fic rec blog :]

explicit warnings: manhandling, public sex, rough sex, hair/head pulling, oral (m rec), choking, cowgirl, spitting, reverse cowgirl, unprotected sex, breast play, fucking an ex lol yes that’s a warning, multiple orgasms, the chains stay on, hella backshots, emotional sex, creampie OOP, club sex reader is bad, yoongi loses his gd mind, couch sex, wall sex, chair sex, umm yeah alexa play like animals thanks

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“What’s taking you so long!” 

Groaning, you concentrate on getting your lashes just right. “Told you it’d be just a minute!” 

“I know.” Hoseok pops into your hotel bathroom, deep neckline and even deeper scent of cologne almost making you jab yourself right in the socket. “But it’s been ten.” 

It’ll end up being a lot longer than that if he keeps cocking that perfect brow. Shouldn’t he know the rule of getting ready already? 

Done with your current task, you blink and inspect yourself in the wide mirror spanning the master bath. “Yeah, a minute means twenty. So I have ten to spare, right?” 

Bright teeth shine as he shakes his head. And you know it’s because you’re both slated to be super early anyway. 

Everything’s going according to schedule. All your old friends flew in yesterday, and the plan for today is to head to dinner to watch the night game with everyone. After that, you’ll walk straight to the club a few blocks down that you’ve heard to be the best in town. 

Well. Best in town for absolute eye candy. Taehyung warned that everyone that’s been to Lo Prohibito knows the dress code is simple but effective: luxurious. Unless your face card is so lethal you get in on that alone, or you happen to have celebrity status. 

And your confidence can only take you so far. You look fucking good, but you aren’t risking being turned away just because you were lax getting ready. 

So ten more minutes it is. Hobi will just have to deal with it. 

Goddamn, he could get in without a single issue, though. Honestly, he could be wearing a linen shirt and shorts with sandals and they’d mistake him for a millionaire. “I’ll be ready before you know it,” you say over your bare, perfumed shoulder. “You’ll be able to see your lover soon enough.” 

Hoseok shoots you a grin before huffing out, “Got me, huh.” 

“You’re the easiest person in the world to read.” Leaning over your makeup bag, you rummage through your brushes. “Whatever you’re thinking is always written all over your face." 

Quick laughter coats the bathroom in more light. “I can’t help it, okay! It’s always been that way.” When you focus in the mirror and pat your face, he suddenly drops two pitches in tone. “Sorry about yours.” 

Here you go again. You know exactly what he’s talking about. 

“Hobi,” you sigh. “I don’t care anymore, okay? It’s been a month.” 

“I know, but…” Expelling a heavy, sympathetic breath of his own, he leans against the double door entryway. That dulcet yet gravelly tone of his rolls across marble floors as he says exactly what you don’t want him to, “You seemed pretty happy with them.” 

You were. In fact, you were more than happy. 

But something just didn’t feel right. Sure, the days you spent with your most recent fling were perfect. You felt comfortable with them, you admired how thoughtful they were and how attentive. 

It was the nights that made you more than hesitant. 

Because no matter how many times you slept together, you never felt truly understood. What you wanted, what you needed? They would get so close to getting it right, only to never reach that level of intensity and passion you were looking for. 

So you broke it off one quiet, cherry-red sunset on the beach weeks ago. 

Only to find out that they were seeing someone else the whole time anyway. 

Fuck love. To hell with happiness. Why do all your relationships end up this way? Why do you always attract the people that seem perfect on the surface but hide so many flaws underneath? It’s starting to fucking annoy you and you may damn well swear to the single life forever. 

Though. There was one relationship that didn’t exactly end this way. 

But you’re never thinking about that one again, so no point in shuffling through those beautiful, tragic, regretful memories now. 

“And now I’m happy without them,” you finally respond to Hoseok, who tears his gaze from the white floors to see you staring in the mirror. “Probably happy without anyone else, actually.” 

What a fucking lie. 

“I mean, there’s time to find someone you...” Your friend pockets a hand while adjusting his loose top, shadows naturally accenting his abdomen. “Never mind. See you out there. Love the red.” 

You swish the silken floor-length material of your gaudy, quite revealing dress. “Thank you. This is my favorite part, look.” 

Hoseok watches as you stomp your leg out of the thigh-high slit so comically it catches him off guard, cackling before a lighthearted, “Careful with that!” 

“Says the man who’s practically naked.” 

All you get is a shameless shrug before your friend spins on this heel to leave, no doubt checking the texts on his phone. 

At least he's excited about seeing his gorgeous pull after so long. And you do not blame him one bit. The way he looks at her? She may as well be a goddess because his gaze turns almost reverent every time. 

A blurry memory consumes your mind like a haze, and you see completely different eyes with just as much fervor. They watch as you mount slow, chests slick with sweat and breathing deep from hours of—

Manicured hands grip the sink as your brush skitters onto granite counters. 

Fuck. Never again. 

Never, ever, ever again.

Pull yourself together. You’re a whole different person with a whole different future. That version of you is one you left far behind, as well as the life that came with it. 

You extend ten minutes into fifteen. 

And Hoseok’s outright whistle at your emergence lets you know the extra time was worth it. 

—

—

Dinner is loud and vibrant, with the whole restaurant locked in on the game and erupting in cheers when the home team scores. Or at least, the team that the majority of fans want to win scores. 

You aren’t completely sure, because there are jerseys of every country everywhere you look. It’s the one time you feel a sense of togetherness, with everyone giving each other friendly jabs and your group doing and saying anything to rile each other up. 

Hoseok is downright lethal with his date, the two of them showing off jawlines that can kill as they watch the nearest screen. But they’re on the other end of the long wooden table, so you have to find other people to converse with. 

Unfortunately, you find that the person sitting in front of you is a stranger, seemingly knowing someone else in the group and just happened to tag along. He quickly offered small talk when you all started ordering, which you already found a little awkward because you were trying to focus on what to get. 

Now, he keeps giving you more and more information about his achievements and endeavors, not once asking for your name. Figures.

Both the friends you’re sitting next to are no help, either. 

To your left, Jeongguk’s checking his phone for the fiftieth time this hour, scrolling through videos to avoid having to speak to anyone. 

And to your right, Taehyung cheers and stands when another goal is scored, locking elbows with the stranger behind him and drinking from his glass mug. Apparently he had been making fast friends while you were entertaining the guy that keeps staring at you. How cool. Happy for him. Can you both switch seats? 

Your wish doesn’t get granted for another hour. So that means you’re still talking to and giving polite encouragement to this gentleman. Though the term gentleman is very, very generous. It became more than obvious he just wants to fuck from the way he's been shamelessly ogling your plunging neckline. 

Mercifully, Jeongguk finally saves you, leaning in and pretending to show you a reel or tiktok or whatever the fuck he’s scrolling through. Instead, a text he typed into your message thread is all you see. 

Wanna go outside?

Going along and laughing at his fake share, you give him a grateful smile and nod. Turning to the man watching you with curiosity—and is that really jealousy?—you excuse yourself, 

“We’re gonna check out the second floor! Be right back.” 

Not even waiting to see nor hear his reaction.  

—

—

Outside the restaurant and not on the second floor, you can finally breathe again, watching the city come alive with its vehicle rush and streetlight hum. 

Next to you, your tattooed savior takes a long hit of his vape, and you run a hand across the thin gold chain around your neck. 

Without your permission, another memory slips through your defenses. And this one proves sharper, astonishingly clearer than the first.

Hands grab a string of gold from a nightstand, and you instantly ache because you remember what comes right after. As soon as it’s clipped onto a slim neck, you watch the necklace lower, and lower, right before you angle your mouth up to take it between your—

“Fuck.” 

Jeongguk whips his head right as your eyes snap open. “You okay? What’s wrong?” 

No. There are a thousand things wrong. You didn’t even fucking realize your vision went dark until light flooded out your unwanted nostalgia. 

Fuck, you hadn’t thought of that summer afternoon in years. Your reaction was visceral enough to spurn an oncoming headache. “Nothing,” you whoosh out. “What time is it?” 

“Almost time to head over to Lo Prohibido.” Gripping his phone, the man asks with concern, “You sure you’re good to go?” 

Head pulsing, you nod. “Yeah, I’m fine, just dehydrated. Can you pick a city that won't try to burn me out next time? I'm down for traveling but it's been hell here.” 

Unconvinced and unfazed, Jeongguk cocks his head to the door. “Let’s go back in. I know your favorite person is waiting, but you gotta drink water.” 

“Don’t,” you groan. “He’s cute, but I got the biggest ick like halfway in.” 

Your amused friend giggles as he holds the door open, “You lasted a lot longer than I thought you would.” 

Laughing when more cheers erupt from inside, you give his jacketed arm a playful shove as you look down the street. “I’m nice, okay? Don’t—”

Your heart. 

It booms. 

In an instant, the whole world blurs, lights and bodies making solid, serpentine lines and even sound itself rolling to a deep, dull hum.

The only one you can see. The only person you can make out with perfect clarity. 

Is the one you’ve been trying your fucking hardest to not remember. 

Staring right at you with eyes you’ll never, ever forget. 

Yoongi. 

He’s just down the way, standing amongst a group with a striped jersey, dark hair swept so perfectly your chest pangs. Even though everyone around him is animated and laughing, the look on his face makes it undeniable he’s not focused on anything else.

And with a stopped heart, neither are you.

Until your lower back is held, tugging you out of the dream as Jeongguk’s question is laden with worry, 

“Seriously, what’s going on? Do you need to go back to the hotel?” 

You jolt away from his touch, but the action isn’t warranted. For fuck’s sake, he’s a friend you’ve known just as long as you've known the spectre down the street. Why did you feel the need to escape his worrisome hand? He isn't like the guy you just met.  

If that dude had been the one to touch you, though, you would’ve fucking decked him. You are not letting him feel an inch of your skin, and that includes the majority of it you’re baring at the back. 

“No, I’m—I’m fine,” you manage to get out. “Just thought I saw.. Never mind. Water.” 

Yoongi would’ve damn near murdered that creep, too. 

Shit. 

Right before stepping back in, you turn to peer back down the sidewalk, brain concluding that what you saw was your imagination and your heart adamantly disagreeing. 

However, there’s no sign of Yoongi anywhere. That same group of people continues to chitter away outside, but he’s nowhere to be seen. 

So your logic is sound. It was just a dream. There’s no way he’d be here, and he looked way too fucking handsome to be real anyway. Maybe your mind is just playing tricks on you as an act of revenge for making it remember him this much today. 

Because you’re remembering everything. The way he knew exactly how to get under your skin. The times he proved so patient. The way he absolutely knew how to act under your sheets. 

And his. And elsewhere. Anywhere the two of you decided to make love. 

And that singular word is exactly why your flame burned its brightest before choking out. 

You were ready. 

He wasn’t. 

And you regret your decision to leave more than anything else in your entire life. 

Because you could’ve fought harder. You could’ve given him more time. But when you confessed under a blanket of stars and didn’t hear those three words reciprocated, every single celestial plummeted from the sky, plunging you headfirst into a deep, dark ocean of insecurity and bubbling self-loathing. 

The night you left, you left everything. You left your room, your apartment, the city you called home your entire life. Like a coward that couldn’t face rejection. 

Because you didn’t even tell Yoongi goodbye. 

And that’s the last damning reminder you hurl at yourself before rejoining your friends inside. 

—

—

You readily down two glasses of water. 

Inwardly laughing at the fact that the same dude straight up left to “meet up with his brochachos.” 

—

—

Lo Prohibito is decibels louder than the restaurant, and that includes the moments everyone cheered to the max.

A dazzling laser show beams from behind the raised DJ booth, and machines shoot out air to provide much needed circulation and boost the spread of confetti. 

To your delight, everyone here is just as pretty as you imagined. You’re thanking all your lucky clovers that you were accepted inside, strutting in on your heels with chin held high. 

Maybe not as high as it could go. 

But you refuse to let anything else bring you down tonight. You’re supposed to be having another great outing, spending it with your friends and enjoying the nightlife while you’re still able. 

Bright colors span across every surface as a thumping bass shakes your toes, and you wait for the rest of your group to trickle in to find a good dancing spot—and a much needed drink because you are desperate for one. 

At this point, you’ll pay any price to forget whatever the fuck you saw earlier. 

Be it a figment of your imagination, or a devilishly attractive ghost, you just need to wipe that achingly handsome face from your mind. 

There’s no way he’s here. And even if who you saw was real? It wasn’t the man you loved. 

Because there’s no way Yoongi would even look your way again. 

Not like you want him to anyway. Forget him. He gave you everything except the one thing you ultimately wanted, and you couldn’t live in his moonlight without your stars slowly burning out.

Breathe. Focus on the present. Stay in the now. 

“Come on,” he instructs, holding your fingers before grabbing your waist. “Stay with me.” 

“Sorry,” you whisper to your stumbling feet. “I just keep messing up that damn step and it’s annoying.” 

“I know.” He grips your hand, turning so that you land against his chest, comforting tone soothing your burning ear, “But you got a lot more chances to get it. We got time. Stay in the now.” 

“Okay.” 

“That’s my girl.” 

“Come on!” 

Your past whisks away with the club fog, and you follow Hoseok and the rest off the crowded floor. “Where are we going!” 

Hand on the nearest winding staircase, he turns with a smile. “Got us VIP! We’re up here.” 

“No fucking way?” How the hell did Hobi manage to do that? Wasn’t this place booked up the last time you both checked yesterday? “How!” 

Cheekily, the man simply plucks at his undone overshirt and wiggles, smirking as his date doubles over in a laugh. 

“Oh, you’re a freak,” you call out behind him with praise. “Thank you for your service.” 

Thank Jung Hoseok and those abs indeed because the VIP booth is a godsend. Sure, it’s still crowded on the second floor, but at least you don’t have to worry about standing shoulder to shoulder the whole night. You have somewhere to retreat to when you need a breather. 

