forcing you into a position of utter vulnerability, of complete surrender.  

A sharp, breathless gasp escapes you. This is primal. This is possession. Possession you need. 

“Look at you,” he groans from behind, his voice a low, reverent rasp. He runs a possessive hand over the curve of your ass, his thumb dipping down to brush against your slick, swollen folds. “All ready for me. Perfect angle to get in deep. To make sure it takes.”

He kneels behind you, and you feel the heat of him before you feel the press of his cock against your entrance. He drags the head through your wetness, coating himself, teasing your clit with the tip. 

“Please Yoongi,” you beg, the word torn from your throat. 

“You know I'd give you anything, love.” He lines himself up, the blunt head pushing insistently at your opening. 

With one powerful, relentless thrust, he buries himself to the hilt. The angle is devastating. He's impossibly deep, a thick, heavy pressure that feels like it's touching your very soul. A raw, guttural cry is ripped from your lungs. Yoongi lowers his full weight onto your bare back, a warm, heavy blanket that presses you flat against the plush fur of the carpet. There's no space between you, not even an inch of air. 

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his hot, ragged breath fanning across your sweat-slicked skin.  

“Shhh,” he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing rumble right by your ear, a stark contrast to the guttural commands from moments before. “Just stay with me. Just feel.” 

Each roll of his hips presses you deeper into the carpet, the soft fibers a decadent cushion against the overwhelming pressure of his body. You're completely pinned, utterly possessed, unable to do anything but lie there and take it, take the slow, thorough possession, take the full weight of his desire. 

“You're all mine now,” he whispers, his lips brushing against the nape of your neck. He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss there, a gesture of pure ownership. “Can you feel it? How deep I am? I'm not leaving anything to chance.” 

One of his hands slides up your side, his fingers tracing the curve of your ribs before pushing itself between you and the carpet coming to rest over your womb. He presses it while he thrusts into you.  

“Gonna put a baby right here,” he breathes, his voice thick with a primal, satisfied awe. “My baby. Swelling you up, making you round and beautiful. Everyone will know who you belong to just by looking at you.”

The thought, spoken so quietly, so intimately, sends a fresh wave of heat through you. Your body clenches around him, a weak, involuntary flutter, and he groans in response, his hips pressing forward, holding himself impossibly deep for a long moment. 

He continues the slow, deep rocking, a hypnotic, relentless rhythm that's building a different kind of pressure inside you. His other hand finds yours, his fingers lacing through yours, pinning it to the floor beside your head. 

“Look at us,” he murmurs, his voice husky. “So perfect together. Made for this. Made for each other.” 

He shifts his weight just slightly, changing the angle of his grinding, and the new pressure sends a jolt straight to your clit. A soft, helpless moan escapes your lips, muffled by the carpet. 

“That's it,” he encourages, his voice a low purr. “Let go for me. Let me feel you. Milk every last drop out of me.” The slow tide crests, and your orgasm washes over you, a deep, all-consuming wave of pleasure that steals your breath and makes your entire body tremble. Your inner walls ripple and contract around him, a rhythmic, milking pull. 

With a choked groan against your shoulder, he follows you. He buries his face in your hair, his body going rigid, and then you feel it—a deep, pulsing throb as he spills himself into you. He doesn't move, just lets his release flow, grinding his hips in tiny circles as if to press his essence even deeper. 

“I love you so fucking much, Larkie.” 

He must feel the subtle tremor that runs through you, the silent shift from raw lust to something infinitely more tender. He lifts his head slightly, just enough to press his lips against the soft skin behind your ear. It's a soft, lingering kiss, full of a reverence that steals what's left of your breath. 

“I mean it,” he murmurs, his voice still thick with emotion. “More than anything. Gonna give you everything. My name, my child... my whole fucking life.”

He shifts, a slow, careful movement, as if afraid he might break the spell. He starts to withdraw, but you make a small, protesting sound, a desperate whimper at the thought of losing the connection. He freezes, then understanding dawns. A low, soft chuckle rumbles in his chest. 

“Shhh, I'm not going anywhere,” he soothes. “Just turning you over. Wanna see your face.” 

With a strength that still takes your breath away, he carefully rolls you both, maneuvering you until you're on your side, facing him, your legs still tangled with his. 

His eyes are soft, the dark, possessive fire from before banked into a warm, adoring glow. He looks at you as if you're the most precious thing he's ever seen. 

“Hi there,” he whispers, a shy, boyish smile gracing his lips. 

You can't speak. You can only stare back at him, your vision blurred with unshed tears, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. You manage a watery smile in return. 

He leans in and kisses you, a soft, sweet, gentle kiss that's worlds away from the hungry, demanding kisses from earlier.

You wake up to the sound of his breathing before you really wake up to yourself. 

It's slow. Even. Too steady for someone who barely slept. He kept drawing an orgasm after orgasm from you during the entirety of the night. With a short break to get you hydrated and fed before your sugar would have dropped way too low. The sweet persistent ache you feel in between your thighs reminds just how punishingly good the sex was. A dull throb that says you were wanted; you were taken apart slowly, you were kept. And beneath that ache sits a quieter, more dangerous thought— you could have had this a long time ago.  

The sheets are tangled around your legs, his arm heavy across your waist like an anchor. 

“You're thinking too loud,” Yoongi murmurs, pressing a warm kiss into your ruffled hair. 

“You make that up,” you slap his naked torso, eliciting a laugh from him and a smile that you can feel in your hair. 

“I don't.” His voice is still rough with sleep, warm against your spine. “Your breathing changes when you start worrying.” 

You turn in his hold so you're facing him. His eyes are already open. Watching. 

“What's the family going to say?” you ask. You are not sure how anyone outside of your closed circle will react to how quickly you got divorced and jumped to Yoongi's bed. Not that you regret it. But there is little doubt of not being accepted when you've run away to begin with. Ran away from Yoongi and your duty as the next Buin to be precise.  

“About… all of this.” The question has been sitting in your chest since before morning found you. 

He studies your face, thumb brushing a slow line along your side. “They'll talk. They always do.” 

“What if they never accept me back? After I ran. After I chose differently.” His forehead rests against yours. 

“But you are back, in the right place this time, with me,” he says quietly. 

“I am so sorry, Yoongi.” The words sit heavy between your breaths, you roll to your tummy so you can say it to his face, brave enough to do so. “For leaving. For not trusting you back then. For making you wait while I lived a life that only hollowed me out.” 

His expression changes—not wounded, not angry. Something steadier. Something deeper. 

“You don't owe me an apology, Larkie,” he says. 

“But I hurt you. I didn't even give us a chance and chose Luke because I-.” 

“You didn't choose him over me,” he replies calmly. “You chose fear over love. And fear is loud. It convinces people.” His hand slides to the back of your neck, grounding, and warm. 

“You always had a choice,” he says. “You just finally made the one that brought you back to me.”  

“You shouldn't love me this hard. I don't deserve you after everything.” 

His answer is immediate. 

“I don't know how to love you any other way,” and then his mouth is on yours. Your lips part on instinct, a quiet sound catching in your throat as he deepens it just enough to make your pulse stumble. His other arm slips fully around your waist, pulling you closer until there's no space left for doubt. You kiss him back harder. Desperate to feel him again. Your fingers slide into his hair, grounding yourself in the reality of him, the now of it, the after of everything. 

You break the kiss to move to hover over him, laying warm mouthful kisses down to his toned abdomen and before you slide down under the sheets, you glance up to see his jaw locked tight, fists curling in the sheets. You sure can tease too. 

You smile against his skin, knowing exactly what you're doing to him. You start with your hands, stroking him slowly from base to tip, your thumb circling the head to spread the bead of moisture already gathering there. He lets out a low groan, his hips shifting instinctively toward you. Leaning in, you press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his inner thigh, feeling the muscle jump beneath your lips. You do the same to the other side, your gaze never leaving his. 

“Fuck, love, please.” Yoongi groans. You finally lower your head and take him into your mouth, just the tip at first. You swirl your tongue around the ridge, tasting the salt of his skin, and his hand flies to your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands. The grip is tight, a silent command for more. 

You oblige, taking him deeper, your lips creating a tight seal as you begin a slow, deliberate rhythm. You hollow your cheeks, increasing the suction, and his head falls back against the pillows, a guttural moan tearing from his throat. You use one hand to stroke what your mouth can't reach, twisting in time with the movements of your head. 

You pull back until just the head is resting on your tongue, flicking the sensitive underside with the tip of your tongue before sinking down again, taking him even deeper this time. You relax your throat, letting him hit the back of it, and the sound he makes is pure, unadulterated pleasure. His hips begin to thrust, meeting your movements, a desperate, primal rhythm. 

You can feel him getting closer, his entire body tensing, the hand in your hair tightening almost to the point of pain. You don't stop. You speed up, your movements becoming more urgent, more demanding. You look up at him through your lashes, and the sight of his face—contorted in ecstasy, eyes squeezed shut—is what sends you both over the edge. He pulses in your mouth, a hot, salty flood spilling down your throat as he cries out your name 

You swallow every drop, milking him gently until he's spent, his body going limp beneath you. You release him slowly, pressing one last soft kiss to his tip.

Pixie's shop is tucked between a designer shoe store and a prestigious boutique you once shopped in yourself.  

“He's gonna kill us.” You mutter under your breath, but Princess is sure to catch it.  

“Then he should have been more careful when he complained about the wannabe Nancy Drew being after his dick.” She shouts back. You don't know whether it's the hot weather or she is extremely fast today.  

Inside, everything glows—warm halogen lights trapped in glass, gold laid out like offerings, diamonds catching the world and breaking it into sharp little stars. Princess slows the second you step inside. 

Not you. 

Her. 

She's standing rigid beside you, eyes locked on the woman behind the counter. 

Pixie. 

She's bent over a velvet tray, tweezer in hand, dark curly hair falling down under her breasts carelessly, lips pressed in quiet concentration as she resets a crooked diamond. She hasn't noticed you yet.  

Princess takes one hesitant step closer. Two. 

It's subtle, but you feel it—the shift in her breathing, the way her shoulders draw tight like she's bracing for impact. 

“So that's her,” Princess whispers, trying to hide her awe. 

“Well of fucking course, she is the only one here,” you angery-whisper back to her, feeling how the heat is trying to climb up your head. Does she not have air conditioning or something? You're sweating your tits off.

“Can we pretend to shop and then go, I am hungry.” You whisper again, begging her to just quickly leave here before Tae will somehow appear and kick you out himself for snooping.

The moment her eyes land on Princess, something… changes. Nothing obvious. Just a pause that lasts half a second too long. Recognition flickers and vanishes behind politeness. 

“Can I help you?” Pixie asks, she indeed looks like a fairy.  

“We–” Princess starts and immediately stops when she hears your ragged breathing. It starts as heat again—familiar now, wrong, rolling through your chest and down your spine. Your grip tightens on the edge of the glass case without you meaning to. 

“Larkie?” Princess turns first. You try to answer but your stomach twists violently instead. 

The shop tilts. Light fractures. The diamonds blur. 

“Whoa—” Pixie is suddenly moving to circle the counter, “a little help here?!” she shouts to the back. Your nausea hits hard this time. Shit. You definitely forgot to take your glucose pills this morning before you left the townhouse. Yoongi is performing a surgery today, he won't be able to pick up any phone nor attend to you. How could you forget the fucking pills again when all Yoongi did the past month since you two started to live together is remind you to fucking take them so this won't happen, ever.  

“Larkie, look at me. Hey. Look at me.” Princess is instantly at your side, voice sharp with fear. 

“Yoongi's gonna kill you, Princess,” the male voice is the last thing that echoes in your ears before the curtain shuts.  

You've never felt fragile like this. Not after London. Not after Luke. Not after anything. The emergency room swallows you whole. You're not sure what hospital this is, just that they need to change the bulbs in their ceiling light you kept staring at for the last hour you are awake. 

You did forget to take your pills, that much the barely paid doctor confirmed. What he told you after though sent you spinning again. 

You laugh weakly. It comes out wrong. Broken at the edges. 

“That's not possible.” Tears fall down your eyes. A few months back this is all you ever wanted. Now you're not entirely sure. You told Yoongi that you'd like to wait with any major step in your relationship and just enjoy being a couple. This is far too serious. More permanent than if he'd proposed.  

The doctor doesn't argue with you. She just turns the chart slightly so you can see it, like proof will soothe you.  

“You're eight weeks along.”  

Eight. 

Weeks. 

Your breath leaves your body in one sharp pull.  

Eight means two months. Eight means your last IUI was a success. Eight weeks means it is not Yoongi's. 

Your chest tightens as the calculation loops in your mind. You don't yet know which part of your past just came back to claim you. Or what to do with this information. 

“Doctor Min Yoongi is on his way. He's your partner right?”  

The word partner lodges somewhere between disbelief and dread. You nod mutely, unable to speak, staring at the ceiling tiles like they might explain everything. 

Your life just started to mean something to you again. With Yoongi and now it's all gone.  

You are carrying a baby. A baby that is not part Yoongi. Morals tell you that you should contact the poor excuse of a father that Luke would be, but your heart beats for Yoongi and his understanding of this situation. But to ask him to raise someone else's child? It feels unspeakable, unthinkable, dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with law or logic. 

You think of the late Kkangpae and what he'd say about this situation.  

You close your eyes, trying to steady your racing thoughts. But there's no quiet, no patience left in your chest. Only the steady, unstoppable thrum of life you carry inside you, and the impossible decision waiting for you on the other side of the door. 