Which Jeongguk is already taking the most advantage of, settling into the middle of the booth and planting elbows on the long table stretching end to end. Music blares while people shout all throughout the club, but he seems quite zeroed in on his phone. 

Maybe you can both use each other as a scapegoat again if you need to leave. He’s been enjoying himself for the most part, but you can tell he’s extremely ready to go home and the night just started. If you weren’t desperate to let loose and forget years of your life tonight, you would’ve offered to get shitty fast food with him and walk around the city instead. 

Mm. That still sounds like a backup option. 

“Who wants drinks!” Taehyung calls out from the far end of the booth, standing to wave someone down and glancing at everyone giving him their orders all at once. “Let’s just get bottles!” 

Perfect. He knows exactly what to do, so you let him drive and settle into the booth to wait for the liquid ailment to your problems. 

This club has it all, you muse as you take everything in. From endless bottles and extravagant cocktails sailing over the crowd, to sparkler shows and pops of streamers raining down from above, it’s a paradise of a getaway. 

But the outfits? To your surprise, you feel slightly out of place, even arguably overdressed wearing the most expensive thing you own. Yes, there are loads of tens walking around, even some elevens and twelves if you’re honest. But you do see quite a few people in outfits as casual as Jeongguk’s leather.

Either way, almost everyone is dripped in the most lavish jewelry and clothing, from designer to exclusive to wait someone got in wearing a jersey? 

How the hell? Despite the outfits you saw there hasn’t been anyone in here with a jersey, is he famous? It's the same one you saw on the sidewalk when you—

Fuck. That’s not him, is it? You can’t quite see his face, but that back is so… 

No. No no no. You’re staying here for awhile so that better have been another mind trick or you're taking that backup plan with Jeongguk immediately—

“Here,” Taehyung catches your attention while hastily holding out a glass. “This is what you wanted, right?” 

You take it with shaky fingers. “Yes, it’s perfect, thank you.” 

When you turn back, the red and white stripes are gone. 

And you release a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. 

“You okay?”

Turning, you notice that Tae’s eyes are extremely focused on yours. You nod as you down your shot in one go. “Yeah, I’m good.”

His honey rasp slows on the way out, “You sure..?”

“Yeah.” When you push more of the stinging, sweet alcohol down, you decide to start telling him what you saw. “I just… I thought I saw…”

Taehyung is one of the only ones that never questioned why you left town. Which you’re grateful for, because you couldn’t handle all your other friends sending you text after text after call. It was fucking overwhelming, but you had one person that just allowed you to make decisions and live with them. 

“Saw who?” He asks, cutting through your vision with long fingers in a wave and calling you back to reality. 

“No one.” You don’t even wanna say his name. It carries the weight of the world. “Forget it! I’ll be good as soon as we start.”

Unconvinced but letting you have space, Tae doesn’t pry. 

“If you say so.”  

—

—

For the next hour, everything is great. You play stupid drinking games with your friends, cheer for the most random shit the house emcee yells, and you start to slowly wash the unwanted memories from your mind. 

At one point, Jeongguk stuns the section by dancing on booth cushions and swinging his jacket, revealing he only had a thin tank underneath. Many people stare slackjawed at his physique and understated choice of outfit, but you can only cackle with your friends because you all know he’s gonna go right back to his phone in seconds. He just really, really likes the song playing. 

And you’re enjoying the DJ set, too. As long as they don’t play specific songs, you can enjoy the rest of the night in absolute peace. 

Especially the one song that haunts your every waking moment. The first time you heard it, in a club somewhere along pink lemonade sand, you trudged knee deep into the crashing tide and didn’t leave until the sun dipped under the horizon. 

Because it hit too close to home. And your deluge of tears gave back infinite saltwater to the sea. 

Relax. Don’t throw any possibilities into the atmosphere, especially when your mind is fucked up tonight. Your friends are heading down to the dance floor, so go with them and forget everyone else. 

Making sure your drink is finished, you feel ice hit your lips before clinking it down, rushing to join your group at the top of the staircase. 

Only to stutter so close to the edge your heart leaps out of your chest.

It keeps falling, and falling. Because there’s no mistaking this time. That man you saw wearing the outfit that’s starting to haunt you? He’s talking animatedly to someone across the second floor, dusty pink elbow perched on the railing with a drink in his still so veiny hand. 

And your mouth turns sour at the way his shoulder is tapped by pretty nails, tongue hot and darkly spiced when Yoongi just laughs into his cup.

God. He’s here. He’s devastating without even trying.

And, as your blasphemous logic reminds you, that beautiful smile will never be yours anymore.

But that doesn’t stop you from staring. Because while on the street, you could’ve argued he was a hallucination birthed from dehydration. Right here, in this moment, you’ve sobered up in a snap and you know for a fact what you’re seeing is real.

Maybe it was better when you assumed he wasn’t. 

At least then, you didn’t have to entertain any worse outcomes than just seeing him. You didn’t have to think about how you’d feel seeing him so close to someone else.

Looks like the universe is giving you the final consequences of your escape. Yoongi has your fate in the warm, rough palm of his hand, and you know he’ll do nothing but let it fall to the rumbling floor below. Just to watch with unblinking eyes.

“Hey, you gonna go down or what?”

Turning, you start to move to the side, embarrassment heating the skin of your back that was just lightly grazed, “Shit, sorry—”

A strong arm pushes you sideways into hard metal as a duo of guys head down the stairs. You figure it’s an accident, but that doesn’t stop your face from contorting in pain and a curse to fling from your mouth. Because damn that fucking hurt. 

“Dude, watch it!” The one behind looks back at you to apologize, “Sorry about my—”

Oh… Really… 

The guy from dinner halts in his apology, and your brow lifts right before he waves you off. 

Waves you off. 

At least your intuition is always spot on. Good riddance, you were completely valid to ditch his brochacho ass earlier. 

Rolling your eyes skyward and even aiming a petulant tongue at his retreating back, you scoff before leaning on chilled metal, letting a moment pass before heading down to Taehyung and the rest of them. 

Where are they anyway? If you don’t spot them from here it’s gonna be hard to find them on the.. ground.. 

Your heart looks up before you do.  

And you catch your ex watching intently from across the way, phone sliding from his ear before he straightens to start walking. 

…Towards you? 

Fuck. 

It’s been bad enough catching glimpses of Yoongi and seeing him entertain someone else. If he gets one foot right in front of you? Everything you’ve worked so hard to build up against him and the haunting memories of your relationship will collapse into dust. You can’t bear him seeing how you haven’t changed your fucking mind. 

To your utmost pain, all roads have always led back to him. No matter how deep you relate to or click with someone, no matter how happy another person makes you, no one has come close to how Yoongi made you feel. 

Because he’s the only one that understood even the darkest parts of you. And he’s the only light in your life you ran away from. 

There’s a reason you watch every sunset. There’s a reason you stand on the beach back home and don’t move your sandswept legs until the last rays give way to the ocean line. 

It’s because of the guilt. The guilt of turning away from the warmth you held in your hands and the warmth you left behind. 

Your eyes stay tethered as your ex makes his way down the long side of the upstairs balcony, partiers smushing together and bottles roving over his head as ladies take them to VIP tables. 

Based on the heat in his eyes? Yoongi’s on the universe’s side. There’s no way he’s seeking anything else other than revenge. 

Shit, shit shit. This isn’t good for you. Literally nothing great nor healthy can come out of this if he ends up in your orbit. One word, two words, and even worse, three words from those unforgettable lips would destroy you and never let you recover. 

But your hands stay tight on the warming railing. And they won’t fucking let go. 

Downstairs. Go down the stairs. Go. 

Yoongi’s almost here. All he has to do is round the corner. He's close enough for you to notice the silver chains adorning his neck.

And the last thing you think with a withering heart is how devastatingly handsome he’s become. 

With a tight breath, you pelt high heels downward one hasty step at a time. Winding, winding, spiraling like the thoughts storming your mind. The further down you go, the farther away he is. 

Your heel catches on your dress before you stumble, but you don’t look back to see if Yoongi’s even still behind you. 

Chill the fuck out and don’t fucking trip. You already had nasty falls before with scars to prove it and a sticky club floor is the worst place to sprawl onto. 

Keep going. Disappear into the crowd. Go find your friends. 

And deal with the unmoving, gaping hole in your chest later. 

—

—

It takes you awhile to find them, but soon enough, you're back to having the time of your life. The lineup of DJs is all stellar, with only a few misses here and there, even getting Jeongguk to stay on the dance floor longer than you expect.

What's even better? There's no sign of Yoongi. Surrounded by sweaty bodies and flashy grins, you don't catch a single glimpse of him in the crowd.

Good. That's good, right? You wanted this. You wanted to avoid him and run, just like you did the last time.

Your group starts to split up in the commotion of lights and confetti and streamers, but you're fine dancing on your own. With each ebb and flow of music, you lose yourself, letting your heart get swept away by stories of love and loss. Every song holds a piece you understand. Every verse carries the same message.

You aren't alone in being alone.

So embrace it. Let the hurt come later. Smiling wide, you await the next song up, arms thrown in the air with everyone in beautiful togetherness around you.

Then it starts.

The one song you knew you'd hear at some point but sure as fuck didn’t want to.

While people around roar at the familiar opening, you feel like disappearing entirely. Where’s the nearest coastline? You need a rising tide. 

As the melancholic notes buzz up your chest, you slowly, quietly, lower both arms to your sides. Around you, the floor moves in sensuous circles and dips, and you envy everyone for not feeling how you feel. This glowing, searing pain setting your chest ablaze until it’s nothing but a pile of cinders, only to be washed away with the waves crashing against your knees.

With each scathing line, your heart cries, remembering exactly why it hit too deep. All those lessons you took that started on a whim. All those sunny afternoons practicing and stumbling about your living room. All those times you were held close and knew there’d be no one else.

Your heart isn't strong enough to stay in the now. It doesn’t want to. It will always remain in the past, on a rooftop gazing into a sea of stars and hoping for a different outcome. 

Night, after night, after night. 

Suddenly, you’re back in the past, too.

Because a hand, so sure and so steady, settles onto your hip from behind, and your eyes burn when another slides along your bare shoulder. Heat from a body you can sense from anywhere in the fucking universe warms the skin at your back, and you shake as lips touch the shell of your ear to whisper three words that shatter what’s left of your soul, 

“One last time.” 

You aren't in the past. You're here. And so is he.

Breath whooshing out in a hitch, your throat is in absolute flames as your eyes slide shut. Then you nod, because you can’t think of doing anything else, and you allow him to lead.

And he feels so perfect against you it hurts. 

You feel how strong he’s gotten, how sturdy and lean. And yet, you also feel the same soft give you used to feel all those years ago. You know how pliant he could become under your mercy, just like all those times he gave you complete control. If you faced him, you could run your hands along that stomach you’ve kissed every inch of a thousand times over. 

But you’re too much of a pathetic coward to turn around. 

When you back into him, his quick hiss into that groan you miss so fucking much flips every warning light in your body. But you can’t help it. You know this dance, this connection, this reunion will be the last you will ever have. 

He never loved you. You never said goodbye. 

Everything that’s left unsaid swirls around you as you move in perfect sync, both your hips moving as one and your hand snaking up and back to grip his neck fuck he feels just like home. 

Yoongi… Still feels like home. 

A single, hot tear leaks from your eye as you sway, burning a path down your cheek as your other hand closes tight around fingers holding your side. When he grips you even tighter, another tear betrays you, and you feel his lips so close to your neck you expect him to kiss there if he wanted to. 

But he doesn’t. 

Of course he doesn’t. 

So you take what you’re given. A dance. Just one. One last unforgettable dance before your life changes all over again. 

Knowing this song by heart, you know it’s approaching the end. The bittersweet last chorus clues you in, and you tense around his neck just a little tighter, hoping Yoongi didn’t catch the need in your fingers for this moment to never end. 

Mother Earth can swallow you whole as soon as the last word is sung. You give her your express permission. 

Because you feel so hopelessly in love all over again, and you can’t bear your affection to be unreciprocated a second time. 

Just like that. Against your deepest, sincerest wishes. 

The song dies. 

And immediately after, as if your world hasn’t just been upheaved and tossed to the wayside, the next number booms. Everyone on the dance floor cheers again when it’s extremely familiar and a faster tempo. Even more people fill the floor because they need to feel this one in their bones. 

And you need nothing else but to leave. 

Get out. Go. Yoongi said so, right? One last time. It’s over. This tension between you needed an outlet and that song was the one out you both could use to set it free. 

And it’s done. So you start your brisk walk away.

Only for your wrist to be held and your heart to fall out of your ribcage. 

Fuck.

When you turn, you forget you’re tear-streaked and full of painful regrets. 

And the look on Yoongi’s face heats your soul all the way through. 

Because his eyes are unwavering, brows cut deep and mouth completely shut. Over his forehead, tendrils of mussed bangs sweep slow, and his chest rises and falls with every hard, wordless breath he takes. 

And you finally get the courage to whisper his name. 

Without a word, he slowly pulls you in, not stopping until your hands softly push into his strong chest and your face is inches from his. All heavy bass and bright beats of music fall away. All lights shift until you can only see him. 

Time. All that time apart vanishes when you finally feel this close again, his steady expression watching you with an emotion you can’t place but feel ripping at your walls to destroy them. 

What is happening? What’s he doing? 

Does he know he has the power to hurt you in ten million different ways?

Fingers rise to wipe the sadness from your face, only inviting more to pour from your eyes. “Yoongi,” you whisper again, breaking the dam you’ve been building block by block this whole time, just like you were afraid of. And you can’t fucking stop. “Yoongi…”

Then, when his eyes slide shut, you think he’ll let you go. Why can you only say his name? Why the fuck are you ruining this singular moment that you’ve only dreamed of having wait wait why is he resting his forehead against yours fuck wait—

“You know how long,” he breathes out, “I’ve been waiting to hear you say that again.” 

Have mercy.

Your soul finally snaps in two. 

You can only say it once more, broken and chipped, before Yoongi grips your jaw and kisses you like it’s his last minute on earth. 

And you push back with a ferocity that’s been dormant for years, a magnificent flame never awakened by anyone else. Nothing else. Just him. Only him. 

Rivers stream from your eyes as his arms circle you, hands gripping the skin of your back as your nails rake down his. Around you, people dance and bump into your bodies, but neither of you seem to fucking care. No one else exists. The only music you hear is every deep breath Yoongi takes and it’s your favorite, favorite, favorite.

You shouldn’t be doing this. There’s no possible way this doesn’t leave you without a broken heart and a shell of whatever intact spirit you have left. 

But goddamn if you don’t stay in the now more than ever. 

“I don’t give a shit,” you tumble into his mouth, waiting until he pulls away enough for you to spill every forbidden thought you’ve harbored in your beating chest. “I don’t care if you never loved me. I don’t care if you moved on. I just—just tonight, Yoongi, I need you—”

Your plea is engulfed by another soulshaking push of his lips, and you think that’s the end of it until he tugs away from you before swerving his head around the floor. 

“Come here,” he orders, gripping your hand and reminding you just how perfect his fingers slot with yours. 

Time. You’re getting more time? Your tears and the burning in your chest don’t quell as you’re led through the crowd. When you get strange or pitied looks, you don’t care. All these perfectly dressed people can fuck off. 

When they stare at the man guiding you, that’s what gets your stomach flaring. They can have him. Just after you get one last time to carry you through the rest of your loveless life. 

Yoongi suddenly turns to look at you trailing behind, and he waits to bring you in front of his side, now leading you both together through the rest of the packed floor. 

Ah. This is the man you remember. 

And that just makes everything hurt even more. 

Soon, you’re led off the dance floor and through a series of turns, Yoongi heading up a long back staircase before rounding into a hallway of doors before he checks each one. 

What are these? Karaoke rooms? Party rooms? You don’t know, but the ache in your body hunches you over, and it takes everything to not crumble before he finally stops and yanks open a door. 

“Yoongi, what are you—?”

A dim, neon-lit room is what you come to, and you hear a faint click while noticing the long window looking out into the club below.  Different lounge chairs and couches fill the space, and you can see just enough out the glass to know you’re even high above the VIP tables. The room feels exclusive but you don’t get to observe anything else as you’re being pushed into the nearest wall to be liplocked again. 

Fuck, he’s gotten even better at this. 

Just like you have. 

As your dress is gripped tight, your thoughts all blur together in a lustful slurry. How many has he taken to bed after you? Do you remember your own count? Has anyone else made him feel like you do? With a searing green flare, you remember that no one has come close to him. How awfully one-sided would that be if he found someone that completed him.

A veiny hand grips the side of your neck before sliding to your head. “Fuck,” Yoongi grits out. “I… I can’t.” 

...What? 

No. No no no. 

Your heart begins its fast descent. Because if Yoongi doesn’t want this, you have to respect that. As much as you will scream into the night, you’re not gonna stop him if he gets up and leaves. 

Because you did. So why shouldn’t he get that same chance to destroy you? 

“I get it,” you hitch out, holding his strong wrist with shaky fingers. It’s only fair. This felt too good to be true anyway. “I know.” 

“It’s not that.” Yoongi slides his free hand on the wall, holding it at your shoulder. “I just… Fuck, if we do this, I can’t promise I’ll hold back.” 

Oh. Fuck that. 

You tug the warm silver around his neck. “Then don’t,” you urge to his grunt. “If this is all we get? I don’t fucking care.” 

“Even if I t—”

“Do it, Yoongi,” you plead with a gritted cry. “You can do anything to me, whatever it is just do it.” 

“Fuck.” 

All doubt flees from his eyes as your back gets smushed into the wall, your lips puffed and parting when he places hot, open mouthed kisses down your column. 

Hands keep their quest in gathering up your dress. And you make quick work of his belt before pulling, tugging, yanking it out of its holster. 

“The fuck,” he shoots out. “Who the fuck taught you that?”

Your eyes flicker to his as you grip the hem of his jeans. “You really wanna know?”

“No.” He switches up on a dime. “Don’t tell me.”

Your lips collide again before he rips his mouth down to attack your chest, nipping at a spot that has you flinching and hand sliding between your legs. When he runs a finger along your underwear, his eyes practically burn out as he growls, “You’re this fucking wet already?”

“I told you,” you gasp out. “I need you.” 

Your hand is yanked to the front of his jeans, and shock and emotion completely cover the expanse of your face feeling how unbelievably hard he is.

Unfazed, Yoongi continues kissing up to your shoulder, leaving hot saliva trails all over your skin and bunching your silk in his hands. “Seeing you in this? Lost my shit.”

“You're lying.”

“All fuckin' night."

“Liar.”

Liar, liar. A bold faced lie. You saw him talking to other people. You saw his anger piercing across the club. But you watch as his look levels, and your cheeks sizzle at the way he shifts his jaw, 

“I’d never lie to you.” 

Shit. Your heart bats eyelashes before you shove it out of frame. 

The organ in your chest is a walking liability, especially when it’s connected to your mouth. So there are many, many things you might reveal tonight in the throes of agony and passion. Things you will regret come morning waking to an empty bed. 

The best way to not say anything that could potentially do more harm than good? Keep your lips occupied. And that’s exactly what you intend to do. 

“We’ll see,” you grit out, unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down. When Yoongi lets you twist to shove him back against the wall, his eyes flare in dark need when he hisses, 

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” 

To show him how you’ve grown in the years you separated, to show him what he could’ve fucking had. 

To show him that you aren’t taking a single bit of this last, serendipitous night for granted. 

Kneeling slow, you slide your hands along his clothed chest, kissing his chains exactly how you used to and smearing lipstick all the way down his jersey.

“Fuck…”

Balancing on your heels, you wince at the tight bend in your knees, but you aren’t going down completely because your kneecaps aren’t what they used to be. Fuck that. You can do plenty in a low squat anyway, and he’s seen you look a hell of a lot more awkward many times. “Shit,” you still whisper. “You’re lucky I can’t wait to swallow you.”

A curse flings out of his mouth. “Get up, babe.”

Heart ringing at the name, you reject his order with a harsh, “Shut up.” 

You want this, and you know for a fact he does, too. When Yoongi tries to bend, you pull down his underwear, springing his cock free and almost salivating at the sight. 

Just like you remember. Everything about him is just how you remember, and yet his body has only gotten stronger and filled out in all the perfect places. Yoongi’s a man now. A real, grown man. 

If you both just met tonight, you know he would’ve asked for your name before anything else.

Cut the shit. You are not getting into that now, not when you have him with hands trembling against a wall before you take him in your palm. As soon as you touch, Yoongi expels a deep groan, kicking his head back and gripping the wall with a large hand.

What’s going on? You haven’t even done anything yet. Why does your chest constrict at how sensitive he is? This isn’t the time to relax, but you really can’t help but soften at his complete and utter unravelling. 

It’s almost as if nothing’s changed. 

Yoongi lowers his gaze, and you lock glistening eyes before you take him in your mouth, slow on the tip and swirling to get it coated and prepped just right. Your hand expertly glides along his solid, slick length, squeezing at the spot you know makes him fold. 

“Holy fuck,” he gasps out, hand hesitating to palm your head before balling in a fist against plaster. “Shit, babe..”

Again? Does he even realize what he’s saying? Is he trying to hurt you because if that’s his goal it’s fucking working. 

Anger, regret, painful nostalgia drives you forward, sinking his velvety ridges inside your throat and proving to him how much better you’ve gotten. With every plunge, you hollow your cheeks, already feeling the telltale searing at your eyes and spiraling up your throat. His endless stream of sounds and praise tumble down your skin, and you keep sucking mercilessly even when his hips buck and his eyes squeeze tight.

Releasing with a loud pop, you feel a huge strain on your soaked legs as you adjust, tilting your drenched chin to bury your face in his sack to lick and take it in.

“Baby..”

At this new, old nickname, you grip his cock tighter, swallowing him whole again just to hide your real tears behind the ones streaming from taking him in so deep. 

More. You give more, and more, and more. Time will take away everything else so what you can give is all you got.

Hands grip your head in desperation, and you let Yoongi push you onto his length until your airway is closed tight, nose and cheeks flush against the skin of his thighs. His scent is heady and just like you remember, if only slightly different due to the new musky cologne he’s probably sticking with nowadays. Not like you can focus on it too long because your airway is screaming to be freed again. 

Tears leak over your lashes as want slicks your cunt, and you hear syllables that could be words before you finally give his legs a telltale tap.

Oxygen floods your lungs as more tears stream from your eyes, lips sopping wet and saliva leaving your chin in strings. Gulping, you go right back to it, taking him in again and pumping his slick ridges quick.

“Get up,” he commands with a rasp so deep it rumbles your chest. “Get the fuck up.” 

You’re pulled upward so fast your legs cry at the bends, and you’re spun so quick the wall hits your shoulderblade and you cry out into a furious mouth. 

Pleasure and pain intertwine as you match his intensity, raking at his shoulders and clawing into his hair. With each kiss, he reaches deeper into your throat, and you know he can taste himself on your tongue with the way he claims it in waves.

For a moment, there’s no one else in the world. You aren’t in a dimly lit lounge in a club away from home. You’re right here in his bedroom, getting slung and dragged along his wall and knocking every one of his plaques and posters off-kilter. 

“Yoongi, I—”

“I know.”

Without further prompt, Yoongi wrenches at your dress to shove it up to your hip, burning a path along your leg with expert fingers. As you hook itover his smooth forearm, your lips part when his other hand slides between your thighs. 

You know your underwear is soaked all the way through. 

And now, so does he. “Goddamn.”

“I can’t take it anymore,” you gasp out. “Just—”

“Are you still on the—”

“Yes.”

Shifting the sodden material to the side, Yoongi wastes no time, angling himself to rub over your folds and moaning in tandem with you because holy fuck this already feels so—

“This fucking pussy,” Yoongi grits out, sliding in perfectly and so smoothly it’s like neither of you ever left each other's sides. Your high moan cuts into the cherry ceiling when he sounds like he’s just struck gold, “Shit, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Yoongi, please—”

He’s talking absolute nonsense. Gonna be? How is that possible when you won’t see him again? 

All questions vaporize when Yoongi’s hips snap up, launching you up the wall again, and again, and again. Pops of need and lust zoom straight to your head, sparkling out of your eyes when you feel his lips smothering your neck. 

You’re in heaven. You’re in hell. It feels so good it hurts. Caught in a flurry of need and anguish, your nails rake down his shoulders before scratching at his arms, shivering at his outright growl, 

“Don’t do that.”

“Oh, I—”

“Do that shit again and I’ll come.” 

Shit. You don’t understand how he could be so shameless. You’re trying your hardest to keep it together and here he is saying whatever the fuck he wants? If you let your mouth just as loose as he has there’s no telling what you’d be shouting out. 

But you settle for an apology for now, just in case you actually hurt him, “Sorry.. My nails are super long right now.”

“I noticed.” Another thrust launches you into the sky. “They look good but they hurt like hell.”

“Oh.. Sorry again.” A moan escapes when he shoves into you, mind hazy because he’s still placating you. 

“I’m not saying that’s a bad thing.” Devilish, he breaks into a slow smirk you haven’t seen in ages, and your ribcage folds inward and inward. “I’m just not fucking done with you yet.” 

Oh. He doesn’t want this to end, either. 

Now that changes every fucking cog in your brain. 

You keep yourself upright as long as you can, arms slung around his neck as you both move together, dip and lean together, breathe so hard it scorches your chest together. Every muscle in your planted leg burns, but it’s nothing compared to the stare you have connected to his eyes. With each deep thrust, his brows furrow and his teeth peek from his lips, and every groan you hear goes right into a chest for safe keeping. Right next to all the other memories you want to lock away.

Yoongi’s pace starts to quicken the more your mewls encourage him. What was sensuous is now unbearable and, as your dress threatens to shift, you know your breasts will be on full display soon, and Yoongi bites his lip with a grunt with his next hard thrusts.

Soon enough, you feel a chill on your nipples as they’re freed, moaning to the ceiling when Yoongi immediately heats one whole with his tongue. “Baby!”

Goddamn it. You weren’t supposed to address him like that, too. But maybe it’s better than saying his name because every time you do there’s a charge sparking the air. 

So you decide to switch, moaning the same word over and over as he licks and sucks, dragging his teeth along your exposed chest and littering it with heavy proof of his lips. Just like the lipstick on his jersey, you know he’s claimed his own marks on your skin. 

And neither of you will be able to hide them when you part.

Expelled tension flits about in light streaks as you move with him, slick with exertion and tight with muscles working in double time. You both know this is the last time and you’re acting like it. And you send a prayer to the heavens to let time stop just to keep holding him in your arms. 

Suddenly, your heel slips, and you yelp before strong arms keep you upright. “Shit, sorry.”

“I got you.”

Summer sunsets smother your vision as you let him guide you from the wall, gently placing your leg down and leading you to a sofa. Everything simmers to a lull, and you have a moment to catch your breath and steady your racing, racing heartbeat. 

When Yoongi sits on vibrant cushions, you admire the way his biceps fill those sleeves right as he tugs his jersey clean off. And you have to fight to not teeter over, continuing to stare in awe at him, so perfectly filled in some placed and chiseled in others that you start to wonder how you even left in the first place.

Of course you know why you did. So why bring it up now when you’re right here? Why agonize over the past when you’re standing right between his legs?  

“Baby.” 

You flick your gaze back up to his. 

“Stay with me.”

Tears zing up your eyes as you nod, heart plugging your throat as you mount his toned thighs. When you feebly place hands on his searing shoulders, you hate the way your words shake on the way out, “Stay in the now. I know.”

Yoongi’s eyes shine with a light in them you weren’t sure was there before. But you can’t wait long enough for confirmation because your heart is keeling over with ache. 

He remembers. He remembers. Does that mean he’s thought about you, too? 