“I'll keep an eye on her with those glucose pills, Doctor.” You hear his voice muffled behind the door before they swing open. You open your eyes just in time to see the door swing open, and there he is. 

Standing in the doorway, calm, controlled, his presence filling the sterile space with something warmer than the hospital lights could ever provide. His eyes sweep over you, taking in the IV in your arm, the pallor of your skin, the quiet panic you're trying to hide. 

“I…” You start, voice caught somewhere between fear and need, but it falters. He steps closer without hesitation, his gaze never leaving yours. 

“I'm here, love, all's gonna be fine” he says softly, and just like that, the impossible decision feels slightly less like a wall and more like a path—uncertain, terrifying, but not insurmountable. 

“But it won't,” you whisper, the weight of truth breaking past the comfort of his tone. Your eyes meet his, wide, trembling. “It won't be fine… not this time. 

The air between you tightens. Yoongi doesn't flinch, doesn't pull away. Instead, his hand finds yours across the hospital bed, strong and warm. 

“Hey...hey, what's this nonsense?” he says quietly, deliberately, like the simplest words could bend fate itself. “Of course it's gonna be fine, you just forgot again — that happens—” 

“I'm pregnant, Yoongs,” you breathe, the words heavy, raw, impossibly fragile. 

You're trembling in the hospital bed, still reeling from the impossible news, when Yoongi's hand tightens around yours—not softly this time, but possessively. His lips curve into a smile that's almost too wide, too sharp, and your chest flutters against fear and something else you don't quite want to name. 

“That's such wonderful news, Larkie, why would you—” His eyes shine with something close to joy—pure, unrestrained joy that sends shivers down your spine. You blink, caught off guard by the happiness in his tone.  

“I'm eight weeks,” you choke on a sob and he leans closer, until his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm and steady. 

“We're gonna have a little baby, Larkie” He whispers before pressing his lips onto yours softly. He exhales through a quiet laugh, low and strange and full, like relief cracking something open in his chest. His thumb brushes slowly along the inside of your wrist, right over your pulse. 

“But you know that means the baby is Luke's—” he laughs in a way you've never heard, utterly confusing you. 

“Yoongs… it can't be yours. The IUI—Luke's samples—” Your voice comes out thin. 

“Never even came close to your uterus,” the sentence lands strongly. Heavy. Kicking the air out of your lungs.  

“What?” Your brain shakes with confusion. 

“I switched them,” he continues calmly, like he's confessing to rearranging furniture. “The first time. The second. Every time.” His thumb presses more firmly into your skin, perfectly aligned with your racing heartbeat. Half a year of IUIs he was lying to you. “You were always going to carry my child. I made sure of it.” 

“I promised. Didn't I?” He says when he is satisfied with how the realisation stretches along your face.

Your world tilts. 

I will give you a baby. 

“That's… that's not—” You try to pull your hand back, but his grip tightens instantly—not painful, just absolute. Unavoidable. 

“Hush,” he whispers, leaning in closer. His nose brushes yours, intimate and terrifying all at once. “Worries aren't good for the baby” 

“You lied to me,” you whisper, not believing what he just told you. 

“Yes,” he agrees softly. No shame. No hesitation. “Because you would've said no right away. And I couldn't allow that when you were already back, I'd lose you all over again.”  

“You used the fact it was hard to conceive for me.”  

His jaw tightens at that. Just a fraction. Enough to give him away. 

“I used the fact that your husband was unable to give you a baby,” he corrects quietly. “That every month felt like a punishment you didn't deserve. That you were bleeding hope into hospital sheets for a man who wouldn't do the same for you.” 

Your chest stutters. His thumb sweeps under your eye, catching a tear before it falls. The gesture is almost gentle. 

“You decided my life for me.” Something in your stomach twists that has nothing to do with nausea. He took something that was supposed to be only for you and twisted it in the darkest way possible. 

“I protected our future,” he corrects, voice dropping lower. “You were breaking yourself for a man who never deserved you. I just… redirected the miracle.” 

“But this is so fucked up,” you spit the words out, and his eyes darken. 

“Your poor excuse of an ex-husband couldn't give you a baby because of his slow swimmers,” he says calmly, almost conversational, “and he bribed the doctors to put all the blame on you. That isn't fucked up in your eyes?”

The words land one by one, precise. Surgical. 

“That's—that's not possible. They ran tests. I saw the—” Your chest tightens so hard it hurts. 

“You saw what they were paid to show you,” Yoongi cuts in gently. Too gently. His thumb resumes its slow, circular motion against your palm, grounding and trapping all at once. “Luke was only fertile with ambition and nothing else. He never loved you like I did Larkie, can't you see it?” 

“But that still doesn't give you the right to do this to me.”  

“You were drowning with him,” Yoongi continues, voice level, almost tender. “Debt. Lies. Steroids. Doctors paid to humiliate you with charts that made you think your own body had betrayed you. You came apart piece by piece while he played the victim.” 

“So your solution was to baby trap me?” Tears blur your vision. He tilts his head. Studies you. 

“You wanted the baby! I only tethered you,” he corrects. “There's a difference.”

“You took my consent. My future. My—” Your chest heaves. 

“Our child,” he interrupts gently.  The word lands like a brand. 

“You don't get to rewrite that either,” he adds. “You're carrying Min blood now. Mine.” His gaze drops briefly to your stomach again, reverent and terrifying all at once. “Just like you were always supposed to be.” 

“You can't actually think I will—” 

He smiles then. 

Slow. Knowing. Dangerous. 

Your breath vanishes when you really take him in. You know that glance. The last time you've seen it was a decade ago, before those same dark eyes with a scar across one shut for eternity. Yet, somehow...he's alive.

In oil portraits that hung too high on paneled walls. In black-and-white photographs. In...him. A grandfather whose presence could silence a room without lifting a hand.

The resemblance is cruel in its precision. And you see it only now when it's too late.

“Careful,” he murmurs, leaning in until his lips brush the shell of your ear, his voice velvet-soft and razor-edged all at once. “You wouldn't want to be on house arrest now, would you?” 

The words are spoken like a joke. Like a tease. A painful inside joke in this family when someone doesn't want to submit. But his hand is still on your stomach. Still claiming. Still anchoring you to the bed, to the room, to him. 

“You're overwhelmed,” he continues gently, as if he didn't just slide a knife between your ribs with that sentence. “That's normal. Your hormones are everywhere.”  

The realization settles into your bones like ice. The baby you thought would ruin everything has, instead, sealed you to him completely. 

You ask yourself whether this is what it takes for you to have a baby. When the circumstances don't unsettle you the more he speaks of your future together, as a family, you embrace the feeling that makes you different from other women—you were born into this syndicate. You were aware of their delusional view of the world, couldn't stop it even if you wanted to, whether you like it or not. And still chose him.

After all, it was undeniably you who put this idea into his head when you bawled your eyes out, at his clinic, that you cannot have a baby. So he promised to give you one. Just not with your ex-husband.

He knows the rhythm of your heartbeat all too well.

You let your head turn into his palm. Let your cheek rest against the warm certainty of his hand. You are tired. He always had you in the corner without you even realizing he pushed you there slowly. Your breath evens out, traitorous and calm, even as your mind understands exactly what kind of cage this is.

Not bars. 

Arms. His arms. The Min Yoongi's arms.

“You're safe,” he whispers. “You're pregnant. You're mine. And I will burn the world before I let anyone—including you—sever the heartbeat.”

.

.

.

.

.

INTERLOGUE 

Yoongi closed his eyes for a moment, the rush of the current sounded like a heartbeat that wasn't entirely his. He let the thought sink, what it meant to hold such power, what it cost to let go and do the final step. He needed to hold for just a little bit longer.  

The Hudson river was black glass at midnight, only the moon reflection on the water's surface visible. Yoongi stood knees deep inside of the river, not far enough to let the stream take him away. 

The cold clung to Yoongi's skin, a reminder of what he'd chosen. It wasn't rage that filled him. His voice still lingered somewhere in the back of his mind. She will find out.  

No she won't. He will make sure she won't find out. Or at least, she won't find out he did it.  

He didn't look down, not even the moment his body stopped moving frantically, the tight hold he had on his wrists went loose.  

The river would keep its silence. So would he. 

Don't be a silent reader, let's be friends chummers! Only love please! ♥

until we meet again my fairies, love, p.

01. 4.7k

02. 4.3k

03. 4.3k

04. 3.4k

05. 2.5k

Your cheeks heat, anger the only emotion you could feel. Dean Di Laurentis. One of Briar’s beloved defenseman for the hockey team. Everyone loved him, including all of your friends.

But you couldn’t stand him, and he couldn’t stand you.

It was a mutual hatred between the two of you, but typically, you were both good at avoiding each other. Tonight however, you’ve unfortunately found yourself in the same close proximity as the defenseman.

“Only in your dreams do I wish to fuck you, Dean, but even in your dreams, you’d never be that lucky.”

Dean breathes out a laugh, leaning his elbows on the counter, his face now inches from yours. You can’t help but let your eyes search his bright blue ones, dropping down to his lips every now and again.

You’d be crazy to say Dean wasn’t attractive, and maybe that’s why you hate him so much, you’re not sure. His perfectly styled blond hair. Those big, bright blue eyes that shine whenever he smiles, speaking of his smile… Two words.

Panty. Dropping.

He was damn near perfect, and you think that’s what truly irritated you the most about him. Well, that and the fact that he believes that everyone and their mother is in love with him.

“Hey, sweetheart, maybe less daydreaming about fucking me, and more listening when I speak.”

Your narrowed eyes land on his again, that arrogant smirk back in place. Rolling your eyes, you scoff. “As I said, fuck you, Dean.”

You shove your solo cup into his chest, quickly turning on your heels and rushing up the stairs, the sound of Dean’s obnoxious laughter following you up until you slam the bathroom door shut behind you.

Fuck Dean. He’s been in your life for two years now, and it’s never gotten easier. The hatred has only grown, but the unfortunate sexual tension has also grown. You’re not even sure why you feel sexual tension when you’re around him… Why do you have thoughts of fucking the one person you can’t stand? It’s confusing and frustrating all the same.

Hands on your face, you slide down the back of the door until your ass meets the floor. You let out a frustrated groan, placing your hands on the ground to stand, wanting to just leave and go home. You’ve had enough of the night.

Giving yourself one more look in the mirror, you turn on your heels, gripping the door handle and ripping it open. Your eyes go wide before quickly narrowing when you see Dean standing there, fist balled and ready to knock on the bathroom door.

“What do you want, Dean?” you breathe out, frustrated that you can’t seem to escape him tonight.

He smiles, and you truly wish you could slap the smile right off his face. “Just wanted to talk.”

The tone in his voice is laced with sarcasm, that smile on his lips only growing, irritating you more and more with every second that passes.

“Talk about what, exactly? How you’re an arrogant piece of shit who thinks he can say or do whatever the hell he pleases?” you pause, giving him a smile of your own, but it’s dripping in hatred. “I’m good, now if you don’t mind I’m trying to lea-”

Your words die on your tongue when Dean’s large hand presses into your stomach, pushing you back into the bathroom. Your back hits the counter, your eyes now wide as he follows you inside, closing and locking the door behind him.

“Dean…” you whisper, your heart pounding in your chest at how close he is to you.

Dean steps forward, his hands finding your waist, his pretty eyes staring down into yours.

“Why don’t we do what we both actually want, huh? Take care of some of the tension surrounding us.”

You scoff. “What tension?”

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, there’s obviously a shit ton of tension between the two of you, but you refuse to cross this line with him. It’ll make everything worse.

Smiling, Dean dips his head down, his lips ghosting over yours. The warmth of his breath against your skin sends shivers down your spine, the smell of mint and beer invading your nostrils.

“You know exactly what tension, sweetheart. You and I can’t stand one another, doesn’t mean we’re blind. I’d be lying to myself if I said you weren’t fucking beautiful, a real ten out of ten, and you know you think I’m attractive, I mean, you can’t stop eye-fucking me whenever I’m around you.”

Your breath hitches in your throat, anxious butterflies swarming in your belly. That liquid heat grows between your legs, your thighs squeezing together to try and satiate the ache you feel between them.

Dean’s eyes drop down to your thighs, a smirk playing on his lips again. “So how ‘bout it? We fuck, dissolve some of the tension between us, go back to hating each other in public?”

Your eyes find his, noting his blown pupils, the black nearly swallowing up all of the bright, shining blue. You swallow the knot in your throat, really dancing on the line of giving into him and telling him to go fuck himself.

Without a second thought, you lift up on your toes, pressing your lips against Dean’s in a quick and hesitant kiss. You quickly pull back, unsure of why you just did that. Your heart is now in your throat, your eyes frantically searching Dean’s, wanting to gauge his reaction on the fact that you kissed him.

Dean just smiles, bringing his bottom lip between his teeth before he’s lifting your feet up off the floor, setting you down on the counter and shoving your thighs apart.

Stepping between your parted thighs, Dean settles his hands on your waist, pulling you further down the counter and claiming your mouth in a searing kiss.

Your fingers grip the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him further into you, deepening the kiss before abruptly pushing him back. Dean’s lips are swollen, slightly parted as he breathes erratically, his eyes searching yours.

“This is just sex, Dean, nothing more. We fuck, we go our separate ways. This doesn’t mean we’re friends, this doesn’t change our dynamic…” you pause, searching his face for any sign of disagreement. When you find none, you continue. “Okay then, let’s do this.”

Dean smiles, swiping his tongue across his bottom lip before he’s kissing you again.

While his mouth moves in quick succession with yours, his hands grip the hem of your shirt, tugging at it. He breaks his lips from yours long enough to pull the flimsy fabric up and over your head, tossing it to the floor behind him.