Focus on something else. No time to think about the past, nor the future. No time to notice that the way Yoongi looks at you now is so heartbreakingly similar to how he worshipped you before. Back when things were perfectly imperfect. Back when you were sure he loved you before he proved to you that he didn’t. 

“Still so beautiful.”

Liquid fire fills your eyes as your breath hitches, guiding his length to your entrance before sinking onto him with no issue. When you both groan, you let your glittery vision watch the ceiling instead of him when you admit, 

“You look so fucking good in red.”

There’s no response as you breathe, angling yourself to feel him deep and moving in a slow push and pull along his legs. Your thin chain tightens as your neck strains above Yoongi’s head, and you wish you had the guts to look down at the ones around his neck. They’re already deadly resting on his clothes, but rocking against the flush of his skin is how you love them the most.

Still, you can’t bear to look. You know you’ll lose yourself in those eyes if you dare stare long enough. Because what you saw earlier looked too close to longing, which would be impossible because that only exists in yours. 

“And,” you whoosh out in tired breaths, gripping your fingers on him a little tighter, “Looks like you.. finally hit the gym.. like I kept fucking saying.” 

A puff of warm laughter hits your chest before sweaty hands grip your waist. “Always said I would.”

“But you never did,” you huff out, grinding on him harder and melting at his little sounds. One thing you will keep giving this man credit for: he isn’t ashamed to be just as vocal as you are. The more people you ended up meeting? The rarer and rarer you realized that bedroom quality was. 

“I did eventually,” he grits, holding you in place and surging into you so hard you yelp to the stars. “Didn’t I.”

“Fuck you,” you bite, moaning when your argument dies the moment his tongue swirls around a nipple again. What’s left comes out a garbled mess of a groan, and you hate, hate, hate the dark chuckle against your breast. Partly because he’s a constant problem, and partly because you yearn to see his smile again. 

“What else is new about you,” Yoongi suddenly rasps, hands lowering to rest on your hips as you ride him. “Aside from clearly getting better at this.”

Lost in lust and surprised at his question, you finally peer down to see him looking up already. “No thanks to you.”

And your world stills as he doesn’t respond right away, any hint of sunlight fading from his features. “No thanks to me,” he slowly agrees. 

Fuck. You didn’t mean to do that. 

Slowly slipping hands from his body, you rise from his length and mourn the disconnect before standing. When Yoongi only regards you with eyes on fire, you slowly turn and rest on his thighs. 

He’s not gonna like this. But he asked.

You turn your head before slowly sliding one side of your dress completely down, revealing a rough scar on your back a little lower than your shoulder.

And your soul immediately clenches when Yoongi heats your back with his body heat. “The fuck?” His fingers feel so light, so protective as they caress your mark. It’s confusing, and you abhor it as much as you need it. “What happened?”

“I fell,” you whisper. “Pretty hard.” 

Details of how and when it happened don’t matter. But he wanted to know what was new, and the scar on your heart isn’t exactly readily available to show. 

“I did, too.” 

What? At his voice over your shoulder, you strain your neck to see him. “When?”

Why is he kissing your scar? Exes don’t do that. Exes don’t do anything you’re doing right now. 

“Before you left.”

Now you feel worse. When the hell did that happen? Why didn’t you know about it? “Sorry,” you breathe out with sorrow. “I didn’t know.”

Another slow, calm graze of his mouth tightens your throat. Because he’s since moved across your back, lips now touching where your shoulderblade hit the wall. 

“I know,” Yoongi sighs. “I never told you.” 

He never told you many things.

Stepping into dangerous territory is making you regret showing him your worst moment. So you shift your ass to push over his cock, feeling it throb against you when you wisp out the worst reminder, “We don’t have much time.”

“Mm.”

When you feel his hands shift your dress, you lift up and allow you both to effortlessly situate you back where you wanna be. Your back hits his chest as he guides himself up into your folds, and your head kicks back to lie across his shoulder like the red silk flowing over your thigh. 

“Just like you said,” you start to whisper, eyes already welling with oncoming regret, “One last time.” Every syllable just as melancholic as the notes of your favorite song. 

When Yoongi starts, your heart weeps at the pace. Because it reminds you of better times, sensuous and intentional and convincing you to confess all over again. It takes everything not to speak, your moans escaping in weak puffs and your hips swelling in a calm wave. 

This is too much. This is way too fucking much and you finally break when his name leaves you like a prayer. “Harder,” you beg. “Please, please go—”

You’re cut off as soon as his hips jolt up, flinging you to life before going at a menacing pace. Yes yes yes this is the one you need. The one you crave. The one that leaves no room for feelings and decisions. Your dress threatens to slip off your sides with each pound, slowly rolling and accentuating your chest in seconds. “Shit, holy shit!”

“Fuck, you’re so tight—”

“So fucking big—”

As if knowing exactly what you want, your arms are held back, locked into place as you’re under the absolute mercy of his dick slamming up into you over and over, skin slapping obscene and thighs burning from the stretch across his lap. 

Yoongi knows you better than anyone else. A frustrated growl tears from your lips as you arch so far back you connect clouds, and a strong forearm wraps across your stomach to pin you so fucking close you may as well mold right into him. Passion streaks down your limbs as sweat beads along your skin, the heady scent of sex and forbidden fruit swirling into your nose. 

More. More more more he’s giving you everything. As your arms are freed, you can only grip the other forearm slinging over your upper chest, nails digging into creamy skin and leaving angry, cherry red lines.

Words, praise, everything under the sun is being spewed onto your slick shoulders as you mash your teeth and eyes tight. You even hear a word you’ve been wanting to hear for years, but that can’t possibly be true because there’s no way Yoongi would ever—

A hand closes around your throat, and your eyes fly back into your head.

You’re so close. Fucking hell, your thighs are singing and your throat is burning and your abdomen strains from the arch but you need this release. You need this tidal wave to consume you. If only to forget for a split second that Yoongi isn’t—

“—yours.”

What?

Another fierce round of thrusts almost topples the two of you over, and white hot pressure paints the edges of your eyes as you strain for breath. You’re so close. So fucking close it’s right within reach.

But it all vanishes in a snap as Yoongi stops, and you cry with a teary rasp, “No, please, baby—”

“Not yet.” He hauls you up, making you sit straight and facing away yet again. “You know what to do.” 

Fuck. There’s no way he remembers this, too. You flinch at the slap to your breast before shakily getting up, legs wobbly but positioning yourself on his cock perfectly before sliding down. 

Both heels planted on the ground, you brace his strong knees and work his slick length, eyes rolling at his breathy groans and curses leaving his mouth in spurts. 

You know exactly what to do to make him lose his goddamn mind. So you do it all, swirling and swerving your hips while flicking off your silk, showing him the best view of your ass as it bounces. Your legs tire, but you don’t, and you use the music leaking into the room to set your sickening, aggravating pace. 

“Fuck, baby..”

“You asked for it.”

“Don’t regret a goddamn thing.” 

You can tell he’s on the brink of madness, and you can only picture the way his head thumps back on the couch, mouth torn by his teeth and brows furrowed to hell. His muscles are probably contracting in waves, including the ones in his perfect, bulging arms. 

“You shouldn’t,” you hum. “Since this is all you get.” 

Without a word, hands reach out and tug you backward, and you’re up on your feet and tripping before your hands slap the firm cushions of the next chair over. “What the fu—”

To your absolute delight, Yoongi plants a foot on the chair before gripping the pliant dip of your hips, pushing tears from your eyes with each quick, deep thrust he rams forward. Stars dance along your vision as drool leaks endlessly from your mouth. “Baby—! Fuck!”

“This pussy’s so.. Fuck.” You’re shoved so far down that your moist cheek smushes into firm cushion. “Say my name.”

“Babe—”

“As much as I wanna hear that every fucking day”—Yoongi shoves into you again and keeps his cock thrumming inside your cunt—“Right now, I’m gonna hear my name. So say it.”

“Yoongi—”

His deep, gritted command makes you snap, “Louder.”

“Yoongi—!” 

You feel it. You’re at the brink again. With every snap of his skin pounding against yours, you’re inching closer and closer and closer to the edge, waiting for the fall that will end you. “Baby, I’m gonna—”

Firm arms haul you upward and you’re both travelling the room again, legs skittering until you hit back first into the nearest wall fuck that took your breath out.

Yoongi’s breath catches as he slams a hand against the plaster to steady, face burrowed in your neck and hair brushing harsh against your ear as he buries inside of you again. Fire spews from his mouth as you feel his cock squeeze up into your cunt, and his arm tenses tight behind your knee as he commands,

“Come for me, love.”

You don’t know what the fuck you just heard but you know he didn’t just say—

“I said come.”

Instinct. Pure, animalistic instinct surges your orgasm forward in a high crest, breaking onto shore in hot, white waves as you tremble around him. Your cunt squeezes and tugs, your poor leg threatening collapse as Yoongi roughly hums so deep against your chest. Pleasure, starlight, the warmth of an afternoon faraway heats your body just right, and one crash leads into the next so effortlessly that tears zip down your cheeks.

Your name rips from Yoongi’s throat. 

And it’s enough to send you right over the edge again.

How the fuck is this possible how the hell can someone break you with your own name how can Yoongi have this much of a hold on you when it’s been literal years? It doesn’t make any sense and the cries into his neck as he holds you close are akin to sobs. Maybe they are. Maybe they’re your way of mourning everything that could’ve been. Everything that will never be. 

But at least you were able to have him, shaking in your grasp and pulsing in your core. One more night. One last time. 

“Fuck it, come here.” 

Your sobs are yanked from the wall again, and you don’t know up from left as you're thrown onto a sofa, back curling as Yoongi tugs your head upright. Your tears slide down your neck, wetting your necklace as he breathes out, 

“Again.” 

Fuck! Your cunt tightens around him as you gasp out, “I can’t… I can’t—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Yoongi growls, clutching your chin and flinging hot spit onto your face that catapults you into another level of need you’ve never been to holy fuck. Smothering it against your cheeks, he taps you once and it brings destruction. “I said again.” 

All your limbs lock at the bends as you throw your head in a strained cry, a release that overpowers all the others flushing through your veins and igniting beams out of your sweaty chest. Wave upon wave crashes into your soul and your ears ring so loud you can barely hear or see Yoongi watching from above. You can’t. You’re too caught in chaos. You can’t see the way he looks at you. 

“Come for me, Yoongi,” you suddenly plead, “Let go.”

“Let me pull—”

“Do it now,” you hitch out. “Come inside.”

A prolonged moan leaves his mouth as he launches into a pace that has you screaming, teeth gritted to hell and fingers gripping you so hard you know they’re going to bruise. But who cares when your skin will match your heart? Who gives a fuck about anything else anymore?

Beautiful weight crushes your chest as Yoongi’s body turns erratic, jolting and seizing up. And you know he’s racing to his own cliff to dive and you’re gonna be right there to catch him. Slinging your arms around his drenched back and fisting the wet base of his hair, you’re already ready and waiting with harsh harsh breaths, because you're about to break him.

“That’s it, baby,” you whisper to his ear, ravaging his slick neck with your lips and scraping teeth over his ear just how he likes, hearts beating as one when you stop just to connect your forehead to his. With a singular, throaty gasp, you plead,

“One last time.”

Yoongi’s sudden release sends a pulse through the air, and your core beats and beats with each pump of essence he spews inside. Heaven and earth collide with stars as you hold tight, and your thighs shake as he finishes filling you with the longest orgasm you have ever, ever seen him endure. 

The float down doesn’t come quick, both of you softly suspended in time and air. Steam radiates from your skin and flows from your mouths with each breath, and beads of sweat slip down his jewelry as he stares with a deep vastness in his eyes. 

Why is he so quiet? 

Why are you so quiet? 

Why do you feel like crying again? 

With one more shaken breath, Yoongi swallows, chest heaving right after as he struggles to gather himself. His shoulders are so broad when he moves under your hands, closing his eyes as soon as your brows touch,

“I know it’s over.”

Your heart flares.

“But I need you to know.”

Stars light the night sky.

“I love you. And I always will.”

A sob breaks your silence, hand flying to cup your mouth before you hunch forward into his trembling chest. Days and days of pent up anger and sadness spill out all at once, and you weep into his chest because you can’t bear to let go. 

“I know you’ve moved on,” Yoongi continues with a shake to his words, not pausing at the way you choke and weep. “But I’ve regretted never saying it back then. And I’m not gonna get another chance.”

What the fuck is happening. What does he mean? What does he mean? Your body can’t stop as it locks and locks, sobs wracking your chest because this is fucked up and confusing and everything you’ve been wanting for the longest time. This is all you wanted. And you only get it at the very end. 

“I didn’t even say goodbye,” you shake out. When you lift your trembling head, his lips are already so achingly close to yours and his hand moves to steady your neck. “I left and never came back.”

When his eyes are the only ones that speak, you start to spill everything out, words tumbling into one another and pinging to the floors around your tired feet,

“I tried so hard to forget you. Tried so, so hard to stop loving you. Every day, I’d wake up wanting nothing to do with you, only to see you in my dreams and remember how it felt to—to—” 

Bright red flares across Yoongi’s eyes as he keeps listening, jaw pulsing and brows so tense. 

“At first, I was so angry. At you, at myself, at the world for letting me love you when you never loved me back. But now, I know what I did was wrong. And I regret it every day that I live.” 

When your face contorts in sorrow, Yoongi brings a hand up to wipe your cheek, thumb brushing away your tears. “I did, babe.” Your breath stops and your eyes splay wide. “Just never had the guts to say it first.” 

First. 

Yoongi loved you all the way back then? Before that starry night that’s kept your heart captive for so long? It pulses against your chest, ramming and ramming into your ribcage to get to his. 

Only one question barrels through your mind. “…Why?”

Yoongi looks from one eye to the next. “Because I didn’t think I deserved to.”

Everything clicks into place and you suddenly feel so, so upset. You are going to fight this man to the moon and back. Or, better yet, you’re gonna fight him to the moon and leave him there. “You think I thought that way?”