Your hands find the buckle of his belt, quickly undoing it and pulling it through the loops of his jeans. Dean’s tongue sweeps the inside of your mouth, his teeth biting on your lower lip and pulling a needy moan from you.

“Mmm, I like the sound of that.” Dean rasps, his lips leaving soft kisses on your jaw, down to your neck.

Goosebumps litter your skin, your panties growing wetter with every passing second. Your fingers make quick work on the button and zipper on his jeans, shoving him backward so he can pull them off the rest of the way.

“You’re very needy, aren’t you?” Dean says, his voice smug.

Rolling your eyes, you scoff, working on removing your own jeans as well.

“Fuck you, Di Laurentis, I’m not needy… I’m just horny, and you’re the one who came to me.”

Dropping yourself off the counter, your feet softly hit the floor. You smirk when you see Dean’s eyes devouring you, his bottom lip between his teeth as he watches you slowly slide your jeans down your thighs.

“You’re very needy, aren’t you?” you mock Dean’s words, pulling a laugh from the defenseman.

He steps towards you, roughly shoving your jeans all the way down, making them pool at your ankles. You kick them off the rest of the way, leaving yourself in nothing but black lacey underwear and a matching bra.

“Fuck,” Dean groans, his hands finding your waist again. “Why is it the girl I hate most, is a fucking stunner? Because you are…” Dean’s words halt, his hands running down your waist to your ass, his large palms gripping you and squeezing. His roughly spins you around, your hands finding the cold counter top. “Fucking. Stunning.” Dean breathes out, his hand pressing into your lower back, pressing your stomach and upper half into the countertop.

His hands dip into the top of your underwear, slowly sliding them down your legs, his fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake.

The cool air from the house hits your slick center the second you’re bared, a shiver running up your spine. “Dean..” you whimper, swaying your hips from side to side.

“She’s got a pretty pussy too, who would’ve thought.”

The gravelly tone of Dean’s voice has your clit throbbing, your thighs squeezing together to try and relieve the ache.

“Dean, stop teasing…” you whimper, arching your back, pressing your ass out further for him.

Dean chuckles, the heat of his body leaving yours as he turns to find his discarded jeans. You look over your shoulder, watching as he digs in his back pocket, finding his wallet and pulling a condom from it.

You close your eyes, breathing in deep through your nose as Dean works on putting the condom on.

Your eyes pop open the second you feel his thick, lubricated head teasing at your entrance. A small gasp escapes you when he slowly pushes the head inside, only to pull it back out and rub it through your folds, teasing your clit.

“Dean Di Laurentis, stop fucking teasing me and fu-”

The words die on your tongue, a loud, drawn out moan taking their place. Dean shoves himself inside you, bottoming out instantly and holding himself there.

“Shit you feel good…” he rasps, his dick twitching inside you.

You grin, clenching yourself around him. He groans, his hands tightly holding onto your hips as he slowly starts to slide out. He pulls out to the head, leaving just the tip inside before harshly shoving back in, making your stomach dip from the feeling.

Dean continues to slide out and shove back in, over and over until he finally sets a steady pace, his hips snapping into your ass in quick succession. Every thrust has your eyes crossing, pussy pulsing.

Wrapping one hand around your hair, Dean yanks your head back, his other hand snaking around your neck and squeezing. You choke on a moan, your pussy tightening around him as he fucks himself inside you, groaning with every thrust.

Dean’s mouth finds yours, his tongue instantly shoving into your mouth and brushing against your own. He pulls back, strings of your saliva still connecting your mouths. His blue eyes bore into yours, his thrusts picking up in speed as he says, “Fuck, why haven’t we done this sooner? Your pussy feels so good, who knew hate sex could feel so damn good?”

You groan, that warm, tingling sensation building in your lower stomach. Your pussy pulses, clenching around Dean over and over again as you near your orgasm.

“Dean, I- Fuck, I’m gonna cum..”

Dean’s hand tightens around your throat, subsequently cutting off your oxygen. Your lips slightly part, desperate to suck in a breath of air as Dean’s other hand tightens around your hair, fisting it and keeping your head held back against his chest.

Picking up his pace, Dean’s dick swells and twitches inside of you, signaling that he’s also close to his release.

Pressing his lips harshly against yours, Dean thrusts deep inside you once, twice, three more times before you’re falling over the edge, black spots taking over your vision as you come undone around him. Dean’s not far behind, shoving himself deep inside you before he too is coming inside the condom.

After the two of you come down from your shared highs, Dean removes his hands from your throat and hair, letting you suck in precious oxygen you’d been craving. He slowly removes himself from inside you, a shudder running through you as he does.

The thoughts of what you just did start to creep in, making your face heat. Why did you just have sex with Dean Di Laurentis? You swore to yourself you’d never give into him, and now here you are, thoroughly fucked and satisfied, but pissed at yourself for it all at the same time.

You hate that he was actually good at sex more than anything.

Quietly, you begin picking your discarded clothes up off the floor, quickly redressing. As you go to pull your shirt over your head, an already fully dressed Dean circles your elbow with his hand, pulling you into him.

You slap at his chest, trying to shove him back, but it just makes him laugh.

“Dean, let go!” you shout, but he doesn’t listen, only tightens his grip.

“This was fun, Y/L/N, let’s do it again sometime, yeah?”

You roll your eyes, shoving his chest again. “No. We agreed, one time, no more.”

“That was before I knew how good you felt wrapped around me.” Dean retorts.

“I- No, Dean. We’re never doing this again.”

Dean finally releases you, that smug smile on his face, those dimples popping and making you hate him even more for making you want him again.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

Releasing your arm, Dean steps back, allowing you to slip your shirt on. You keep your eyes on him, hating the way he’s smiling at you.

“Move, Dean.”

He steps to the side, hands up in surrender. You grab the door handle, yanking it open to find multiple pairs of eyes on you. Dean moves to stand behind you, everyone now seeing him in the bathroom with you. Your face turns a bright shade of red, turning to face Dean.

The smile on his face has you annoyed, he’s enjoying this.

“Fuck you, Dean.”

“Time and place, baby. Time and place.”

June 2025

Appearing with a six-month-old in your arms at your best friend’s daughter’s first birthday party wasn’t in your plans. How did you end up in this position? Well, the guy you’ve been hooking up with, Jungkook, got you pregnant on a very heated night, and you’re now parents to a beautiful little girl, Nova.

Your eyes land on Jungkook, who’s holding your daughter in his arms while discussing with your best friend’s husband, Jin. An inevitable smile grows on your face when you see him with Nova, a vision you’ve grown fond of over the past six months.

The chatter of the party hums around you, and your eyes leave Jungkook to look around. The kids are playing with wooden toys in the living room, and the adults are balancing paper plates and half-finished conversations.

You try to blend in, pretending this is all normal, and that you aren’t walking in with the biggest plot twist of your life clinging to your shirt like a sleepy koala.

Your best friend, Darim, spots you from across the room before joining you. She wraps an arm around your shoulder without hesitation, as if the two of you haven’t spent the last year navigating motherhood side by side, swapping tips, tears, and texts in the middle of the night when your babies couldn’t let you sleep.

“Seems like you’re handling this co-parenthood thing like champions,” she says, her fingers brushing your shoulder.

“Yeah, looks like it,” you answer, your gaze moving from your best friend to your baby daddy.

“Told you that everything would go well,” she adds before pressing a kiss on your cheek.

Darim knows everything. She was the first person you told about the pregnancy, the one who listened to you crying with zero judgment, which you were really grateful for. Having a baby with Jungkook, the guy who was never supposed to be anything serious, was absolutely scary.

And speaking of the devil, Jungkook joins you with Nova in his arms, and you can’t help but notice her favorite stuffed bunny sticking out of his back pocket. That bunny is your absolute savior whenever she cries like she’s being killed. He gives you that crooked smile, the one that complicates everything.  

And as you watch him with Nova in his arms, you can’t help thinking about how you got here—how one unexpected night turned into pregnancy, into co-parenthood, and into whatever this is now.

So let’s get back in time, to over a year ago, to get back to the beginning.

A year ago – May 2024

Lately, you haven’t been feeling extra well. A lot of nausea, food aversion, and a lot of sleeping, and on top of that, everything smells bad.

Up until now, you haven’t been too concerned about it, thinking it was probably the flu or something like that. But yesterday, you noticed how sore your breasts were and how bigger they got, which instantly got you worried. Inevitably, you checked your period tracking app. 

The last time you got your period was two months ago.

Following the app, you should have ovulated six weeks ago, which oddly coincides with that one wild night with Jungkook, the man you’ve been hooking up with for almost a year. That infamous night, you both got carried away and didn’t use protection.

The next day, you ran to the closest pharmacy to take the morning-after pill. There was no way you’d carry the child of the guy you barely knew anything about.

But today, you’re left with the doubt of an eventual pregnancy, even though you’re convinced it’s not possible. The emergency contraception should have worked, and if it didn’t, you’re definitely going to sue the entire world.

So now you’re currently putting the groceries in the fridge while waiting for the result of the pregnancy test you took minutes ago. You’re absolutely not worried, convinced that you aren’t pregnant, but it’s best to be a hundred percent certain.

Once the groceries are put away, you head back to the bathroom, grabbing the test. For a couple of seconds, you stare blinkingly at the test, the world around you disappearing completely.

The pink line sharpens in your vision, and your brain refuses to understand at first, because it can’t. It can’t be true. It simply feels unreal. This is not possible. You can’t be pregnant.

Suddenly, your entire body starts shaking, before a strangled cry escapes you. The tears form in your eyes as reality violently hits you, and the weight inside your chest crushes you completely. Your vision gets blurry, making it impossible for you to see anything properly.

Everything is collapsing around you, and you feel completely powerless. However, your mind races through every impossible question at once: How? Why? What now?

For a moment, lost in your despair, you totally forget about Jungkook, the father, but as questions start to race through your mind, you can’t help but realize that you’ll have to tell him. This human growing inside is as much his as yours. 

You press a hand to your mouth as you really realize the extent of what this means. This seems like a fucking nightmare—one you desperately want to wake up from, but it seems like it’s impossible. The tears ravage your face while you cry with your entire soul.

You sit down on the floor, back pressed against the wall, while you just let yourself cry. After what feels like eternity, you stop crying and clean your face as you stand up. You gather any remaining strength left in your soul to cook and fall asleep after eating on your couch with a heavy heart.

The next day

Even though you desired to stay at home and not interact with the world for at least a month, you had to work. You did the absolute minimum, barely talked to your coworkers, and disappeared in your own little bubble. Your mind was constantly drifting to the little life growing inside you, and each time you’d do it, your hands would instinctively rest on your belly.

When you arrived back home, you truly believed you’d just remain alone in your own bubble, but you were damn wrong. Darim had been calling you nonstop since the morning, but you weren’t in the mood to speak with anybody. You felt a bit guilty since she was very close to her due date, but you just needed some time alone to process the news. 

Nevertheless, someone rings at your door like a damn maniac. No need to be a genius to know who it is. Darim. When you see her face in the intercom, you simply open the door, letting her storm inside your apartment.

“Do you want to kill me before I give birth?” she says before even greeting you. “I’m due in a month, show me some pity and pick up that damn phone.”

“Hello to you, too, Rimy,” you tell her while closing the door.

“There’s no ‘hello’ for you, yn,” she angrily says. “You don’t deserve it.”

You roll your eyes, annoyed, but honestly, deep down, you’re happy she’s here.

“Sorry,” you mumble, “I just needed some time alone.”

She raises an eyebrow, “Since when?”

Darim is your childhood best friend; she’s been by your side since you were like five. You’ve done everything with her, and you’re inseparable. Her husband, Jin, sometimes still struggles to share his wife with you—or maybe you’re the one sharing her with him, still to be thoroughly considered.

“Since I’m not feeling well,” you reply before falling dramatically on your couch.

Your best friend suddenly seems concerned, her hands caressing her huge belly as she slowly sits down. Now, you feel extra remorseful for worrying her when she’s at the end of her very much wanted pregnancy.

“What happened?” she says, her eyes not once looking away from you.

You don’t want to say out loud that you’re pregnant because it will definitely and permanently make it real. But you’re left with no other choice. You have to say it. She has to know, and eventually, you’ll have to break it to Jungkook. 

You take a deep breath, close your eyes before opening them again, and finally say, “I’m pregnant.” 

For a moment, there’s a heavy silence between you while she blinks several times, her gaze shifting from your face to your non-existent bump. She definitely looks surprised, and you’re damn scared about her reaction.

“How?” is all she says when she breaks the silence.

“No need to explain to you how I got pregnant,” you ironically say while pointing to her very big baby bump.

She rolls her eyes, “Obviously, I know how one gets pregnant, but who…” She seems to realize suddenly who the father is. “Don’t tell me that it’s Jungkook.”

“Yeah,” you nod as you speak.

Jungkook isn’t a bad guy. Actually, you’d say that he’s a good one, but you don’t really know him. You just meet over sex, do your own thing, and then get back to your life. He’s for sure absolutely sweet before and after your steamy and hot session. He always makes sure that you’re good with whatever is going on, cracks a joke or two when you are nervous, and always takes good care of you before leaving.

However, there is a lot of unknown about him. Like, what does he do in his spare time, what is his favorite color, how many siblings does he have, what makes him happy, what doesn’t, and you can keep going on for hours. The few things you know about him are his name, age, profession, and home address. That’s it.

And now, you’re having a fucking child with him…

“What happened to the ‘we always use protection’?” she asks.

“We always do, but there was one time…”

She heavily sighs. “Yn, for fuck’s sake…”

“Let me finish, Rimy,” you cut her off, and she nods. “Once, too caught up in the moment, we forgot about protection, but I took the morning-after pill the next day.”

“It clearly didn’t work,” she mumbles.

“No, really?” you ironically ask. “I don’t understand how this happened.”

She takes a deep breath as she strokes her prominent belly, trying to comfort who knows who. Herself? The baby? You?    

“Do you know what you want to do?” she asks.

Well, you haven’t properly thought about the after. You’ve been trying so far to digest this news.

“Not yet,” you confess. “But I surely need to discuss this with Jungkook.”

Right now, it feels like there are three options: keeping the baby, aborting, and giving the baby up for adoption. None of them seems right, but you definitely need to consider them all.

“For sure.”

Darim struggled her entire life to have a baby with Jin. This one is their miracle. She lost two before this one, went through rounds of IVF, and you know how hard it has been for her. You’ve held her when she was crying with despair because she couldn’t have what she always desired.

And you, you didn’t even try, and you’re now carrying a baby with a guy you barely know. If you could, you’d hand this baby to her right away. She’s the one worthy of becoming a mother. Not you.

“Even at thirty, you still manage to put yourself in fucked up situations,” she says while smiling.

You chuckle because she couldn’t be more right. You’ve spent your life doing nonsense and always ending up in situations where your parents could only scold you. You’ve given them a lot of work.

“Nothing new,” you smile at her.

You’ve always put your life at risk since you can remember. It’s like you’re not scared of anything while still being scared at the same time—not sure if this makes any sense. But you always wondered if it was related to the fact that you were adopted. It’s like nothing could be worse than being abandoned by your own parents.

“Look, I’m here for you, no matter what you decide to do, okay?” she says while patting your shoulder. “And you definitely need to start by telling Jungkook. Even if you barely know each other, he deserves to know that he might become a dad.”

You couldn’t agree more with her. It wouldn’t be fair to keep him in the dark, not knowing that a little human exists thanks to him. So the moment Darim left your place, you texted him. Nothing that would imply that you’re pregnant. It’s a simple ‘Can you come over?’

It’s not unusual for you to say that. Whenever you need to relax or need a good fuck, you’d just tell him to come over. So that text is far from being suspicious. Seconds later, he replies that he’s on his way.

You think about all the possible ways to reveal it, but nothing seems as great as the simple ‘I’m pregnant’. There’s no way to make it sound better.

It only takes him a couple of minutes before he shows up at your door. The moment you pull it open, a smile stretches across his soft features, and you honestly just melt instantly.

Jungkook has always been the hot, sinfully handsome type, the kind of man women glance at twice and then complain about because no one should look that good. And yet, somehow, unbelievably, he’s spent the last year choosing to only sleep with you.

He leans against the doorframe, casual in a way that makes your knees threaten to fail you. In the soft hallway light, every detail seems sharper: his sharp jaw, the curve of his mouth, and the slope of his chest beneath his shirt. His body looks like it was carved by God himself, and it even seems like He took his time sculpting all the strong lines and warm skin of Jungkook’s body.

And beyond that insane body, there’s a man who looks like a walking green flag, the kind of man mothers dream their daughters will bring home. But then, again, you might be wrong since you don’t really know this man.

“Hi,” you say, offering him a small smile while gesturing for him to step inside. “Come in.”

Jungkook nods before getting inside your place. “Hi,” he says as he turns around to face you after you closed the door. “All good?”

You don’t really reply, only looking at your hands that suddenly seem more interesting than the man in front of you.

“Yn,” he murmurs, moving nearer as his fingers gently lift your chin so you meet his gaze.

The tears inevitably start appearing as you look at him. You don’t feel brave enough to tell him about this fucking situation you’re in, but you can’t do otherwise. You can’t deprive him of knowing the existence of his child. That would be too cruel.

“What’s going on?” he asks with concern.

As the tears roll down your face, he cleans them with his thumbs, trying to suppress the painful image displayed in front of him.

“I’m…” you try to speak, but it seems impossible.

“Did someone hurt you?” he asks with evident concern.

You shake your head. “It’s not that…”

You close your eyes for a brief moment, trying to gather yourself. He needs to know.

“Take your time,” his thumb strokes your cheek before he presses a gentle kiss on your forehead.

How can someone be this sweet? He is only making this even harder. You don’t even dare to look at him, too scared that you’ll chicken out. 

“You remember the night we forgot to use protection?” you finally break the silence.

“Yeah,” he says. “How could I? You looked like a fucking goddess.”

Jungkook had a job-related event—one where he had to bring a plus one. He didn’t know who to choose, so he invited you. Since it meant free drinks and food, you accepted it.

That night, he looked so damn well in a suit. You couldn’t even keep your eyes off him. He was like a walking snack you were waiting to eat.

Throughout the event, he kept complimenting you and really talking very dirty to you. It was hard to survive with him telling you in detail what he’d do once you’d be alone. You didn’t even know how you made it to the end of the event.

He drove you back home, and since you were both horny as fuck after his intense teasing, you simply had sex. The rest didn’t matter. You didn’t even realize he wasn’t using a condom until he came deep inside you. It was too late.

“That’s not true,” you chuckle.

“Well, if you don’t believe me, maybe you remember how fucking hard I was…”

“Jungkook,” you playfully hit his arm while laughing, and you open your eyes to look at him.

“I’m just stating a fact,” he says with the biggest smile on his face. “We even forgot about everything else when we arrived here.”

You nod, but you get lost in his gaze. Even though he’s teasing you, the worry in his eyes hasn’t disappeared. You’ve never really seen him like this before.

“It’s true,” you admit, “and I even had to rush to the pharmacy the next day for the Plan B.”

He nods, and now your heart hammers in your chest. You’re about to reveal to this man that both your lives are about to change completely, and you don’t know how he will react to that. 

“But it didn’t work,” you finally admit. 

Jungkook instantly frowns, as if this seems completely impossible, and just like Darim, he doesn’t say anything for a moment, which crushes your heart completely. This silence is absolutely unbearable.

“It didn’t work, in like, you’re pregnant?” he finally says.

You simply nod, not sure of what you can add to his question.

“But how?” he asks with confusion. “It should have worked.”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I guess we’ll have to wait until I see my gynecologist to understand this.”

The famous Plan B only delays the ovulation, that’s what the pharmacist explains, and you knew that, you’re not stupid. But somehow, it didn’t work. There might be a reason behind that, and you’ll have to discuss it with your gynecologist. She’ll be the best to provide you with an answer.

“Okay,” he simply says. “And do you already know what you want to do?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I just found out yesterday, and I haven’t had the time yet to think about it properly.”

Jungkook pushes you in his embrace, catching you completely off guard. This is highly unexpected.

“Sorry, I wasn’t there when you found out.”

His words melt your heart instantly, and the tears flood again.

“But I’ll be now,” he continues. “I’ll stay by your side no matter what decision you take. If you keep the baby, I’ll come to every appointment, I’ll show up at birth, and I’ll never let you and the baby go.”

The tears stream faster, making it impossible to hold back the sobs you’ve been trying to swallow.

“And if you decide not to keep the baby, I’ll hold your hand,” he whispers against your ear. “You’re not alone, I’m right here.”

Now, you cry in his arms, gripping his shoulders like you’re holding for dear life. In all the scenarios you imagined, you didn’t consider this one. The one where Jungkook doesn’t even flinch when he says he’ll stay by your side. The one where he doesn’t even ask for some time to think. He just stays.

Ten days later

Today, you have your first appointment with your gynecologist, whom you called in panic after discovering your unexpected pregnancy. When you called, you informed the receptionist that you believed you were six weeks pregnant, but it needed to be confirmed.

You’re nervously tapping your feet, scared of this appointment. A big part of you expects to hear from the doctor that it was a false positive pregnancy test, but the reasonable part of you knows that this isn’t what you’ll be told.

Jungkook’s huge hand rests on your knee, trying to reassure and comfort you. “You’re stressing out every single person in this room,” he whispers to your ear.

Instantly, your eyes look around, noticing all the expectant mamas and the other people nervously looking at you. It wasn’t your intention to pass your stress onto the other persons, but you’re so wrapped up in your own worries that you didn’t notice anything.

“Sorry,” you mumble to all of them.

The one sitting next to you offers you a timid smile. She doesn’t seem pregnant, but somehow, you can tell that she understands you.

“Is it your first pregnancy?” she asks.

You nod before smiling back at her. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes,” she replies, “but don’t worry, it’s normal. I was a total wreck when I had the first appointment for my first pregnancy.”

It is reassuring to hear that because the women around you didn’t quite experience this level of nervousness for their first pregnancy. Darim always wished to become a mother, so the news of her pregnancy delighted her. And your mom never got to carry a baby; all her kids are adopted.

But that doesn’t mean that they haven’t been trying to reassure you as much as they can. They’ve seen your distress, which breaks their hearts, and you’re absolutely grateful to have them in your life.

“Can I ask you how many kids you have?” 

A bright smile appears on her face, “So far three, but with my husband, we’d like to try for a fourth one.”

It’s impressive, but you’ve grown up in a huge family. You’re the youngest of six children, all adopted, of course. Your house has always been so full, and as the youngest, you’ve always been the perfect victim for your five oldest siblings.

“Good luck!” you tell her. “I have five older siblings, and we gave a lot of work to my mom.”

“I can only imagine,” she giggles. “It’s already tough with three, but it’s in a good way. I wouldn’t trade them for anything else in the world.”

Those have been the exact same words your mom has been saying every day for the past thirty-four years when she adopted your two oldest brothers, Taehyung and Jimin.

Your family is composed of Taehyung, Jimin, Christopher, Lena, and Minho. Christopher and Lena were adopted at birth, just like you—the three of you abandoned even before being born, but your stories are different.

Christopher’s mom was a simple teenager who couldn’t afford to raise him. Lena’s parents were poor and couldn’t keep her. And you, your father’s family were assholes and never accepted your existence, leaving your parents with no other choice but to give you up for adoption.

For your remaining brothers, the stories are a bit darker and sadder. Jimin and Taehyung, who are twins, were adopted when they were one after their mom passed away, and they had no other family. And finally, Minho was taken away from his drug-addicted parents when he was four months old.

Minho is a year older than you, and in less than a year, your parents adopted both him and you. There were like eight months in between your adoptions, and your parents never hid how difficult it was.

Unfortunately, Minho’s mom was taking drugs while pregnant, which made him a drug addict at birth, and throughout the four months she had him, she was giving him drugs mixed with milk to calm him.

Between a newborn, an addicted baby, and four young children from three to six years, it wasn’t easy. But they never regretted it. They loved you all equally, no matter how heavy your pasts were.

“You’ll see your worries will fade away the moment you hold that tiny human in your arms.”

The words settle deeper than the woman probably intends. You’ve heard them before. Your mother said something similar once, years ago, recalling the first time she held you and your siblings—how every fear she’d carried about raising six children vanished in that single moment. Not because the future suddenly looked easy, but because she knew she’d find a way.

She couldn’t change how your stories began, but she chose to shape everything that followed. As she always said, “Life may have failed you at the start, but I would never let it fail you again.”

“I hope so,” you tell her.

You don’t get to pursue the conversation as the gynecologist calls your name. Both you and Jungkook stand up, and he grabs your hand, trying to keep reassuring you. His gesture definitely warms your heart and eases its fast pumping. No matter what, you feel thankful that he’s the one who got you pregnant, and not some random asshole.  

Once safe inside her office, you take a seat on the chairs before her desk. The second Jungkook’s hand leaves yours, you swear your heart is about to explode. His warmth leaves an emptiness behind, which you absolutely need right now.

“Hello,” Dr Kang offers you the most affectionate smile you’ve ever seen so far.

Both you and Jungkook reply to her with a small smile.

“My secretary noted that you had a positive pregnancy test a week ago, and from what you described, you’d be seven weeks along now.”

You nod, your feet tapping once again nervously, but Jungkook instantly rests his hand on your thigh, his thumb brushing against your covered skin.

“Okay, so usually we don’t do an ultrasound in a first appointment, but since you’re already seven weeks, we will do one to check if everything seems right,” she explains. 

“I have a question,” you say with a shaky voice. “Right after the…”

You’re not sure if you can continue, as it doesn’t make you properly comfortable to say out loud to a stranger that you had sex with the man sitting next to you. Naturally, your eyes land on Jungkook, who smiles at you and encourages you to continue.

“Right after the unprotected intercourse, I took the morning-after pill to prevent a pregnancy, and I don’t understand how it didn’t work.”

“Well, there are a couple of reasons,” she begins. “You might be taking a treatment that could interfere, but following what I see in your records, you’re not following any particular treatment right now.”

You confirm with a nod. The pharmacist raised that question when you showed up at the pharmacy asking for the plan B.

“By any chance, did you throw up a couple of hours after?” You shake your head.

Again, the man told you that if you threw up in the next few hours, you should come back because you would need to take another pill.

“So that leaves us with the last option: you had already ovulated. This emergency contraception only delays ovulation, but if it has already happened, it can’t do anything.”

You close your eyes, your chest tightening as guilt coils in your stomach. This is all your fault. You should have paid closer attention, checked your app, and been more careful before letting yourself go wild with Jungkook. Now, you’re left with a baby growing inside you.

“Okay,” you manage to say, nodding even though your throat burns. 

“There’s still a possibility that it was a false positive test,” Dr Kang offers kindly.