“No.” He sighs, chains shaking over your chest. “And I replay that night over, and over. Knowing that I’d do anything to go back and tell you how I felt.” 

Yoongi never lived in the past. He was always adamant about staying in the present. So knowing he’d been stuck there right next to you makes your chest collapse before slipping down into the deep sea. 

“When I saw you today? Every day I told myself I’d get over you didn’t matter. Every reason I told myself I couldn’t be with you was bullshit.” 

Your throat constricts again.

“But when you kept running.. I knew you were done with me for good.” Yoongi’s hand falls. “And there was nothing I could do to change your mind.”

“Yoongi…”

All this time, you both had your own reasons for avoiding each other. Everything you fed into your logical side was just a ploy to project your feelings, and it turns out Yoongi did the exact same thing. 

He said he wouldn’t be able to hold back if you did this tonight. And now, you’re blessed to know exactly what he meant. 

So you also let everything go. 

“I was never done with you,” you choke out, seeing a swath of emotion brush across his face. “Because I’m still in love with you, and I will be even if you walk out of here without me.”

Musk and heaven consumes you in a hug, and you cry into a bare shoulder as you hear Yoongi vow something so full of longing and conviction you hold him tighter, 

“I’m not going anywhere else without you.” 

Music continues to pulse outside, lasers continue to dance around the room. But you see nothing but the light in your lover's eyes. 

And it’s a beautiful, beautiful sunrise. 

—

—

When you both finally part, it’s only to let him get dressed and for you to use the nearest restroom. In the quiet wake of your emotional storm, Yoongi walks you to the window spanning the far wall of the lounge, and you both watch the club floors move and sway from above. And it’s only now that you feel shy. It’s only now that you feel nervous seeing everyone below. 

But a thought occurs to you that dashes all others away, 

“How did you know to come up here?” 

Yoongi gives you a look that you raise a brow at. “I…” He sighs. “Let’s just say I know my way around this place.”

Ah. Of course. “Come here often?”

“Not for the reasons you think.”

Your brows are fully bent now. “…Huh?”

“I own the building.” Hands busy, he adjusts his jersey as if he didn’t drop the biggest shock of the century on your toes. “And a couple others in the city.”

What. 

Pause pause pause hold the fucking phone. 

Yoongi lives in this city? He owns what? This is a little too much to take in, but you have time. And you’re gonna hound him for every single detail of his life that you’ve missed. 

You have time. Your prayer had been answered tenfold. And you send endless gratitude to the sky. 

But suddenly, a second realization pierces your mind and you lightly shove him. When Yoongi looks at you in shock, you yell out, “You asked what’s new and I showed you a scar! Now you tell me you own a fucking building?” 

Your lover laughs, and the sun rises even higher over your horizon. Ducking your next swipe, he’s already back to irritating you again as he clarifies, “I said more than one—”

“Oh, fuck you!” 

He rushes forward and gathers you in his arms, not caring if anyone sees your embrace in the window. “You wanna go again?” 

Your face heats as your eyes roll heavenward, exactly where you feel like you are in this moment. “I have a pretty big hotel room,” you divulge. “And no one to share that bedroom with unless someone else catches my eye tonight, so…”

Yoongi’s eyes crease as he kisses your forehead. “Fuck that. Take me home.” 

Your giggles into his chin bubble out in pink, poppable spheres. 

As magnificent and dreamlike all of this has been, you're starting to find logic again. Because more than one question badgers into your mind.

How long have you been gone? Have your friends not even checked on you? Did they try? Did they leave do they even still have the... table…

Wait.

Everything else clicks into place. 

The random city everyone flew to that Jeongguk picked. The infamous club and dress code you heard about from Taehyung. The table that Hoseok bragged about getting…

“...You're the one that got us VIP.” 

That stupid, annoying, ridiculous grin. Of course this is how you'd be reminded of how much you love to hate it.

“Now come dance with me,” he says with teeth still flashing wide. “Let’s see if you ever got that step.” 

Eyes sparkling, you let him lead you down and onto the dance floor, moving through until you’re suddenly next to your friends that shout and holler at your arrival together. 

“All of you are crazy!” You yell out, tears in your smile as they burst into laughter. “Why didn’t you just tell me!”

Yoongi grabs hold of you before chuckling into your ear. “I told them not to.” 

“Why?”

“Didn’t know if you were really done.” He grips you tight, face falling into seriousness. “But I heard you broke up with someone a month ago. This was my only chance and I took it.” 

Holy fucking shit.

“Thank you.” You kiss his cheek with purpose. “I love you.”

Yoongi’s cheeks rise high, dimples prominent and eyes carrying the light of the universe. Lips close, he responds how he wanted to the first time.

And you seal your devotion with a kiss full of starlight. 

“Ugh, here we go.”

“Already at it again, huh.”

"Figures. Didn't you see his jersey?"

“Get another room—!”

Suddenly, the same song that used to haunt you comes on once more, but this time, you welcome it with a swell of freedom in your chest. The waves of your mind calm, washing onto an empty beach and fading into a mesmerizing valley of blue.

Yoongi grins as he holds your hand, and you can't help but stretch your mouth wide as you both immerse into the crowd, moving and spinning and stepping perfectly together on every beat. Laughter and joy fills the space between your hearts as you all cheer, sharing this infinite moment together as fate intended.  

In a beautiful, unforgettable dance. 

-

-

fin :)

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hi lovelies what did we think !! | main masterlist

a/n: so don't ask how i managed to write all of this in a single day (now two) lol i think this madrid yoongi broke me. anyways, here's the sidequest that became the main quest for a bit! i'm back to writing three tangerines so 3tan13 will be finished here real soon :D thank you all for reading and i hope you enjoyed this irresistible ex turned lover yoongiiiii :DD did i cry? yes. can you prove it? no!!!!

a/n 2: as always, reblogs and comments and asks are always super appreciated! i love sharing things with you guys and a big part of that is getting to hear what you all liked and what you're excited about. happy to chat, and thank you for reading!

++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here!

You decide to shrug it off. “What brings you here, Dr. Zayne?” You ask. And the honorific before his name makes Zayne almost feel his heart break into two, realizing how formal the interaction is.

He opens his mouth to answer, but before he could, a meek voice greeting you formally cuts him off, “Good evening to you too Dr. Zayne,” the nurse slightly bows down to him before turning to you again, “Dr., as per our director’s directives, Dr. Zayne was the one who performed the surgery for our patient in room 325.”

You blink owlishly at the nurse to which she just stares at you curiously at your reaction, “Is that so?” The nurse nodded and you could feel the pace of your heartbeat quickening, both in nervousness and embarrassment. “I see,” you reply, wanting to clutch your chest in an attempt to calm yourself down.

Instead, you turn back your attention to the man you once adored, giving him a warm smile,  “I didn’t expect that Akso Hospital would bring the Dr. Zayne to assist us here at Chansia Hospital,” you say, placing both your hands on the pockets of your lab coat.

Zayne lets out a soft exhale as a reply that sounded more like an attempt to chuckle, “Of course. How can I possibly ignore the situation here?”

“Still as tenacious as ever, I see,” you reply. “Nevertheless,” you continue, tucking a hair behind your ear, “We are very grateful that Akso Hospital aided us in this case.” 

He merely nods in agreement, boring his eyes into yours. The intensity of his stare almost makes you feel small and embarrassed, especially with the nurse still around as the audience to witness the reunion of two almost lovers. You clear your throat, darting your eyes to the nurse and to Zayne, “How did the surgery go? I presume it was difficult?”

“Not necessarily,” Zayne replies, “This kind of surgery is quite common now.” His answer brings a brief smile to your face, “Well I am glad that Dr. Zayne was the one who performed the surgery to one of our younger patients, then. It brings me at ease.”

Your words bring a whirlwind of emotions that Zayne thought he had buried under his restless nights of overtime and paperwork. He can’t find the right response to say at your compliment, his words stuck in his throat as he basks in your presence. The bright overhead lights of the hospital highlighting the deepening bags under your eyes, your weary smile bringing fine lines, and the shadows from your glasses slotting on your nose bridge. And yet, he feels the familiar skip in his chest, the same one he had first felt when he met you in the halls of his university.

You shy under Zayne’s intense stare, instead turning to the nurse, “How is the patient doing now? He’s Dr. Lewis’s patient, right?” You ask. The nurse nods, “The patient is recuperating well in his room, Dr. His vital signs have been stable ever since and his guardians have been keeping an eye for his recovery. Dr. Lewis notes that he may be discharged after a couple more days.” 

“I see. That’s perfect,” you reply. You muster a half-hearted smile to Zayne, one that doesn’t reach your eyes. Zayne notices. “Well, as I’ve said, it brings me comfort that Dr. Zayne could assist us in these trying times in Chansia Hospital,” you continue.

The nurse then takes a step forward, her arm outstretched to the hospital entrance with her head slightly bowing, “Dr. Lewis would like to extend his deepest gratitude to you too, Dr. Zayne. He brought me here to assist you to your exit,” she says.

Zayne shakes his head, “There is no need for you to assist me. Kindly tell Dr. Lewis that I too am thankful for the opportunity to visit Chansia Hospital again,” he replied monotonously. The nurse picks up the signal to place her arm back to her sides.

In his words, the nurse then nods, excusing herself from the conversation before turning her heel away to return to the nurse’s station. On the other hand, you hesitate. Taking note of how earnest Zayne looks in your stead, as if he wants to say something. And yet, his lips remained sealed. 

“It was short-lived but I hope you enjoyed your stay here at Chansia Hospital,” you say, humor lacing your tone as if you’re just hosting a visitor at a hotel. “It was nice seeing you again, Dr. Zayne,” you muse him a brief smile and after another second in silence, you take the signal to give him one last nod, and turn around.

As your heels click through the tiled floors, Zayne could feel you physically slip away from his fingers one more time. And before he could even think about what to say for you to stay, his mouth runs faster than his brain or legs.

“Wait,” his voice echoes throughout the halls and he slightly cringes at the reverberation. The sound of your heels clicking pauses. He clears his throat and calls for your honorific and name. You turn your head back, peeking him over your shoulder. “Is something the matter, Dr. Zayne?” You ask.

He shakes his head, “I would like to accompany you for the rest of the evening. If it’s not much of a hassle.”

You turn your heel around in hesitation, cocking your head to the side in confusion, and for the first time in the evening, you almost laugh, “Dr. Zayne, surely you don’t think I’m a masochist for continuing to work at,” you spare a glance at your wristwatch, “almost 12 midnight?”

He blinks at you owlishly, slightly surprised that you weren’t working further. “I suppose not when I still see you making rounds at,” he glances at his wristwatch, “almost 12 midnight.”

You shake your head in amusement, a soft giggle falling from your lips and your hand covering your mouth in an effort to stifle them, “Still the same as ever with your humor, Dr. Zayne,” you exhaled, “Regardless, your company will surely bring me comfort as I gather my things at my office.”

Your laughter felt like heaven to Zayne. It was the same one that he first heard at the halls of his university as you deliver your experience being an intern at the Akso Hospital in your senior year of medical school while he was still in the starting line. 

“Come,” you urge, nodding your head to the side, signalling him to follow you. You two continue to walk through the silent halls of the hospital, your heels clicking through the tiles followed by Zayne’s footsteps padding behind you. 

You pause at a familiar door, turning its knob. Behind you, Zayne admires the contrast of the dull, sterile halls with the colorful stickers plastered on your white door, making your office seem more inviting than the other ones. 

As you enter your office, you flip the switch on and turn to your desk, gathering the clipboard and the tablet on your table. Zayne follows suit, his eyes darting across, observing every nook and cranny. The rainbows, a smiling sun on the corner of the room, and the random animals and flowers painted on the walls almost bring a soft smile to his face. He takes note of the colorful toys littered on one corner atop of the vivid play mat and the glow in the dark star and moon stickers plastered on the ceiling of your office. 

“I assume this isn’t the usual office you would expect from a doctor, yes?” You ask, feeling his gaze all over the room. He nods, “Although this is to be expected from a renowned pediatrician, the rather… brilliant colors still take me aback,” he replies, eliciting a chuckle from you. You place your clipboard and tablet into their respective drawers before locking them shut, as you gather your bag from your seat, you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “Well now I am quite curious as to how your office looks,” you say. You remove your lab gown and replace it with a fuzzy coat and a scarf around your neck.

“It’s quite dull compared to yours,” he replies, rather quickly. You hum, “Is that so? Well I’d like to be the judge of that.”

You walk past him and he trails after you as you both exit the office, your fingers flickering the light switch off and shutting the door behind you. “Once I need a cardiac check up, I’ll make sure to visit Dr. Zayne then,” you say, glancing at him who is walking beside you, expecting him to have a small smile on his lips at your joke. Instead, you see him frown. 

“That doesn’t seem to be a funny joke,” he replies. You furrow your brows at him but the faint smile still lingers on your lips, “Oh come on, you know a cardiac check-up doesn’t necessarily mean something negative,” you reply, nudging his arm with your elbow. The short contact could almost bring you to your knees like a teenager touching her crush for the first time. Zayne shakes his head disapprovingly, “You know you can visit my office without any agenda behind it.” 

You almost halt at your steps when his words fall to your ears. Suddenly, everything came hitting you all at once. 

The man standing before you is no longer the boy you first met in your university, when you’re almost graduating from medicine school. He is no longer the feeble adolescent boy who had difficulties making acquaintances so he sought refuge in you and your senior friends. He is no longer the man who comes to your apartment right after your residency has ended for the day, with worksheets and food in hand to ask assistance from you. Though you were quite sure back then that he didn’t need the assistance when he could quickly answer your questions, he just wanted to be in your presence. 

Zayne has grown. He’s now a renowned doctor with his very own office and colleagues, who respect and admire him deeply. His shoulders broader than you remembered, the shadows of his muscles taut against the fabric of his clothes are evident and his stature more confident and intimidating now, his steps more sharp and certain, carrying the weight of countless lives he has saved throughout the years–as well as lives he failed to prolong. 