Even though you truly and deeply want to believe that, you know it’s not the case here. You’re a hundred percent pregnant. You know your body. You know the nausea, the exhaustion, the strange heaviness that’s settled into you.

“But the next step would be an ultrasound,” the doctor adds. “If you could take off your pants and underwear, please.”

Your eyes glance instinctively at Jungkook. He looks like a statue. He’s sitting very straight on that uncomfortable white chair, his hands now resting on his thigh, while he definitely seems worried. He leans closer and murmurs, “If you want, I can step outside.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him. “You’ve already seen me naked.”

Honestly, his presence grounds you. You don’t feel exposed with him here, only feeling comfortable. He nods and stays, but definitely looks away when you undress. Although he has already seen you naked, this is different. This is more intimate. You’re not taking your clothes off to have sex, but to finally meet your child.

As you settle down on the examination table, Jungkook’s eyes don’t leave you. The doctor guides you to sit down in a position that will help her perform the pelvic ultrasound.

Being here with Jungkook seems strange because you’ve always come to this office by yourself, and for the first time, there’s somebody else. You wouldn’t have ever bet that it’d be him.

The doctor takes the long transvaginal ultrasound probe, covers it with what seems like a giant condom, and puts gel on it. Jungkook’s eyes widen as he sees the probe, and you can’t help but smile.

“Can I?” Dr Kang asks, and you simply nod.

Before she proceeds to insert it inside you, she gently whispers, “Relax.”

The cold touch of the device sends shivers up your spine—you’d forgotten just how cold it feels. Your gaze instantly shifts to the monitor, and you see the image moving on it. The doctor is looking for any sign of life, as you are too.

Your heart seems to race even faster. You’re terrified of what you might see, or not see. So many questions start to rise in your mind. Is there really a baby? Or are there more than one? Is this a normal or ectopic pregnancy? If you’re pregnant, is the baby alright?

There’s a hollow ache inside you, an overwhelming need for certainty, and you know that seeing it will quiet the chaos inside your mind. You don’t know what you’re hoping for, but there’s one thing you’re sure of: only the confirmation of this pregnancy might appease your soul.

Suddenly, you can see the image on the monitor—a blurry figure appears, and seconds after, a heartbeat breaks the silence of the room. The noise cuts straight through you, sharp and absolute, and suddenly, the entire world freezes—the only thing alive being the blurry figure on the monitor.

It is real. You are pregnant.

You don’t even know what to feel. It’s as if your feelings have gone silent, and you’re left numb, waiting for your heart to catch up to what your eyes are seeing. Every part of you is suspended in this moment; you’re just stuck in a strange place where nothing feels quite real yet.

What pulls you back is the warmth of Jungkook’s hand on yours. It’s like he understood you needed something to ground you, to bring you back. You hadn’t noticed him move, hadn’t realized how far you’d drifted.

When your eyes drift from the monitor to him, his expression mirrors yours. He seems as lost as you are, and what truly catches you off guard is the fact that you’ve never seen anything other than lust and bliss in his eyes. The man in front of you doesn’t seem like the man you’ve gotten to know over the past year.

And it intrigues you. It also makes you realize how little you know about him.

Somehow, the two of you slip into your own little bubble, sealed off from the rest of the world. Everything around you has disappeared. There’s just you and him.

The doctor speaks in the background, but none of you pays attention to her words. Neither you nor Jungkook speaks; you’re simply trying to absorb the news. You’re busy trying to comprehend what can’t be undone.

This is real. This is happening.

The truth settles between you like something fragile and unbearably heavy—a reality that neither of you knows how to hold yet.

Your eyes move back to the monitor and the doctor, but your hand wraps around Jungkook’s. Even though you’d like to remain forever in this little bubble with him, you really should be listening to the doctor.

“The baby seems just fine,” her words echo in the room. “And the pregnancy is going well so far. There is really nothing to worry about.”

Although you’re lost right now, it is a relief that everything is going well. You’re not sure you would have been able to handle a bad news on top of this.

Once she has checked everything, she tells you that you can put your clothes back on. Your body works on autopilot while your mind still processes what you’ve seen.

“I believe that you took the emergency contraception to avoid a pregnancy, right?” she asks when you all sit back on the chairs next to her desk.   

“Correct,” you reply.

The doctor looks for something in a drawer before she places a flyer in front of you.

“This is a brochure from a clinic that performs abortion,” she begins to explain. “I don’t perform this procedure, but I can recommend a fantastic doctor if you wish.”

Her words hit you violently. Honestly, since stepping inside this office, you haven’t thought at all about abortion.

“Ab…Abortion?” you stutter.

It must be clear in your eyes how surprised and hurt you feel because her gaze softens instantly.

“Yes,” she gently speaks. “As you seemed not to desire this pregnancy, I just want to guide you to the best clinic.”

Jungkook’s hand envelops yours all over again, offering you reassurance and comfort.

“We don’t know yet,” he speaks for the first time since getting inside. “We haven’t decided yet what to do.”

You’re grateful that he stepped in because you’re just speechless. You weren’t really thinking about discussing the possibility of aborting. Both options need thorough thinking as they’ll have a permanent handprint on you. Either you have a baby and raise them, or you abort and carry the weight of ending a pregnancy for the rest of your life.

“I understand,” she offers you both a little smile.

Does she really? Well, you don’t know anything about her, so maybe she faced the same challenge, and you hope that, truthfully, she hasn’t. It isn’t easy.

The rest of the day is a bit of a blur. Jungkook drove you back home. You cried in his arms in the car, and he walked with you to your place to make sure you were fine. You took a bath and fell asleep in your bed while watching your favorite K-drama.

This day felt like a fucking nightmare.

A week later

Over the past few days, you’ve spent all your time with your mom because you felt the need to be with her and to be wrapped in her love. Nothing ever beats a mother’s love. She has listened to your concerns while never telling you what to do, even though you desperately wanted it.

But ultimately, it is your decision to make, together with Jungkook. It isn’t hers.

You’ve also been speaking with Jungkook through text. He has texted you every morning and every night, asking you how you feel, which honestly made you realize that if you ever keep this baby, he’d be a great dad.

Through your conversations, you’ve gotten to understand that he has always desired to become a dad, but obviously, not in those circumstances. He’s also very scared, confused, and lost, but he underlined several times that it’s your body, and the final decision rests with you. He’s never going to force you to choose one option over the other.

You haven’t seen him in a week, and you definitely haven’t been intimate in any way. Instead, your interactions have been focused on talking openly and honestly about your future as eventual parents, and sharing every worry and uncertainty that has been on your minds.

Honestly, this new dynamic feels both strange and soothing. You aren’t avoiding difficult subjects. You’re actually giving each other space to voice your concerns and to support one another in this heavy situation.

There is a comfort in simply talking, in knowing you are not alone in your worries and that you are facing them together. And sincerely, your conversations feel more intimate than what you’ve shared in bed.

And thanks to all those conversations, you’ve managed to make a decision. You’ve invited Jungkook over tonight. You hesitated to announce it over dinner at a restaurant, but it would be more intimate to be in the safety of your place.

When the doorbell echoes in your apartment, you basically rush to the door to open it. His tall and toned figure stands in front of you. As always, he’s dressed fully in black, but it’s more casual than usual, which indicates that he didn’t come back from work.

Jungkook works in finance, so he’s always well-dressed. Whether it’s crisp shirts, neat polos, tailored pants, or even full suits, he constantly presents himself with a level of style and professionalism that’s hard to ignore. The way he dresses for work exudes confidence and sophistication, making it easy to see why he could have any woman at his feet.

And most of the time, it leaves you wondering why he’s still single. However, you’d never complain because you got to have a taste of this man.

“Hi,” he says with the brightest smile growing on his face.

The little dimple that appears on his face as he smiles is your absolute weakness. Even without trying, he looks devastatingly hot.

“Hi, mister dimple,” you smile back.

When you met Jungkook, you were absolutely wasted and could only notice his dimple. Your fingers were constantly poking it like you were trying to confirm its existence. That night, you kept calling him ‘mister dimple’, and it stayed. Sometimes, you simply call him ‘dimple’.

“Someone seems in a better mood,” he says before winking.

Although you’re still trying to process this entirely new reality, you somehow feel better.

“Yeah,” you say as he steps inside your place.

You can’t stop your eyes from following him, drawn to him like instinct. Since today’s weather is kind of hot, he’s wearing one of those t-shirts that clings a little too much to his body, outlining muscles you know too intimately. It does nothing to hide him. If anything, it makes him impossible to ignore.

Your gaze lingers shamelessly, tracing the solid lines of his torso. His tattooed arm is on full display, and it sends a familiar flutter through your stomach. You’ve seen it a hundred times before, yet it still affects you the same way, like your body reacts before your mind can catch up.

When he steps inside, his arms flex naturally, and the sight alone is enough to make your pulse jump. He never leaves you indifferent; he actually never has. No wonder you’re pregnant. This man looks way too hot, and you can barely contain yourself.

As you both walk to the living room, his eyes land on your figure, and he checks you out. There is something about the way you move that pulls at his attention every single time. From behind, you look effortlessly captivating, and damn, he wants to run his fingers in those curves that he knows by heart.

“So, what’s for dinner?” he asks with curiosity.

“I was craving a burger, and since I’m a very bad cooker, I ordered,” you reply, your gaze shifting to him. “Let’s avoid food poisoning.”

He chuckles, knowing damn well how terrible you are in the kitchen, and he still wonders how you’re even alive. Every time he comes to your place, he ends up cooking because your cooking skills are terrible. 

“We could have cooked together,” he suggests, pausing mid-step to look at you.

“The point isn’t for you to come and cook,” you retort, folding your arms over your chest and making it clear that you didn’t invite him over to act as your chef. 

“Would have been cheaper than ordering,” he claps back.

Rolling your eyes, you answer, “I’m the one who paid, so why are you complaining?” and raise an eyebrow.

Jungkook just shrugs, “Can’t I complain now?” he asks. 

“No,” you say before resuming walking to the living room.

A low chuckle rumbles from his throat while a smile stretches across his soft features. He shakes his head before he follows you to the living room. A warmth spreads in his chest when he notices the burgers carefully placed on two different plates with fries right next to them.

“Before you asked,” you begin, “I put them in a plate like a minute before you arrive.”

Jungkook takes a seat in the chair that you show him, and his smile grows bigger when he realizes that you ordered his favorite. He’s fully aware that you barely know each other, but when it comes to food, you’ve cooked so much together that you don’t even have a secret from each other about your tastes.

While eating, you both playfully discuss, forgetting for a moment that there’s a life growing inside you—a life that has completely changed yours. It’s still surreal that a literal human is developing inside you. A human you created with the man sitting in front of you. 

And when you’ve finished eating, you gather all your courage to speak out loud what has been on your mind for the past few days. He has been very clear that he’d support you no matter what, but you also don’t want to impose on him anything. If he doesn’t want to be present, it’s his choice, and you’ll respect that. 

“As you might have guessed, I’ve asked you to come because I’ve made up my mind about the little creature growing inside me,” you finally say, biting the inside of your cheek hard enough to ground yourself.

Your hands twist together in your lap, knuckles whitening as your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. You can’t even look him in the eye. This conversation makes you absolutely nervous, and it has been haunting your sleep for the past two nights. But it’s a conversation you can’t avoid.

“I’m going to keep the baby,” you continue, your voice barely above a whisper. Saying it out loud makes it heavier, more real. “And I really don’t expect anything from you. I don’t want you to feel trapped, or like I’m forcing this on you.”

His eyes never leave you, and when you lift yours to meet his, you search for any sign on his face. However, he doesn’t show anything; his expression is unreadable, which only makes your heart beat faster.

For a moment, none of you speaks. Jungkook just looks at you, jaw tight as if you had announced something absolutely terrible. The silence stretches, and your stomach twists painfully. You’re mentally preparing yourself for rejection, even though he promised you he’d never let you and the baby go.

“If you don’t want to be involved—”

He doesn’t even let you finish your sentence, “Yn,” he says your name in such a gentle way that it makes you melt completely. “Come here,” he softly taps his lap.

You don’t even question his intention when you stand up to sit down on his lap—one that has driven you crazy way too many times, and fuck, it brings you back to the night you conceived your baby. Some riding was involved at some point that night.

Instinctively, you wrap your arms around his neck, and his hands settle firmly at your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. The warmth of his palms seeps through your clothes, steady and reassuring, like he’s trying to remind you that he’s here. 

“Did I ever give you a single reason to believe that I’d leave you to deal with this all by yourself?” he murmurs, his warm breath softly brushing your cheek and sending a shiver through you.

You shake your head, your fingers tightening slightly at the nape of his neck before you speak, “But you mentioned you never wanted to become a dad under those circumstances.”

As the words leave your mouth, your hand betrays your nerves, absentmindedly threading through the soft hair at the back of his head. He lets out a heavy sigh, as though your words were the most terrible thing he’s ever heard. His forehead dips briefly toward yours, and his grip on your waist tightens, thumbs pressing into you.

“And you?” he asks quietly, raising an eyebrow. “Would you also want to become a mother under those circumstances?”

You shake your head once more.

“None of us expected this,” he says calmly, “but not once did I ever say or imply that I don’t want it.”

His left hand rests on top of your cheek, his lips a breath away from yours, and you know that any moment this can turn into something very nasty, but would it be right? Well, you’re not sure. However, every time you’ve been around him, things always become heated and end with both of you naked and panting. 

“I’m not going anywhere, yn,” he whispers. “If you want to keep the baby, I’ll remain by your side and raise this baby with you.”

“You’re sure?” you ask, biting your lower lip.

“I am,” he mumbles, his thumb brushing over your lower lip.

Your heartbeat thrums in your ears as your gaze drops to his lips, your fingers playing with his hair. The tension is more than palpable between you, and you know you won’t be able to resist—well, not the moment, but him.

And then, it happens. His lips meet yours for a much-desired kiss, and it’s soft at first, almost as if he’s giving you time to pull away. When you don’t, something shifts.

The kiss deepens, and his lips move against yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. This right here feels like something you really needed after all the intense emotions you’ve been through the past few days. 

One of his hands slides up your back, holding you closer, while the other remains firm on your cheek. You melt into him, your fingers tightening in his hair as the kiss grows more intimate. It’s not desperate; it’s actually the opposite. It’s slow and tender.

When you finally part, your foreheads rest together, and your breaths mingle. For a moment, you remain like this, your eyes locked on his. It just feels right, even though it’s totally different than usual. Before today, a kiss would instantly lead to the two of you naked, his dick buried deep inside you. 

This baby is definitely changing everything—even your relationship with Jungkook. Will you fall for this man?

A month later – July 2024

This morning, you woke up to a message from Darim. Her daughter is finally born, and you honestly couldn’t be happier for her. She finally got her rainbow and very much-desired baby. With Jin, they named her Yuna, which you found adorable.

You aren’t going to visit her yet since the hospital visits are limited to the father. You’ll only be able to see your goddaughter once she’s safely home with her parents, and you’ll wait until Darim feels comfortable receiving visits.

Right now, you’re staring at your reflection in the mirror. Your belly has been growing a lot over the past month, and you’re slowly looking like a pregnant lady. It’s honestly strange to see your body change, and it’s even weirder to realize that a literal human is growing inside you. You’re creating a human, and it’s just crazy.

You rub your hand over your growing stomach, embracing this new phase of your life.

Everything is different now, but Jungkook has become a tremendous source of support. Between unpredictable cravings, bouts of heartburn, and waves of nausea, he’s always there, ready to help with anything you need. He even prepares all your meals for the week because he absolutely refuses that his kid eats the shit you cook. Additionally, he has been teaching you how to cook properly, demonstrating patience and care with every lesson.

Honestly, you’re absolutely so grateful for everything he does. Jungkook goes out of his way to make your life easier, ensuring you’re never alone in navigating this pregnancy.

Jungkook arrives behind you, his toned body coming into view in the mirror. Instantly, his head rests against your shoulder, his arms wrapping around your waist as his hands find their way to your growing belly. His body heat warms your back, making you melt in his embrace.

Well, this pregnancy hasn’t really stopped you from sleeping together. Actually, it had the opposite effect. Now that he spends more time with you, it’s like you’re two teenagers in heat, always glued to each other and having mind-blowing sex all the time.

The thing is, you now spend a lot more time together, so you’re really getting to know him. You learn how much he loves his job, that he likes to drink a glass of milk before going to bed, and that he scrunches his nose when he’s eating something he doesn’t like.

“Pregnancy looks good on you,” he whispers in your ear before pressing a gentle kiss on your naked shoulder.   

“It’s weird,” you admit quietly. “I find it beautiful, but at the same time, I barely recognize myself.”

Accepting this new body can be challenging at times. In the span of a month, you’ve been through rollercoasters while watching your body change. Some days you find yourself even prettier than before, but on other days, you even wonder if you’ll ever be able to have your old body back.

And thinking that it’s just the beginning doesn’t really help.  

He tightens his hold just a little, his lips brushing against your cheek. This simple gesture gives you butterflies, and for an instant, you close your eyes to savor this moment.

“To me,” he whispers with a deep, husky voice, “you look even better.”

Fuck, this man knows which buttons to pull to get you weak and absolutely wet in a second.

“You’re creating life, our kid,” he presses a kiss on your neck. “That’s beautiful and so fucking hot.”

He leaves a trail of kisses from your neck to your shoulder, and small and barely audible moans leave your lips as your hand finds its way to his hair.

“Jungkook,” you moan.

His hand trails down, sneaking under your underwear. The cold feeling of his fingers against your core sends shivers down your spine. He doesn’t even wait to run his fingers along your folds, snatching louder moans out of your mouth.

“Look at yourself,” he tells you.

Slowly, you open your eyes to be graced with your own reflections. You’re only dressed in the matching set of black bra and panties, his right hand covers your stomach, and his head lies against your shoulder, but now, his left hand is hidden under your panties. The mirror does nothing to hide the way his fingers torture your core.

As his fingers move up and down your slit, your wetness spreads everywhere, soaking your underwear even more. And fuck, the way he slowly and tortuously moves his fingers drives you insane. It feels wonderful, which brings you slowly but surely closer to the edge.

And seeing him doing it through the mirror turns you on even more.  

“You’re stunning,” he breathes. “Especially like this. I swear, I could stay right here forever—listening to you, feeling you, and memorizing every part of you.”

The look in his eyes makes your breath hitch—they’re dark with lust. His jaw is tight, tension visible there, as if he’s holding himself back. Slowly, you feel his prominent bulge teasing your back, and let’s just say that it does nothing to cool you down. It’s only arousing you even more.

His hair is slightly tousled, falling into his eyes in a way that feels careless and intimate, like he’s forgotten everything except you. But, well, an hour ago, he was fucking the shit out of you like it was the only thing that truly mattered, and he didn’t have the time yet to brush his hair.

You can only see part of him—his face, his arms, and his hands—but somehow that makes it worse, more intense. His arms are wrapped around you, muscles flexing as one hand holds you close and the other pleasures you as if he hadn’t done an hour ago. 

“And the way your face contorts with pleasure when we fuck takes my breath away,” he continues whispering while never stopping to edge you.

And we’ll, the second his greedy fingers push inside you, your orgasm rips through you. It’s so intense that he has to hold you tight with his arms, and seeing yourself fall apart prolongs your orgasm. This is mind-blowing. Even better than anything he ever did before.

Jungkook turns you around to kiss you passionately. Fuck, how are you going to survive him? He’s been giving you the best orgasms of your life for over a year, and you’re about to become parents. What will life look like once the baby is out? Will you still fuck like two rabbits in heat? Will it even be possible with a crying baby?

All those questions are brushed aside as he kisses you softly. You swear that every time his lips meet yours, you just melt. It’s like he holds a special power over you. You’re still trying to understand it, but there are moments—those right before falling asleep—when you believe you’re falling in love with him.

However, you’re convinced that it can’t be that. It doesn’t quite make sense to be falling for a man you barely know—especially when you’re only just beginning to get to know him truly.

“You’re truly wonderful, yn,” he whispers against your lips. “Don’t ever doubt that.”

Your eyes look up at him as you break the kiss. His hands push your hair from your face to really and properly look at you. Jungkook knows and fully realizes that he’s falling for you, and he doesn’t hide it. For sure, at the beginning, it was just sex, and god, he had the best sex of his life.

But now that you’re carrying his baby, things are different.

He’s seeing you from another perspective. Actually, he’s truly seeing your heart, and man, he loves what he sees. As you look up at him, his heart misses a beat, making him swallow thickly. Yeah, he knows he’s fucked!

Two months later – September 2024

“Are you sure you’re doing it right?” you ask, your gaze flicking between the IKEA instructions and Jungkook.

“Give me that,” he says, reaching for the manual.

He scans the pages, then looks back at the crib he’s assembling. Everything matches the pictures, each piece exactly where it should be. He frowns, genuinely confused by your question. 

“I’ve followed every step perfectly,” he says, now looking up at you.

“From here, it looks weird,” you reply, caressing your belly that has grown rounder over the past two months.

“It’s normal,” he mutters, a hint of irritation in his voice. “The crib isn’t finished yet.”

“But shouldn’t it already look good?” you ask with concern.

“Yn,” he mumbles as he stands up to stand next to you. “If it’d look good after only assembling three pieces, then there’s certainly a problem.”

“I don’t know…” you whisper.

Jungkook instantly understands that this isn’t just about the crib. There’s definitely something else going on.

“Tell me what the real issue is, mama,” he says, his hands settling on top of your shoulders as if he’s trying to ground you both.

“I just want the best for our baby,” you tell him, your hands stroking your baby even more. “And I just want to be sure the crib is assembled perfectly so she can sleep peacefully.”

A soft smile spreads across his face as he hears your concerns. You look absolutely adorable with worry written all over your face, and he can totally understand you. This is for both of you, your first baby. Everything is uncharted territory.

Jungkook wraps his arms around you, holding you close for a moment. “We are assembling this crib perfectly, mama,” he whispers before pressing a gentle kiss on your temple. “She’ll be just fine in here. We’ll be here for her if anything happens.”

Jungkook has noticed that as you slowly get closer to your due date, which funnily is December 25th, you get more and more nervous, worrying about every single thing that relates to your baby girl. He can only understand you as he worries just as much as you do, but he has made it his mission to reassure you every single time.

He doesn’t bury and hide his concerns from you, but he formulates them in a way not to make it a burden for you. The point isn’t to make you even more stressed because he knows how it could have a bad impact on the baby.

“I know, but I’m scared it won’t be enough,” you admit as you take a step back to look at him properly.

“We’re doing our best,” he replies with such softness in his voice. “We’re preparing as much as we can before she arrives, but until she isn’t here, we can’t say for sure if it’ll be enough.”

“I know…” You say before wrapping your arms again around him.

A smile spreads across his face as he holds you tight in his embrace.

For a moment, you stay like this, and he just enjoys it even though it’s a bit complicated with your bump. It’s only getting bigger, but he can’t help but find you extremely attractive. You’re literally shining. Pregnancy definitely looks good on you.

And he realizes in this moment that he’s only falling in love with you again and again. It’s like he’s falling deeper every day, and he simply loves it.

“Now, let’s get back to building this crib for our super baby girl,” he says, pressing a kiss on your forehead gently.

Jungkook settles back on the floor in front of the crib's beginnings and returns to following the instructions to finalize it.

You sit down next to him to help him with whatever he needs. You’re not very useful because he’s doing everything by himself, but you hand him the screws and the other pieces whenever he needs them.

Suddenly, your little girl kicks you. She’s been kicking a lot in the past few days, like she’s been very active, but sometimes it’s quite painful, especially when she moves next to your rib cage.

You directly grab Jungkook’s hand, right before he starts placing a screw. “She’s kicking.”

His hand rests on your tummy, a big smile on his face, when a small but unmistakable movement presses back beneath his hand.

“She’s already strong,” he says.

“She’s killing me sometimes,” you chuckle.

His strong, tattooed hand gently touches your belly, and he stays quiet, eyes fixed on the spot beneath his palm. When he feels another movement, his smile softens. Feeling her under his hand seems unbelievable, but somehow, it makes this even more real.

He’s really going to be a father.

As his gaze lifts to meet yours, his heart swells with love. Never in his life did he imagine himself in this situation, falling desperately in love with the mother of his unborn child. But here he is, falling over and over again with you.

For almost two years, his life has drastically changed. Before meeting you, he had navigated celibacy for almost three years after being dumped for someone else. When you both met, there definitely was a strong physical attraction between you. However, neither of you was ready for a relationship, so you settled for the friends-with-benefits thing without truly knowing each other.

Things were easier like that. It was just sex.

Now, everything is different. He’s practically living at your place—cooking for you, helping you tie your shoes as you struggle to do it, showering with you, and giving you the massages you desperately crave when your girl kicks you in the ass.

He never pictured becoming a dad under these circumstances, but now, he’s grateful for them. Through it all, he’s gotten to know you—and to fall for you again and again.

Jungkook leans down, his face now right in front of your belly. “Give some break to your mama, baby girl,” he whispers. “She’s all nervous here because you don’t let her sleep properly.”

A wide smile shows up on your face.

“She’s even doubting my skills in building your crib,” he adds.

“Eeh,” you gently tap his shoulder, “for my defense, you’re a guy in finance, and I’ve never seen you being handy.”

His gaze moves up to meet yours, and his left eyebrow raises, clearly in confusion.

“You’ve never seen me being handy?” he repeats with evident surprise in his tone. “Do I need to remind you how we conceived our daughter? Or even how I feed you with proper food?”

You roll your eyes, but clearly thinking about that fantastic night of March 29th sends shivers down your spine. It was a memorable night. And seeing him cooking is like a massive turn-on, especially now that your hormones are all over the place. 

“I mean, like building and repairing stuff,” you explain yourself.

“You’re making it worse for you, mama,” he counters. “I’ve done everything in this room—from painting the walls to building every piece of furniture.”

He’s not wrong, but you’re not going to admit it. Looking at him assembling the crib feels like it’s the first time you’re seeing him being handy.

“Baby girl,” he now speaks to your daughter, “look what you’re doing to your mama. She’s so tired that she says nonsense.”

You chuckle, shaking your head as you watch this tender moment unfold before your eyes.

“I’m not tired and not saying nonsense.”

“See,” he continues, “still saying nonsense.”

Two months later – November 2024

Today, you’re visiting the maternity ward, where you’ll give birth in a month. The due date is getting closer and closer, and you can’t wait to meet the little girl who has been torturing you for nine months.

Jungkook is also present, wanting to ensure that he doesn’t miss anything. This visit will cover the administrative formalities to make things easier once you arrive for the birth, a discussion over your birthing plan, and a tour of the maternity ward.

As your midwife has already explained what this visit will consist of, you have gathered all the necessary documentation for the formalities, or maybe you should say that Jungkook did.

It’s incredible to see how invested he is. He has followed every possible prenatal course, read every possible book on parenthood and fatherhood, looked on forums for advice from other fathers, and many other things. In summary, he’s more than ready for your baby girl’s arrival.