You continue to stare at him, both in awe and surprise, realization sinking deep that everything has changed between you two. Zayne glances at you through his peripheral vision for the lack of your response, almost making you jump. You clear your throat awkwardly, “Is that so? Well I’d say I’m quite grateful that Dr. Zayne is welcoming me to his office.”

As you reach the reception of the hospital, you wave goodbye at the receptionist with a cheerful smile. The receptionist returns the same grin, wishing you a safe walk home and to see you tomorrow again. You nod at him in response before following Zayne who was standing a couple feet ahead of you, his head slightly turned to the side, waiting for you to catch up to him.

Stepping into the chill of the evening, you hold your arm closer to your chest and burrowing your nose close to your scarf, almost shivering, “Nights in Chansia City never get easier in the winter,” you comment, white smoke exiting your lips. You look both sides, taking the lead in returning home. 

“Do you usually just walk home in the evening?” Zayne asks, trailing beside you, noting how the receptionist mentioned how you travel home by foot. You hum in agreement, “My apartment is not too far here. And I like to spend a few minutes in silence at the nearby park before I head home.”

Zayne merely nods at your response, his eyes focusing on the street ahead.

“How about you?” You ask, tilting your head at him, earning a glance from him. “Where do you stay here?”

He purses his lips before mentioning the hotel name. 

“Oh, that’s a bit near where I live. Just a couple of blocks away. Do you just walk when you go to the hospital?” 

He shakes his head at your query, “The hospital provides me a shuttle service in the morning. In the evening I just flag a cab.”

“I see…” You trail off, “Would you like me to assist you in flagging a cab? Though it would be difficult now considering the time–”

“There’s no need,” he cuts you off. “I rather enjoy your company.”

Those simple words elicit a shot of heat striking your cheeks, urging you to look away from him and focus on the white smoke exiting your lips. You could see Zayne smiling from the corner of your eyes, as if your reaction brings him joy.

“Besides, walking has plenty of benefits for your health. For one, it improves your cardiovascular fitness and your muscle endurance, and strengthens your bones and muscles. It also helps you manage your weight,” he continued, earning a laugh from you. 

“You do realize I know those things too, right? We went to the same medical school, after all,” you reply.

“I just thought you forgot,” Zayne says with a deadpan expression on his face, but you were certain you saw his lips curl up in amusement for a split second.

“Hey! I don’t forget things that easily, you know!” You protest.

“Is that so?” Zayne hums, “Last time I checked, a certain someone forgot it was her finals if it wasn’t for me to remind her.” 

“Unfair! That was years ago, Dr. Zayne! And I just got out of my training that day too,” you laugh.

Right. Years ago.

As you two reach the park nearby, you find an empty bench and plop down into it, the collection of ice in the seat seeping through your coat. Zayne follows suit, succumbing to his feelings and sitting beside you at the bench. You freeze at the slight brush of his coat against yours and the engulfing warmth that he radiates, but you shrug it off once again.

The thick clouds drifting across the moon give you two company in the frosty evening. And while Zayne’s hands remain warm inside the pockets of his coat, your fingers are trembling in your pockets. In nervousness or by the bite of the cold, you’re unsure. 

It’s been years since the last time you two sat together in silence. From the usual scraping of pen against paper and the turning of pages from the books, it turned into eerie silence. Silence brought by lingering regrets and loneliness between you two. Silence from the falling out between two almost lovers. The drunken glow of the streetlights accompany the solitary moon as it watches you two attempt to catch up from the sorrowful past you two have run away from. The cold coffee you had ingested an hour ago now shoots up to your bloodstream, sending alerts to your brain that everything in this situation warrants a good long rest after. And yet, despite the heavy dose of caffeine in your system, you were sure that one vulnerable question from Zayne, you could crash into his arms and sob.

“How’s Greyson?” You ask, avoiding the tense silence to linger any further before it could escalate into mourning from the past that could’ve been. “He is doing well,” Zayne curtly replies, as if he was uninterested in talking about his male colleague to the woman he’s only loved throughout the years.

“I remember your silly disagreements with him. It would take your seniors to break you two apart from the debate and make you realize that you two were wrong,” you continue, huffing a laugh from the memory. 

Zayne remains silent.

Clearly, he wasn’t buying your reminiscence of nostalgia to fill the night. Nevertheless, you couldn’t bring yourself to talk about the painful memory that transpired between the two of you.

“Do you always work overtime?” Zayne asks, breaking his streak of tranquility.

“Hm… These days I do. But I usually don’t. I’m just working on a research with Dr. Lewis recently. We plan to contribute and present it to our university in the upcoming alumni symposium for graduating students,” you reply. 

“I see.”

“Mmhmm.”

Silence emerges between you two again, as if the universe was forcing the two of you to reconcile and face the troubled past together. Whether the universe was bringing you two together to write the closure to forever exit the chapter in your life or a new volume of your book, you’re quite uncertain.

“Have you…” Zayne starts and you continue to stare at your fingers fiddling atop of your lap, not daring to even spare him a glimpse. He inhales, “Have you been seeing anyone since our…” He does not dare continue finishing the sentence, afraid that once he does, vulnerability would engulf you two until you were sure you could collapse from it.

You, however, were taken aback by the sudden question, your eyes shooting up to him while his face remained stoic and focused on the flickering lamp post ahead of you, “Oh heavens no!” You quickly deny, “I am far too busy to start seeing other people. You know how it can be, Dr. Zayne.” You muster a nervous chuckle, a hand running to the back of your head, smiling at him sheepishly.

You could see Zayne’s adam’s apple bob up and down at his throat, “You can drop the honorifics,” he whispers. You blink up at him, “Pardon?”

He exhales, his mouth still hangs from the frost coiling in the winter air, “I hope that you drop the honorifics by now. We are no longer at the hospital and you are my senior. It would make no sense for you to continue calling me by my title.”

Especially when we had something together. He almost says. 

“Oh,” you only say, dropping your gaze to your lap. “Okay, Zayne,” you humor him, the name falling from your tongue tastes foreign–like an old popsicle flavor from your childhood resurfacing from nostalgia. 

“Okay,” he replies.

You purse your lips together, tilting your head upwards to appreciate the silhouette of the trees merging with the inky black sky. An exhale escapes your lips, white smoke exiting from it as your eyes trail carefully to each branch that intersects with one another. Unbeknownst to you, the man sitting beside you was also engrossed in watching–but instead of the same view across you two, he’s fixated in memorizing your features.

Studying every freckle, blemish, and mole on your face. Despite your features maturing, he takes note of how you still retain that youthful glow he remembers years ago from when he would just immerse himself in your presence in your apartment. He engraves in his brain the image of you beside him, as if he was enchanted by having you again, even if you’re at his arm’s length.

“How long have you been at Chansia Hospital?” He suddenly asks, not tearing away from your features.

You stay still in your seat, busy admiring the night sky, “After my first year of residency, I got an opportunity to continue it at Chansia Hospital. I’ve been here since then,” you answer.

“I see,” he replies. “How have you been faring throughout your stay?” He asked.

You hum and shrug, “The workplace is good, there’s little to no drama and office politics. And I really enjoy caring for the kids there, the hospital has exemplary facilities for the pediatric ward, which I absolutely appreciate. But we still lack the human resource for capable doctors, especially surgeons, which is probably why they requested assistance from Akso Hospital.”

There was a pause between you two. “Perhaps I could ask for a transfer at your hospital, then,” Zayne replies blankly, as if a sudden change in his career is nothing. 

You giggle at his words, burrowing yourself into your scarf and a hand hovering your mouth, “I’m sure there is no way Akso Hospital would let go of you, Zayne.” 

“Why not?” Zayne murmurs and you swear you heard the pout in his tone. 

You snicker and the words tumble out of your mouth before you could even think, “Well if I was your boss, I just know for sure I wouldn’t let go of my most capable and brilliant surgeon.” 

“Then don’t,” he counters rather quickly.

You turn your head to him, surprised at both your words from just a second ago, “Pardon?”

He adjusts in his seat, directing his body to your side and you could see the eagerness glimmering in his eyes, “Don’t let me go,” he says in a hushed tone. You barely heard it, if you weren’t mere inches from each other, you could mistake his voice for the howling of the wind. But you picked it up. And his eyes are round, shining the most genuine gaze you have ever seen from him. You could tell from his stare alone that his words carry the weight of a thousand suns.

And you know deep in your soul that Zayne would do everything in his lifetime to bring you home.

Bring you to him. 

And you feel the guilt creeping up your throat.

You swallow and shake your head, breaking away from his trance.

You were sure you could crumble from the sorrow and regret seeping in your bones. After years of burrowing all of these unfamiliar feelings and vulnerability, everything started to surface in his mere presence. 

“I’m sorry,” you begin. Zayne looks at you curiously, “For what exactly?” He asks.

And you’re undecided what to apologize from. For using his title? Not really. For seeing him accidentally in the hospital hallway? It’s not really your fault fate brought you two together in the most unconventional way possible. For agreeing to walk with you home? Perhaps. For saying that if you were his employer, you wouldn’t let him go? Could be, but not quite.

But none of those things quite possibly slot perfectly with the puzzle you want to complete. 

“If only…” You start, breaking the silence, “If only life was kinder and easier to us years ago,” your voice breaks, “I just want to let you know that I wouldn’t have… Slipped you through my fingers.”

It was like your subconscious was talking for you.

Zayne darts his gaze from the lamppost who finally dimmed its light to his hands resting atop of his lap. You gulp, “Everyday I–...” You let out a shaky breath, “I wish you well. Especially in your studies,” you say, a soft smile in your features as you hold back the tears that are threatening to fall.

Even after all these years, Zayne doesn’t understand. 

“I don’t seem to understand,” he verbalizes, glancing at you who has your arms wrapped around your body, protecting yourself from the cold. “How can you drop it so easily?” He asks. 

How can you drop us so easily?

You pause in your ministrations, before letting out a shaky laugh, “You were an exceptional student, Zayne. You were going to be a fantastic doctor after you graduate, we all expected that. I mean, we all knew that. It was evident. And I–...” You trail off, “I was older. I was graduating med school when you were only at the starting line. I can’t take that away from you, you know that. You have your whole university years ahead of you and I don’t want to take that experience away from you,” you rambled, wishing you could shut up.

You purse your lips together and Zayne opens his mouth to protest but you continue, “I cannot be selfish, Zayne. I couldn’t bring myself to. I didn’t want to impose to you the regrets I’ve had in my years at med school.”

Zayne remembers. 

One night at your apartment, lying supine side by side in your twin-sized mattress seemingly squeezed into the tight space, a book long forgotten on top of Zayne’s chest while his fingertips gently brushes against your knuckles beside him, while the soft hum of the AC accompanying the two lost souls in the midst of a warm summer night. You were talking about your failed romantic relationship in your years of medicine school, spending the latter years over a boy who couldn’t provide you with the security and comfort that you longed for. You ranted over how he failed as a partner, not leading enough in the relationship, and how you had to play several roles to make up for his lack of initiative.

You expected Zayne to be indifferent. Or perhaps angry. Maybe even frustrated at your ramblings. But you didn’t take into account how the weight in your bed shifted and he peers into your space, turning your chin to his direction with his thumb and forefinger and cradling your face. He didn’t say a word. And neither did you. You merely stay frozen in your position while he grazes his fingertips over your cheeks as if to say “It’s okay. I’m here now.”

Zayne remembers that night all too well. 

“But you did not impose your regrets on me,” he replies confusedly. “I’ve had more regrets with the fact that we didn’t try rather than trying at all.”

He was right. You knew he was right. You could taste the bitterness and remorse from your tongue still lingering after years of trying to forget it all. You release a pitiful laugh, unsure what to even say at this point. How the conversation turned 180 degrees, you were floored. 

And as you prepare the mental strength to leave, to finally burrow into the comforts of your home where your plushies would not judge you for sobbing into the sheets for the same man you have cried over for years, Zayne gently hovers his hand over yours that were resting on the small space between you two, and he speaks up, “Don’t you regret the years we wasted being apart?”

You dart your gaze from his hand laying on top of yours and slowly turn to his hazel green orbs. You could feel the tears welling up in your eyes as you muster up a tight-lipped smile at him, and you shake your head. “Not one bit,” you say.

Zayne was sure he felt his heart slowly shatter upon hearing your words. He retrieves his hand from yours and he slowly averts his gaze to his shoes, feeling the scrape of ice and concrete beneath the soles of his feet. You cringe at the lost of his touch.

“If it meant that it would bring you to today, the peak of your career and a successful name for yourself, I don’t regret it. Not one bit,” you continue, albeit shaky.

He swallows thickly, “I see.”

You nod, looking elsewhere than to gaze upon his genuine expression of dejection in his face. “Despite loving you with everything I have, I knew I couldn’t get in the way of your dreams,” you say. You inhale a deep breath, mustering up the courage to bring your hand on top of his cold ones, clasping around it tightly. He looks up at you, with a plastered smile on your face, “And whether or not things would’ve worked out, it doesn’t matter because I chose this decision to be in the future where you were successful. And I was correct, Zayne. I’d like to believe what I chose for us was right.” 

You gulp, “I wanted to have a future where you were successful and thriving. I wanted to live in the future where I would see your name on news articles because of your expertise. And I suppose you could call me a coward for deciding to end our relationship for your sake but I had to. Because I loved you. So much so that I couldn’t afford to witness you lose. I…” You inhale a shaky breath, squeezing your eyes shut and your hand against his, “I love you.”

I love you so much to this day, that it physically hurts. You almost say. But you hold back. And you pull your hand away from him, settling it into your lap once again, where it belongs.

The begging in your voice as you explain your decision cuts through Zayne’s willful idea that you would come back and live through the years of what could have been. 