And to be honest, this reassures you a lot. You’re nervous about everything right now because the due date is very close, and his knowledge on almost every topic comforts you. Somehow, it feels like he’s the one being pregnant, and not you, but it’s great to have someone like him as your baby daddy.

As the nurse guides you through the corridors of the maternity ward, you walk beside Jungkook, one of your hands resting on your belly and the other wrapped around his arm. It’s quite hard to walk at this stage, but you try your best, and Jungkook is always next to you, helping as much as he can.

The nurse shows you the delivery rooms, the reception area, the bedrooms, and the nurses' room. Near the reception area, there are the names of the babies born this year, and they are all adorable. There’s also a section dedicated to all the little angels that didn’t survive, which honestly warmed your heart.

Throughout the visit, Jungkook keeps asking tons of questions and taking notes on his phone about the information the nurse gives you. Of course, you also raise your own questions, as this is where you’ll be bringing your baby girl to live. You can’t even believe that in a month, she’s here.

With Jungkook, you’re still hesitating between two names for her, but you’ve agreed that you’ll make the final decision once she’s out. Everybody has been begging you both to give them the names, but you refuse since you don’t want to hear people’s opinions on them. It’s always like that.

You've gotten to see it with your own eyes with your siblings. All of them already have children, and the second they revealed the names, everybody thought they were entitled to give their opinions, which is ridiculous. It’s not their child.

Once the little tour of the maternity ward is over, you head back to the car. Your hands gently caress your belly as your daughter moves a lot inside you. Lately, her movements have started to hurt—she’s grown so much.

However, your mind is lost in the future awaiting you. This visit has made it clearer that you’re really about to push a human from your body in like a month.

Right now, all you hope is that she doesn’t arrive before her due date. You’re not sure you’d be ready just yet—you still need some time to truly realize what’s coming. A baby isn’t a small thing.  

“Are you okay?” Jungkook asks, noticing how you’re drifting in your own thoughts.

Your eyes lift up to meet his. Even sitting in a car, he looks like a fucking walking dream. You deeply hope your daughter will inherit his good looks.

“Could be better,” you admit.

There’s no point in hiding anything from him. If you have to navigate this together, it’s always best to be fully honest with one another.

“This visit just makes it even more real,” you continue. “She’s going to be here in a month, and it’s terrifying.”

Jungkook turns to face you and rests his huge hands on top of yours. The warmth emanating from his hands instantly soothes you.

“I know,” he begins. “I’m terrified as well, but we’re a super team, and we will manage this together.”

“I know that we’re in this together, but everything scares me, starting with the birth. Do you imagine that I will push her out of my body?” you ask with obvious concern in your voice. “What if everything goes wrong during birth?”

“Yn,” he mumbles with the softest voice, “there will be a medical team ready for any case scenario when you give birth to her. I understand your concern, but don’t forget that you’ll be super well surrounded.” He pauses for a moment, his thumb stroking your hands. “And I’ll be there too.”

“Having you there means already the world to me,” you whisper.

A soft smile appears on his adorable face, and you take one of his hands to press a gentle kiss on top of it. Jungkook has been your rock through it all. Without him, you wouldn’t have survived a week. He’s been taking care of you as nobody has ever before. Both you and your daughter are lucky to have him.

“I’ve something for you,” he tells you, reaching toward the glove compartment in front of you. You shift in your seat to give him room, watching him pull out a small box wrapped with care.

“I know your baby shower is tomorrow,” he continues, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “And technically, I should wait, but I couldn’t.”

Your heart starts to pound as he places the box in your hands. You open it slowly, almost afraid to rush the moment, and then you completely freeze. Inside rests a delicate necklace, a small heart catching the light. Your throat tightens instantly, tears threatening to run down your face.

“Tomorrow, everybody’s going to shower our princess with gifts,” he says softly. “ But I really wanted to give something to you. You’re the one carrying her. You’re the one about to give birth, and you deserve to be celebrated, too.”

For a moment, you can’t speak. You can only stare at the necklace, and then at him, completely overwhelmed by the weight of the gesture. The necklace is, for sure, wonderful, but what truly warms your heart is that he thought of you.

What did you do to deserve this man? How can he even be real?

Jungkook has really made it hard not to fall for him. Every day, he finds new ways to make you fall in love with him again and again. Sometimes you wonder if there will be any space left in your heart for your daughter.

“This is beautiful,” you manage to say, tears streaming down your face. “You didn’t have to.”

His thumb cleans the tears on your face; he hates to see you crying.

“You deserve it, mama,” he murmurs, his hot breath caressing your face. “I feel like I can’t thank you enough for carrying our baby girl. Everything I do seems so little compared to that.”

“It’s not,” you tell him. “You already do so much.”

His thumb strokes your cheek.

“I wish I could do more,” he murmurs before he leans to press the gentlest kiss on your lips.

And somehow, with his sweet words and thoughtful gesture, you feel like he’s just as smitten as you. Maybe you’re not the only one falling madly in love.

A month later – December 2024

Nova is born on December 31st at 2:02 pm.

“Apparently, she didn’t want to share the same birthday as Jesus,” Jungkook’s contagious laugh echoes in the room.

Your eyes fall on his figure—he’s holding your daughter, Nova, in his arms, watching her with literal hearts in his eyes. A smile grows on your face as you watch them both.

“She preferred New Year’s Eve,” you reply.

“Double the celebration,” he jokingly says.

Honestly, you don’t know how you’re still awake. She was born two hours ago and finally fell asleep after you both struggled to put her to sleep. You’re absolutely destroyed from birth, but completely in love with your baby girl.

You’ve been awake since two am, when you felt the first contractions. At first, you didn’t pay much attention because you’d been experiencing them for a couple of days, but as they got more intense, you realized that your baby girl was on her way.

Around five am, you called your midwife asking if you should rush to the hospital, but she advised you to wait until around seven or eight am. You had already waited before calling her, but with the help of Jungkook, you still managed to navigate through the painful contractions until eight am.

The pain only got worse, and you literally begged for the epidural. After that, it was like you were floating. You could still sense everything, but it wasn’t painful anymore.

Jungkook kept you busy all that time—chatting, walking, singing, and dancing with you all along. Honestly, he made it look like time was moving fast. Through it all, he stayed by your side, cheering you up.

The entire medical staff was surprised when they found out you and Jungkook weren’t together. Some even thought you were joking. They told you that you definitely looked like a couple, and they were impressed by his support. One of the nurses told you some horrific stories about some dads disappearing while their partners were giving birth.

When it was time to push, you honestly thought you couldn’t make it, but he encouraged you, telling you repeatedly that you had already done the biggest part. Now it was just a matter of pushing her out.

On top of having a super baby daddy, the medical staff was fantastic. They also encouraged you tremendously through it all and helped you as well when you were literally giving up towards the end.

But looking at her now in her father’s arms makes it all worth it.

Jungkook is shirtless, sitting on a chair next to your bed with Nova against his chest. She seems so tiny against him, his hands almost hiding her completely.   

“This year, I’m for sure not making it to midnight,” you chuckle.  

“Me neither,” he says, his eyes meeting yours.

Even if she were born on her due date, you would have never been able to wait until midnight, you know it. This New Year celebration would have been special in any case, and with her being born on New Year’s Eve, this end of 2024 is even more special.

“Maybe you should try to get some sleep, mama,” Jungkook tells you. “I’ll stay awake, taking care of you both if needed.”

“Thanks, mister dimple,” you reply, smiling at him.

As you look at each other, you know that this day is beyond special. Watching each other become parents deepens what you already feel. Jungkook only admires you even more after witnessing you bring your daughter into the world.

How could he not fall in love with you again and again after something like this?

Six months later – back to June 2025

After Yuna’s birthday party, Jungkook drove the three of you back home. Since you got pregnant, he has decided to rent his apartment—he’s literally been living with you. Having him by your side has made everything a lot easier, and raising Nova together seems simple as ABC.

At the party, you spoke with Darim and finally admitted how down bad you were for Jungkook. Those feelings haven’t been a secret to you, but it was the first time you were saying them out loud. She wasn’t surprised, saying that she had been waiting for you to tell her.

Following her words, Jungkook is as smitten as you, if not more, and she still doesn’t know how, after all this time, you haven’t started dating. You’ve been glued to each other since you found out about the pregnancy, and he’s been literally worshipping the ground you walk on.

Darim encouraged you to speak with him. You are scared that he’d push you away, and it’s the last thing on earth you want right now. You need him. You’re a super team when it comes to taking care of Nova.

“Are you okay, mama?” Jungkook asks while taking Nova out of the stroller.

Even though he’s focused on carefully removing your daughter, his eyes can’t help but look at you.

“Yeah,” you say, biting your lower lip.

How are you supposed to tell this man that you love him? It seems impossible. Revealing your feelings would ruin everything, and you’re working perfectly as co-parents.  

Just look at him. He’s holding your six-month-old baby against his chest like she weighs nothing when it’s getting harder for you to hold her. And he looks so effortlessly hot. Being a dad suits him perfectly—no wonder all women can’t help but look at him when he carries her.

“That’s not really convincing,” he tells you while walking in your direction. “You’ve been spacing out since you spoke with Rimy.” 

“I’m not spacing out,” you counter.

Jungkook looks down at your chubby little daughter, “See?” he tells her in a teasing, high-pitched voice. “Your mom has been saying nonsense since she was pregnant with you.”

Nova lets out a delighted giggle, as if she understands every word.

“Jungkook,” you warn him.

His gaze shifts to you, the teasing fading away. “Just tell me what’s going on,” he says gently. “I’m worried.”  

“There’s nothing to worry about,” you say, rolling your eyes.

You disappear into the living room, putting some distance between the two of you. This man makes you so weak. If he keeps pushing, you’ll just give in.

“Yn,” he calls after you, following close behind. “Don’t run away from me.”

No answer comes from your mouth. Instead, you decide to hide in your bedroom, your heart racing inside your chest. Jungkook walks behind you with a giggling Nova in his arms. Apparently, she finds this whole situation amusing. Her little feet are bouncing against his torso, and soft sounds tumble from her mouth.

Once inside, Jungkook closes the door behind him, leaving you no room to escape again. He studies you, concern etched into his features.  

When you finally turn to face them, a smile spreads across your face. Nova has her hand in her mouth, her legs kicking with energy against her dad. If she’s hurting him, he doesn’t show it.

“Tell me what’s going on,” he asks once more, his tone filled with concern.

Your heart thrums inside your chest while you take a deep breath. There’s no escaping this conversation, even if you want to. Jungkook isn’t the kind of man to let things go, especially not when he cares. And right now, it’s painfully obvious that he does.

“I love you,” you mumble, but he doesn’t hear it. “I’m sorry.”

“I can’t hear you, yn,” he says, frustratingly, and he takes a step closer, closing the distance between you.

“I love you,” you repeat out loud, heart pounding extremely fast.

Your words catch him off guard, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything, only blinking at you. There’s a heavy silence between you; the room is simply filled with Nova’s soft sounds.

Your heart completely breaks as he doesn’t react. Rimy was wrong, he doesn’t love you back—at least not like you love him. You’re convinced that he might love and respect you as a friend and the mother of his daughter, but that’s it.

So to spare you a devastating heartbreak, you leave the room, heading to the apartment’s entrance. You need to get out of this place, put some distance between you and him, and thoroughly think about the future.

“Yn,” Jungkook calls for you when you put your shoes on. “Please, wait. Let me just put Nova in the playpen.”  

If anything, you hurry to run away, putting on your shoes as fast as possible, but it seems that Jungkook is even faster in putting your daughter in the playpen. When you open the door, his hand wraps around your wrist, preventing you from stepping outside.   

“Why don’t you ever listen to me?” he rumbles with annoyance.

The second your eyes meet his, you’re caught off guard by the look on his face. His expression isn’t hurt, but you’d say that he’s actually stunned, as if your words knocked the air out of him, and he’s only now remembering how to breathe.  

“I prefer to avoid the tough conversation where you tell me that you’re flattered but don’t feel the same,” you tell him, freeing your wrist from his grip.

Somehow, you manage to remove yourself from his hand and resume getting away. The tears are threatening to run down your face, your heart is beating way too fast, and your hands are shaking. You’re sure you’ll never be able to look at him ever again.

“I love you too,” he says very loudly when you step into the building complex’s corridor.

You instantly freeze. Out of all the answers, you never expected this one. In your head, it was impossible. There’s no way this man loves you back.

“I love you way too much, yn,” he continues. “Please come back inside. We can’t have this conversation here, and we can’t leave Nova alone.”

His words change everything. This isn’t rejection as you expected it to be. It’s the opposite, and you need to hear him out. So, you walk back home. The look on his face breaks your heart. You’ve never seen him like that. It’s like he’s been repeatedly stabbed in the heart.

Jungkook closes the door behind you, but doesn’t let you make any other move, trapping you between the door and his body. Your heart is really ready to burst. You’ll have a damn heart attack before the end of the day.

“You can’t just run away like a thief after telling me ‘I love you’,” he tells him with his deep, husky voice.

“You didn’t react—”

He doesn’t let you finish your sentence. “How could I? I was chasing you, dead worried, and you told me that you love me. I was in shock. My brain needed a minute to process the info.”

“I got scared,” you confess.

His hand caresses your cheek, trying to comfort you, and it definitely works.

“And I’m sorry,” he whispers. “It wasn’t my intention.”

For a moment, you close your eyes, leaning your face against his hand.