Seconds ticked into minutes of silence and you could immediately feel the regret seeping into your bones as you admit the fears and the sacrifice you had to make for his future, unknowingly shutting out all of Zayne’s attempts to return back into your arms. And one thing is for sure, you could just never wrap your head around the concept that Zayne wanted to keep you in his life the moment he laid eyes on you and never let you go.

Zayne abruptly stands up and you turn your head to the side, not wanting to witness him walk away from your life. You clench your jaw, your hand clawing through your jeans in frustration as you inhale the icy air around you. You want to take all your words back, you want to break down all the walls for him and just embrace him and sob into his chest. You want to reach out to him, grab his wrist and ask him to stay. You want to ask him to come home to you. Anything that involves him back in your life you were sure you would be content.

You do nothing.

Zayne shoves his hands down his coat pockets as he lets out a shaky exhale, white smoke emitting from his actions. One heartbeat. Two. 

You gulp, preparing yourself for waking up tomorrow with swollen eyes and zero energy, already imagining a life without him.

Zayne sighs, “You’re still stubborn as ever.”

You furrow your brows together, the insult distracting you from the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. “Excuse me?” You say, turning your head to look at him who still had his back turned to you.

You could’ve sworn you heard him laugh breathily. You click your tongue. “Is there a point to this, Zayne?” You ask, unsure where he is headed with his comment. You shake your head, “Or are we just here for the feeling of what we did and reminisce?”

Zayne takes a step to your side and faces you, earning a confused look from you. He gives you a soft smile and kneels in front of you, sending you into a frenzied state.

“Z-Zayne?! What the hell are you doing?! It’s cold!” You exclaim, placing your hand on each of his arms. “Stand up!”

He stays frozen in place, taking your hands into his, clasping both of it together. You watch him in confusion as he continues to cradle your hand into his, before he laces his fingers into yours, watching in awe at how his hand perfectly slots into yours, and before you know it, his lips hover into your fingers, pressing featherlight kisses into it.

You could feel the heat creep up your skin, the urge to pull your hand away strengthening. 

But you don’t.

He pulls away from your hands and his lips turn into a small smile as he gazes into your eyes. “I did it already, didn’t I?” He murmurs.

You pause for a second, furrowing your brows together in confusion, before you ask, “Did what?”

“All the things you wanted me to become,” he replies curtly.

The creases between your eyebrows deepens. 

“I accepted losing you, regardless of how I… dislike it so much. And you still express the same things you said years ago, of how you did not want to get in my way and desire me to be successful in my field. I have done it already, haven't I?” He asks, peering close to your forlorn expression.

You stay silent.

He huffs a laugh, “I may be just doing my job but you acknowledge that I’m successful in my field, did you not?”

“I don–”

“Only yes or no will suffice as an answer, my love,” he cuts you off. The nickname sends your brain into a frenzy, confused whether the man in front of you is truly your junior from your med school. “Well?” Zayne urges, tilting his head closer to you. You straighten your back, clearing your throat, “I believe I have acknowledged you are successful, so yes,” you reply rather formally, to which elicits a laughter from the man in front of you.

“With those factors into consideration, did you really think that I would let you go again?” 

“Excuse me?”

He stands up to his full height, pulling you along with him albeit dazed from his actions. You feel like you could stagger and fall with how you could feel his heat and how close you are with him again after years of no contact. If it weren’t for him holding you up, you could’ve sworn you would’ve fallen to your knees.

“Before my travel here, I already asked Akso Hospital to take a week off for my vacation here with the girl I love at Chansia City,” he says rather straightforwardly. You blink owlishly at his words, confused at the turn of events, “I am sorry, Zayne but can you clarify to me what the hell is happening exactly?” You demand.

“Hm? I am simply taking back what’s mine,” he says candidly. He removes his hands from yours, placing one on top of your waist and the other cradling your face. “I would be a fool if I’d let you get your way again.”

You frown at his words, ignoring the way your body feverishly reacts to his touch, “What does that even mean?” 

“If you think you can just push me away again, then you are mistaken. I have waited patiently for years for us. For you. While I still don’t understand why you pushed me away years ago, it doesn't matter anymore. I would rather have you in my proximity again than wait for you to stop being stubborn,” he answers, a soft smile gracing his face. He raises a brow at you playfully, “Because a certain someone would rather have the world stop spinning than admit that she is stubborn.”

“Hey!” You protest, ready to complain but the words die in your throat when he suddenly lunges forward until his breath fans your cheeks, the cold air grazing your rose-tinted skin. He presses you closer to his body, his hand gripping your waist firmly and the other one still caressing your skin. “Tell me you want me to come back,” he whispers, almost desperately. “I’d do anything to keep you in my life again. I no longer want to keep you at an arm’s length anymore,” he continues, his hazel green eyes boring into yours, as if he was trying to stare into your soul. 

“Zayne…” You murmur, darting your gaze from his lips to his eyes.

“Just say it, darling,” he mutters, “You don’t have to do anything. We have all the time in the world to figure it all out together,” he assured. 

You swallow thickly, the tears that were threatening to spill from your eyes finally break, and you are confused whether they were tears of despair, grief, or happiness. Perhaps it was all three altogether. Because finally, for once in your life, you are going to jump into uncharted territory and not think about anything anymore.

“Zayne,” you begin and he looks at you expectantly. You inhale a deep breath, glancing at his lips again before darting back to his eyes. The breeze of the winter air skimming through your bodies, the moon’s muted glow casting over the dispersing clouds, and the lamppost from across you two finally lighting up again, giving you brighter access to his features. And suddenly, it feels like everything around you disappears, as if you two are the only ones in the universe, holding each other so carefully. “Please stay here.”

He inches closer to your face, a smile gracing his lips, “Of course.”

And for the first time in years, he wraps his arms around you, his hands that were once cradling your face, now holding onto the back of your head and the other embracing your entire body and engulfing you in his heat, every fear in your body to wash and melt away. 

And for once in your life, you are no longer sobbing into the sheets, lingering of sorrow and regret–but rather into the arms of the man who found you again, despite your attempts to rewrite history.

author's note: comments, reblogs, and likes are very much appreciated :") also didn't take into account the timeline that much! so if the ages are a bit wonky, ignore LOL

He knows what’s happening now, he’s seen this play out again and again over the past two weeks whilst Yongsoo has been finalising her wedding plans and so with that, the seating plan. You’re certain that when you told him your friends had a habit of seating you with the kids at their weddings, he thought you were joking. But now it’s clear that it seems that someone being single, in your friends’ eyes, goes hand in hand with free childcare.

It did used to be you and Minhyun, an old friend from university but he decided to become an OnlyFans streamer and so your friends, ultimately being prudes, decided he wasn’t allowed to sit with you and the ever-growing brood of children.

You had asked him if you could star in a video with him, but he said your bosses probably wouldn’t like it. That and he was very much still as gay as ever and so unless you grew a key appendage, he wasn’t interested.

Discrimination. That’s what it was.

And so now all you have to look forward to this weekend, at your bestie's wedding, is being the entertainment for the kids.

“Yeah, right babe, like ____ has found anyone. She never leaves her office.”

Mingyu glares at your phone but you shake your head to tell him to ignore them, you’re used to it. They don’t mean it in a horrible way, they just don’t understand that you enjoy your work. You enjoy designing things and seeing people love them, to create their homes and families in the buildings you’ve designed. And it isn’t like you haven’t had boyfriends, you have, but they just were equally as dedicated to their work and so they’ve always fizzled out.

Their need to get married and have kids is great for them, it’s not even something you’ve ruled out, you’re still young. But it’s just not something you want now, and they find that whole idea foreign.

“You’ll die alone if you don't start living your life!"

Well, that’s just fucking harsh.

“Actually, I’ll be coming with her.”

You stare at Mingyu. He’s leaning over your desk, shirt sleeves rolled up, speaking into the phone that now has nothing but a stunned silence on the other end of it.

“____? Who’s that.”

You can’t speak. What the hell is he doing?! It’s one thing to go alone. It’s another to turn up with your assistant. You can hear it now, “Oh _____, the only man you can find is your assistant?” or “oh my god, are you paying him?”.

Before you can even answer them, your brain only just catching up to what he’s said, he speaks for you.

“I’m her fiancé.”

WHAT THE FUCK?!

“What the fuck?!” You hear them shout in unison at the end of the phone, such is the shock of you having a fiancé.

You can understand it, you didn’t know you had one until about ten seconds ago.

You hear Yongsoo asking a question, but Mingyu cuts her off.

“Sorry!! We can’t talk right now! We have dinner reservations. Bye!”

You stare at your phone, the screen illuminating with messages from Yongsoo and within a couple more seconds, your group chat, her probably having told the rest of your friends what just happened.

“Sooooooo…you need anything else? Or am I ok to head home?”

Did you imagine what just happened? You must’ve done because he’s just acting like it hasn’t just happened. That he hasn’t just announced to your whole friend group, basically, that he’s your fiancé.

Does he think it’s a joke? He thinks you’re a joke? That he can just set you up like this and then laugh at the fact you have to arrive there alone and explain that your own assistant thinks you’re a fucking joke?

You didn’t think Mingyu was like that, he’s always been kind and caring, making sure you work more as a team than as an assistant and boss. He’s your eyes and ears in the office to make sure your team work well and he makes sure you eat, sleep, even drink water, when you’re heading for a deadline and panicking.

So why has done this to you now?!

“Have I done something to annoy you?”

He stares at you, standing in front of your wide glass desk like a deer caught in headlights.

“No, boss.”

He doesn’t seem to be lying. But then he’s also acting like what he’s just done, hasn’t happened.

“Then why have you set me up like this, Mingyu?!”

You lean back in your chair, taking in the man in front of you. What doesn’t help is the number of dreams you’ve had where the adonis of man you call your assistant, is waiting for you at the end of the aisle. But he has a girlfriend and he’s never shown any interest in you like that anyway. It wouldn’t be right, you’re his boss. Nothing could ever happen. It doesn’t stop you thinking about it a lot. Particularly on nights where it’s just you and your rose toy. But it could never happen. Never will.

And you hate that you feel bad for shouting at him. You hate that little pout he does.

“They were being dicks to you _____! I couldn’t just stand there and let them laugh at you like that!”

“They were just being how they normally are, it’s a running joke!”

“Well, it’s not very funny!”

Why is he getting annoyed about this? He’s caused this!

“And how funny is it going to be when I arrive there on my own and have to explain that the fiancé, they didn’t know about, has disappeared?! Fuck Mingyu…..my parents will be there. All my friends. Why the fuck have you done this?!”

“I just panicked!!”

“It was nothing to do with you!!”

He looks pissed, his usually handsome features tarnished with frown lines as he glares at you.

“I thought…..I don’t know what I thought. I didn’t think.”

“No shit Sherlock.” You rub your temples, thinking of a way to get round all of this. “Just go home Mingyu, I’ll hire someone or something.”

He doesn’t move though. He just stares at you.

“Hire someone?”

“There must be apps where lonely women can hire a man for the day.”

“Like a prostitute?”

“I don’t want to sleep with them. I just want…” you gesture your hands trying to think of how to put it, “company!”

“You’re going to ring up a random man and pay him for company? And you don’t think that they’re going to think you’re paying them for sex?”

You can’t believe you’re having this conversation with him. But he does have a point about that, you suppose.

“Or I could go to a bar. Find someone there.”

You need to do something because the prospect of turning up there without the fiancé Mingyu has just made up, makes you want to throw up.

No. You’ll find a man and then in a couple of months, he’ll very sadly be hit by a car. Not literally of course. It might actually work out well, they’ll leave you alone about finding yourself a man, because you’ll technically be in mourning. Mingyu may have inadvertently done you a favour here.

“I’ll come with you.”

It’s the perfect plan really, it’s. Wait. What did he just say?

“Pardon?”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Where? I don’t really want to go to a bar with you when I have to meet someone. They might think we’re a…..”

“No. I’ll come with you to the wedding.”

You stare at him. You’re sure there’s several reasons human resources can pull you into an emergency meeting because of the suggestion he’s just made.

“You’re my assistant.”

“No shit Sherlock.”

You can tell he’s enjoyed using your own line against you, his smug grin threatening to break free as he watches you struggle.

“You’ll come to the wedding with me? And how do I explain where my fiancé is?”

“He’ll be there. I’ll be him. It’ll only be for a weekend anyway.”

Your heart both leaps and cracks at that. What you wouldn’t give to be in his girlfriend’s position.

“I can’t ask you to do that Mingyu, that goes way past being professional.”

“You’re not taking a prostitute or some random drunk you find at a bar looking to make a quick buck. At least if it’s me, you’re safe.”

“Hyejin won’t mind?”

Mingyu looks perplexed, your question obviously having caught him off guard. You know he thinks they’re both being sneaky, but it’s clear as day to you that they’ve been dating a long time now.

“No? Why would she mind?”

“I guess it’s just work,” you nod, more to yourself than Mingyu. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, boss.”

“And you’ll tell human resources that it was all your idea, if they ever find out?”

“I will.”

You’ve got a bad feeling in your stomach and in your heart about this, but he’s not really left you much choice.

“Ok.”

“Perfect,” he smiles, “I’ll bring my over night bag with me tomorrow and we can leave straight from here after work.”

“O-ok.”

He doesn’t wait for you to say anything though, just happily walks out of your office like this little plan is the most normal thing in the world.

“Haven’t you filled that damn diary with ‘I love ____’ yet? How have you still got shit to write?”

Mingyu slams his diary shut when he hears his friends enter the staff room. The last time his friends got hold of it, they spent the next two weeks laughing at his drunk ramblings about how the love of his life doesn’t even care that he spends his nights planning their wedding.

“I’m just writing a couple of rules for this weekend that’s all,”

“Oh shit have I forgotten game night again?! I swear I’m not playing if she still hasn’t learnt the rules.”

“Oh does ickle Wonwoo not like losing?” Hyejin squeezes Wonwoo’s cheeks together much to the disgust of Wonwoo.

“I just don’t like losing to someone who cheats.”

“Prove it bitch.”