“I truly and deeply love you, yn,” he admits. “It almost feels like it’s impossible to love someone this strongly.” He takes a deep and shaky breath, and you finally open your eyes to look at him. “I’ve been falling in love with you again and again since the beginning of your pregnancy. Every single thing you do makes me fall even harder. But up until today, I truly believed it was one-sided. I never imagined you felt the same.”

His words take you by surprise, your throat tightening as you swallow. Many thoughts cross your mind, but only one question screams louder than any other.  

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Your voice sounds so weak.

“I guess for the same reasons as you,” he replies quietly. “I was scared of ruining our super co-parenting team, and…” he hesitates to continue. “I was scared of losing you.”  

Your hands rise instinctively to cup his face. “You’d never lose me,” you whisper. “Even if I didn’t feel the same. You’re Nova’s dad.”

His eyes soften, but there’s something raw in his expression. “But I always wanted to be more than that for you,” he confesses with a shaky voice. “I never wanted to be just your daughter’s father.”

Your heart misses a beat, your thumbs brushing over his handsome face. It’s hard to remain composed in front of the man you love.  

“Me too,” you manage to say.

A breathy laugh escapes him, from relief and emotion as well. “I love you so freaking much, mama,” he murmurs. “Nothing has felt the same since the pregnancy. The sex, the kisses—everything felt deeper. It wasn’t just desire. It was me loving you and not knowing how else to say it.”  

“Jungkook,” you murmur.

And then, without wasting any other second, you crash your lips against his. This is overwhelming, in a good way, of course, and you can’t just stay like this without doing anything. Any words you might say will never express your love the same way a kiss would.

You kiss him with your entire soul, letting your emotions take over it. Instantly, your arms wrap around his neck to push him closer to you. This feels like heaven. This feels like the best thing ever.

Darim was right after all. Jungkook loves you as well. Your feelings were reciprocated all this time, but you were too blind to see it.   

The kiss deepens quickly, taking a heated and fervent turn. It represents much more than it has ever been. You’re both in love and aware of it now. It’s filled with even more passion than ever before.

His hands quickly move down to your waist, sneaking under your pants to squeeze your ass. A moan escapes your lips, but Jungkook directly swallows it while kissing you like a starved man.

Nova’s rumbling brings you both down to earth. Taking this any further with a baby very much awake is impossible. She might start crying or doing dangerous things while you both do nasty stuff.

“We should stop before Nova does something wild and hurts herself,” you whisper against his lips.

“Yeah, right,” he takes a step back, running his hand through his hair.

The two of you head back to the living room, where Nova is playfully throwing her favorite stuffed bunny on the floor in her playpen. She looks absolutely adorable.

For the rest of the afternoon, you try to keep your hands to yourselves, but it’s practically impossible. Thankfully, around 6 pm, she falls asleep after breastfeeding, and Jungkook puts her to sleep in her crib, in her own bedroom.

After that, he joins you in your room, and you both just surrender to passion. “Finally,” he mumbles as he walks towards you and closes the door behind him. “Let me just place the baby monitor on the nightstand, and I’m all yours.”

A smile spreads across your face as you watch him take big steps until the nightstand. Once settled, he gets closer to you, lust written all over his face. The two of you stand in front of each other, smiling like idiots. Everything is different now.

“If it wasn’t for Nova,” he whispers, closing the distance between you, “I would have fucked you against that door earlier.” Jungkook leans in closer, his lips dangerously close to yours. “I would have shown you how fucking happy I am.”

His hand lands on your back, his fingers pressing just a little. His other hand comes up to trace along your jaw, his touch featherlight but so intoxicating.

“You’ve no idea how many times I’ve dreamt of you telling me you loved me back,” he continues, his lips brushing against your cheek as he speaks. “But hearing it for real turned me on so much.”

“You can show me now how fucking happy you are,” you whisper before crashing your lips on his.

His hand on your back pulls you closer, your body pressed against his. Your fingers find their way to his hair to play with it. The kiss deepens almost instantly, driven by the same desperate need building inside you.

Without wasting anymore time, his hand moves to the hem of your pants. His fingers push them down, the fabric pooling at your ankles. You’re now only in your underwear—not your fanciest, but it isn’t your ugliest as well.

Since becoming a mother, you have been using the most comfortable underwear, which most of the time isn’t the prettiest one. The version of you before Nova would have been extremely shocked, as you used to always put on the prettiest matching set of bra and panties. Now, you barely match anything together, even socks. 

“Sit on the bed,” he instructs, and you obey without saying anything.

Once you sit at the edge, Jungkook kneels in front of you, his hands pushing apart your legs. His fingers very slowly trace along your leg, and his lips press featherlight kisses on your thigh. His hot breath and soft fingers against your skin send shivers down your spine.

“You always know what to do,” you mumble, your back slightly arching.

“I’ve been studying this body for more than two years,” he whispers against your skin. “So I know you by heart now.”

His fingers hook beneath the waistband of your underwear, slowly pushing the fabric down. He takes his time, his eyes never leaving you. Once your panties reach your ankles, Jungkook throws the fabric somewhere in the room.

“And I intend to keep studying it,” he adds.

He looks like a damn sin, and that sight alone can make you come right now.

“Please never stop,” you beg.

Jungkook leans back in, “It’s not on my plans, mama.”

His lips graze your skin as he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, the warmth of his breath brushing over you. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you firmly in place as his lips finally taste you without hesitation. 

A strangled gasp escapes your mouth, your back arching instinctively as pleasure pulses through you. Your hands also find their way to his hair, tugging it as he eats you out like a starved man.  

“Fuck,” you moan.

Your hips buck forward, pushing his face even closer, and your fingers tighten in his hair as a trail of moans falls from your lips. His mouth works over you with tremendous hunger, tongue torturing you like never before, while his lips seal around your clit. His nose presses into you, dragging against your cunt with each movement.

You throw your head back while moans flow out of your mouth. The growing pleasure is overwhelming but in a fantastic way, and your body trembles beneath his relentless tongue.

“Don’t be too loud, mama,” he speaks against your core. “We don’t want to wake up our princess. It’d be a shame if this had to stop.”

You simply nod, biting your lower lip to try to muffle your moans, but you know you won’t be able to hold back for long. As he said, he knows your body better than you do. He knows how to flick his tongue to have you screaming with pleasure.   

Jungkook is savoring every second, and a satisfied hum vibrates against you, sending shocks through your core. When your fingers tighten in his hair, he takes it as encouragement to push you further.

“Oh, Jungkook,” you barely manage to say because of his tongue working wonders on your core. “I’m going to come.”   

He groans, and he can feel his dick getting more and more compressed in his pants. The way you say his name turns him on in an unbelievable way.

Before you even realize it, your orgasm violently hits you, your legs shaking and squeezing his face, and your walls clenching around emptiness. Even though you’re coming hard against his lips, Jungkook doesn’t stop lapping at your juices.

Once you come down from your high, he pulls away. His face glistens with your slick, his lips swollen, his eyes dark with hunger.

Jungkook stands up before pushing down his pants and underwear. A sigh of relief leaves his lips the second his cock is finally free. It was getting painful to keep it inside his pants.

As he does so, you remove any remaining piece of clothing from your body. Not once does he look away, enjoying the sight unfolding right in front of him. When you’re fully naked, you lean back as you hold yourself with your upper arms, your eyes hungrily admiring the man standing in front of you.

“Someone seems turned on,” you say as your eyes look up to meet his.

Once he’s fully naked, his right hand finds its way to his cock, stroking himself. “I could come with a simple kiss,” he admits, and something inside you twists.

“So I’m the lucky girl who makes you come with a simple kiss?” you ask with a smirk, and he nods.

His grip tightens around his cock, his eyes never leaving yours. The simple fact that he’s masturbating in front of you is an incredible turn-on, but the way his eyes shine with lust gets you incredibly wet. He’s so fucking hot.

“If you keep looking at me like that, I’ll beg you to get me pregnant all over again.”

You notice his jaw flexing as his thumb swipes over the top of his cock, spreading the precum.

“You don’t have to beg, mama,” he tells you. “You just have to ask, and I’ll give you all the babies you want.”

You stand up, a smirk appearing on your face. Without saying anything, you gently remove his hand from his cock, and replace it with yours. Jungkook exhales sharply through his nose as your hand tightens around his shaft before you slowly start to stroke him.

“Mama,” he groans with his deep and rough voice.

“Tell me, dimple,” you say as you get slightly closer. Your other hand traces across his collarbone, a shiver running through his body. “Don’t you like this?”

Your hand moves faster on his shaft, making him groan with pleasure. Fuck, he won’t last long if you keep stroking him like that.  

“I do,” he moans. “I really do, but I won’t last long…”

Jungkook is completely consumed by pleasure, and damn, he doesn’t want to stop you, but he also doesn’t want to come just now. So, he places his hand on top of yours to stop you, and he doesn’t give you time to realize what happens when he lays you on the mattress of his bed, and then his lips crash against yours.

His body presses flush against yours, heat radiating between your bodies as he deepens the kiss. “You drive me absolutely crazy, mama.”  

His forehead rests against yours for a moment, his fingers brushing your jaw. His lips press another kiss on yours before he looks down between your bodies. His hand wraps around his cock, stroking himself one last time.

When you break the kiss, he holds you open as he guides the head of his cock into your sopping entrance. At first, he teases you as he drags the tip through your slick folds, spreading your arousal before finally pushing in with a slow, deliberate thrust.  

A deep moan leaves your throat as he stretches you open. Your walls clench around him as his cock makes its way inside your pussy. Your back instantly arches, your thighs trembling around his waist as he buries himself deeper.

“I’m so addicted to you, mama,” he mumbles the second he looks down, watching the way your body takes him in.

Jungkook pushes himself as far as possible. The second he’s fully inside, he halts to give you both a moment to adjust, but he honestly can’t stay still inside you. It’s absolute torture.

“Can I move?” he asks for your consent.

Even after two years of fucking like rabbits, he always makes sure that you agree with everything that goes on. He’d hate himself if he did something that wouldn’t make you comfortable.

Jungkook slowly pulls back, and he pauses for a second when only the thick head of his cock remains inside. Without any warning, he pushes back. Feeling his thick shaft pushing deeply back into you is beyond satisfying. Damn, it even makes you see stars.

Both of you try to muffle your moans as he starts pounding into you, but it’s basically impossible. This man right here just knows how to drive you completely crazy.  

His pace is restless, your body moving in tandem with his thrusts. His hands grip your waist tight as the room gets filled with the sound of your low moans, the headboard of the bed hitting the wall, your bodies slapping together, and your pussy soaking his cock.

The heat builds in your core as he slams into you, filling you with each thrust. Your hands grip the sheets to steady yourself from Jungkook’s hard thrusts.

Every time he pushes his hips back, he watches with delight the way his cock is completely covered with your arousal. Nothing drives him crazier than seeing this.

His lips meet yours for a sloppy kiss while his thrusts grow rougher and quicker. “You drive me crazy,” he whispers against your lips. “And I love you so much.”

“I love you so much, too,” you reply. “Like crazily.”  

The familiar coil of pleasure tightens in your stomach while your baby daddy moans your name. He seems just as consumed as you by pleasure. The only thing you’re both focused on now is chasing your high, and the heat between you is unbearable. You both know you won’t be lasting much longer. 

“I’m going to come again, Jungkook,” you manage to say, the desperation filling your voice.

His cock twitches inside you at your words, and well, that action causes your orgasm to crash over you. Your walls squeeze him tight while your orgasm completely and violently hits you. Jungkook groans when he feels your wall squeezing on repeat his cock.  

His thrusts get more desperate as he starts chasing his own high. He’s so fucking close. Jungkook closes his eyes because the simple view of your face contorting with pleasure is just too much. Your walls keep tightening around him, a torture you impose on him to help him cum.

“Fuck,” he groans.

And then, with one last thrust, he falls apart. Deep groans fall from his lips as he releases his hot semen inside you, painting your velvety walls white. His hands tighten around your waist, holding you still while he releases himself deeper in you. He looks incredibly sexy when the orgasm hits him. 

Jungkook collapses next to you in bed. His breathing is heavy, his eyes fixed on the ceiling just like yours. For a moment, you both remain in silence, giving each other the time to come down.

When his breathing is back to normal, he turns his head to look at you. “How do you feel?”

Your face moves, allowing you to meet his gaze. The horny Jungkook is now replaced by a softer version of him, making him look like a baby. Nova has inherited his big, round eyes—the same eyes that always make you melt.

“Great,” you smile, your body moving closer to his.

You rest your head against his chest, and his arms wrap around you.

“This is always great with you,” you admit, your eyes looking up to meet his. “We’re pretty good at sex.”

“But pretty bad at confessing our feelings,” he chuckles.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Very bad.”

One of his hands tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. There’s a moment of silence between you, but it’s far from being an awkward or heavy one. It’s the kind of moment that allows you to fully realize the immensity of the situation.

Jungkook loves you, like really does. And you love him back with the same intensity. This isn’t a dream of yours anymore. This is the reality.

“Now that we know our feelings,” Jungkook begins. “I’d really like to take you on a real date and properly ask you to be my girlfriend.”

“Why can’t you do it now?” you ask with a little smile on your face.

“I think it would be better to do it over dinner in a fancy restaurant, no?” he tells you.

“Honestly, I don’t give two shits about where we are,” you reply. “As long as we are together and we know that we want this, I’m happy.”

The brightest smile grows on his face.

“I wasn’t picturing things like this,” he chuckles lightly. “But would you love to be my girlfriend?”

The answer comes with no hesitation. “I’d love that.”

And just like that, you both found yourselves living the love you’d always dreamed of, falling in love again and again every single day.