Just before Wonwoo can gear up to have yet another argument about Hyejin’s wavering loyalty to any game rules, Mingyu interrupts.

“I’m going to pretend to be _____’s fiancé for the weekend.”

Silence. Hyejin drops the finger she was aggressively pointing at Wonwoo and stares in horror at Mingyu.

Shit, he was hoping they’d be a little less shocked and a little more ‘oh that’s weird but totally normal and in the realms of what an assistant should do for his boss.’. But instead, he’s met with a look of disgust and utter confusion.

Because of course he is, none of this is fucking normal.

“You’re going to…..” Hyejin looks at Wonwoo who just shrugs before they both look back at Mingyu, “you’re going to pretend to be your boss’s fiancé? For….. what reason? Have you banged your head and got a concussion? Let me see that diary, have you been drinking?”

“NO!” He pulls his diary away and puts it under his ass.

“You’re going to pretend to be your boss’s fiancé?”

Is that not what he said? Why are they just repeating it back to him?! He knows what he said, he just needs to know how to get through it.

“It’s her best friend’s wedding and they normally just use her as free childcare because she’s the only single one, which is so fucked up.”

“Oh well you should have said that sooner, now it makes perfect sense!”

“Exactly,” Mingyu nods.

“NO, YOU IDIOT.” Hyejin shouts causing Wonwoo to snort but Mingyu to jump about a foot into the air, “You cannot think this is a good idea. How did she even agree to it?”

“I didn’t really leave her much choice. I just said it to her friends when she had her phone on speaker.”

Wonwoo can’t control himself at this point, he all but falls to the ground in laughter.

He wishes he’d never told them. Assholes.

“Mingyu, seriously, you’ve been in love with her since the day you started working for her. Your puppy dog eyes follow her around any room she’s in. And she’s fucking oblivious to it, how is any of this going to end well?”

“It’ll work. I can do it, she shouldn’t be treated the way they treat her because she’s single.”

“I agree. She’s a badass with a great ass,” Wonwoo nods along with Hyejin, Mingyu tries to not let the jealously of others commenting on your ass get to him. His opinions on your ass stay between him, his hand and his 3 am ramblings in his diary, “but that doesn’t mean you have to make it awkward for both of you. How does she explain where you are at other gatherings? Or is this a long-term acting job?”

“I don’t know, she can say we broke up or something. I just thought I was helping her.”

The true horror of what he’s done is only just catching up with him, his head lands on the table of the staff room as he lets out a deep groan.

“Is it too late to back out?”

He knows it’s bad because Hyejin never shows her caring side all that often and now her hand is rubbing soothing circles on his back. Even Wonwoo gets up to make him a raspberry tea to try and calm him down.

“We’re leaving after work.”

“Shit.”

“Exactly.”

“What were your rules? You said you’d written rules.”

“Don’t kiss her and don’t tell her I love her.”

He hears them chuckle but to their credit they don’t out right laugh at him.

“They’re pretty solid rules I guess, make sure you stick to them.”

“I will,” he scoffs, sitting back in his seat, “there’s no way someone like _____ would ever be interested in someone like me.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind driving?”

“_____, I’ve driven your car more than you have. Just sit back and relax.”

He’s right, he does drive this car more than you. Every few weeks you panic that he feels more like a chauffeur than an assistant, but he more or less tells you to shut the fuck up and get in the car.

“Thanks for doing this,”

You must’ve thanked him ten times today already but now you’re actually on the road, it feels more real. Like there’s no going back.

“It’s cool. It’ll be fun to finally meet your friends, I hear enough about them.”

That warms your heart, you know he’s probably just saying it but the fact he cares enough to try and put your worries at ease, helps a little.

To say you felt a little embarrassed about this whole thing would be an understatement. You spent most of last night tossing and turning worrying that he thought you were pathetic or that you couldn’t find a date on your own, so he’d taken pity on you.

You’re aware you’re not ugly but when every single woman you’ve come across recently looks like she should be walking a runway, and you’re stood there just bigger than them in general, it can knock your confidence.

Even last night your normal routine would’ve been to orgasm your worries away, but your mind always wanders to Mingyu. Which on a normal night would only tip you over the edge quicker. But with your mind plagued with worries that he thought you were just some desperate woman who couldn't find a date, it felt almost like you were insulting him to use the image of him in your mind, to get yourself off. Like he’d take it as a personal offence that someone who wasn’t as hot as him would think about him that way.

“Which one?”

“What? Sorry, I was miles away.”

“I could tell that,” Fuck there’s that smile again that makes you go weak at the knees, this weekend is already seeming like a massive mistake, “I was saying do you want the crispy potato or the chicken skewers from the service station. I think I’ll get both because it’s like a three-hour drive and it’ll be late when we’re arriving at the hotel. Oh! And some of those little doughnuts then we’ve got a sweet treat.”

He looks so happy rambling on about what food he wants. Does he even realise what an amazing person he is? He probably doesn’t, you just hope Hyejin tells him every now and again.

The thoughts from last night are still in your mind, and you just can’t seem to shake that he must think you’re this joke that he has to humour. You're not even sure you could eat even though you are hungry.

“I’m good thanks.”

You look out the window, ignoring the look on Mingyu’s face. Is the way he’s clenching his jaw now the same as he does when he…..

“You need to eat something _____.” he interrupts your thoughts.

“I’m still full from lunch.” A lie, but he doesn’t need to know that “you have something! Use my company card.”

“No, it’s alright. I’ll wait till we get to the hotel, then we can both eat together.”

You wish your heart didn’t flutter when he says together. And you hate that he’s called out your bullshit in the kindest way possible.

Even though Mingyu is your assistant, you had shared a bed a few times. When you’d had to travel for work, and hotels had made an error, which had happened at least five times from what you can remember. So, you weren’t overly phased about sharing a bed with him now. Presumably Hyejin was ok with it, you can’t imagine he hadn’t mentioned it to her and if she was ok with it, then you could be too.

The room was exquisite, but then you’d expect nothing else from Yongsoo, since you were children, she’d been planning her perfect wedding and so you knew it would be nothing less than incredible. You weren’t a bridesmaid, she had asked but her sister was the other bridesmaid and you'd still not forgiven her fully for making out with your college boyfriend, add that to having to stand in front of room full of people? No thank you. Yongsoo understood, she didn’t agree, always telling you about the many men that look at you, but she respected your feelings and didn’t push it. She did make sure though that you had all the perks of a bridesmaid, a suite for yourself and various little gifts saying how pleased she was she was spending her wedding with her oldest friend.

For all their bitching and joking about your love life, in all other respects your friends were your rocks, and you know they just wanted you to be happy.

As soon as you got to the suite, you rushed to take a shower, hoping all of the bad thoughts and worries would be washed away with the stinging hot water.

And they were. That is until you’re confronted with Mingyu, taking the cloches off the room service in shorts and a tight vest. How does he just look like that on a daily basis? Muscles rippling, broad golden shoulders flexing whenever he moves, he’s like every woman’s perfect fantasy. He is your perfect fantasy. You’re suddenly pleased you’ve changed into baggy sweats and sweater, the less he can see of you, the better.

“Feel better?”

His dazzling smile lights up when he sees you walking over to the dining table in the corner of the suite.

“Yeah, much better. Thank you again for driving.”

“No problem. I hope you’re finally hungry now, I think I went a bit overboard.”

He scratches the back of his neck and all you can do is desperately try not to stare at his biceps, so you avert your eyes.

In doing that though you realise just how much food he’s ordered.

“Are we expecting guests?”

“No, I just didn’t know what you’d feel like, and I could eat a literal horse and so yeah…. hence all this food.”

You nod and take a seat. He doesn’t speak, when he said he was hungry, he wasn’t lying. You’ve never seen one person inhale a burger in two mouth fulls, but somehow, he manages it.

It’s only when you’re both finishing off the two sundaes he’s ordered, desperately trying not to watch him bite into a strawberry, trying even harder to not to watch as a little trickle of juice falls from his lip and down his chin.

You need to stop thinking of him like this, he’s taken and not interested.

“Are you sure Hyejin doesn’t mind all of this.”

He pauses, spoon in his mouth and eyes wide, like he’s been caught out. Does he really think it’s not obvious about them? They’re always together.

“Why do you keep asking about Hyejin?”

“Well…..I can see you’ve been trying to keep it low key but….”

“Keep what low key?”

“Your relationship?”

He stares at you and you find yourself wanting to shrink into your seat. For a man with such a beautiful smile, his stern face can be a little unsettling, to say the least.

“S-she’s your girlfriend, isn’t she? Sorry, I just noticed it and I know I’m both of your boss but honestly, I don’t see a problem with workplace relations….”

“She’s my best friend.”

“That’s sweet,” you try to smile through the fact that they have that kind of perfect relationship, where they call each other their best friends, as well as partners. It’s what you’ve always wanted to be honest.

At least he has that, he deserves it. And that’s what you’ll keep telling yourself to make yourself feel better.

“_____, she’s my best friend. No offense, but we’d kill each other if we were in a relationship. Plus, you’re much more her type than me.”

Oh.

Well shit.

“I’m sorry! Shit I’m so stupid. I just thought because you spend so much time together.”

“I spend a lot of time with Wonwoo too. I’m not dating him either.”

“True. Sorry…..Not that it’s any of my business anyway. Sorry.”

“It’s ok, boss.”

You wish he wouldn’t call you that. It’s just another reminder that you’re just his boss to him.

Mingyu can clearly see there’s something on your mind, but he presumes it’s about the mix up that’s just happened and not because you’re literally in love with your assistant.

He leans forward a little bit to try and catch your eye, you looking everywhere but at him.

“It’s ok,” fuck his voice is so soft, like he actually cares more than employee should or would.

You shake yourself out of your thoughts, you just need to get through this weekend, and things will go back to normal.

“I think I’m going to go find my parents room, I haven’t seen them in weeks.”

“Cool just let me get my shoes.”

You freeze as you get up from the table to get your own shoes, why had you not even thought about him having to meet your parents properly?

“You’re coming with me?”

“I mean, it’ll be weird when they think you’re bringing your fiancé, if I don’t come with you?”

“Oh. Yeah, true.” You try to remain calm but already the idea of having to lie to your parents doesn’t sit well with you.

He just smiles at you as he makes his way to the suite door, holding it open for you like the gentleman he is.

Luckily, he’s put a hoody on over his vest, otherwise you’re not sure you’d make it through the rest of the night.

The universe really has a way of being spiteful. Why would it put you in a position where the man of your dreams is pretending to be your fiancé and then it turns out that your parents actually like him?

Your dad hasn’t liked a single boy you’ve brought home since you were a child. He’s always been overly protective and didn’t want any boy in your room, even if it was your gay best friend from high school. He even threatened an ex-boyfriend once for the mere suggestion that you’d be sharing a room over the holidays when you visited them. Whenever he was introduced to ex- boyfriends he’d sit and glare like something out of a mafia film until eventually they left.

But Mingyu? He must be some sort of parent whisperer because your dad is currently telling him all about the fishing retreat he’s booked with his friends. Your mom has said four times what a “charming young man” he is and already planned out what she intends to cook for him when you both go to visit. At this point it’s hard to tell who’ll be more upset when you and Mingyu call off this fictitious engagement, you or your parents.

“You should come with us! I’m sure there’s an extra room in the cabin.”

You smile at how kind your dad is being and you don’t want him to be disappointed, but you know there’s no way Mingyu can go. Why should he even want to?

“I’d love that! What were the dates?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls up the calendar on his phone, looking to see if he’s free or not.

“Don’t look so horrified _____! Your dad and his friends won’t bite!” Your mom chuckles, before she goes back to watching your dad and “fiancé” plan their, now joint, fishing trip.

What the hell is he even thinking about, agreeing to go on a trip with your dad. It’s one thing to do this whole fucking performance for the weekend but it’s another to drag your parents into it. This is already hurting you. You don’t want them to get hurt in the process.

An hour passes by and you note it is getting pretty late. And it isn’t like you’ve gotten a word in anyway, Mingyu has gone down a storm with your parents and although it warms your heart that he seems to like them as much as they like him, it’s pissing you off how careless he’s being.

But is it even carless? It feels more like spite to be honest. He knows none of this is real, it’s going to make the whole thing so much harder to deal with when you have to tell them that you’re not together.

That you’ve broken off the engagement that never was.

You hug your parents goodbye, Mingyu holding the door for you, smile faltering slightly when he realises that your smile drops as soon as you’re away from your parents, a look of simmering anger replacing it.

If you weren’t so hell bent on getting back to your room and finding out what the hell his game is, you might have heard what your parents said behind you.

“It’s not like you to like a man she brings home.” Your mom mumbles.

“I wanted to hate him. Wanted to obliterate the fucker for not even asking permission to propose. But he seems a great guy and……did you see the way he looked at her? As soon as they walked in, I could see it in his eyes.”

“He loves her.” Your mom nods, both then retreating into the room.

“He does.”

You walk ahead of Mingyu back to your room, you’re not sure how you’re feeling because you don’t know what the fuck he’s doing. It’s seeming more and more like this is all a game to him, that he doesn’t care about what happens after this weekend with your friends and family, because he doesn’t need to be involved in the aftermath.

He gets a free weekend away, in a nice suite, free food, free drinks and then gets to go back to his life and you have to watch your dad be upset because Mingyu isn’t going away with him and his friends.

You can take your emotions being played with. But not your family’s.

You wish you hadn’t showered when you’d first arrived because now you’ve got no way of getting away from him for a little while. You’re not even sure what you want to say to him. You’re caught between your heart feeling like he’s sticking tiny pins in it to break is slowly and wanted to strangle him for being so careless where your parents are concerned.

“What’s wrong?”

You look up from your phone to find him sitting on the bed next to you.

“Nothing.”

You turn your eyes back to your phone. You’re not even doing anything, you’ve been staring at the same email confirmation for the past two minutes.

“Don’t lie to me, boss.”

There he goes with the boss thing again. Is he going to say that tomorrow, in front of your friends? Just to reaffirm that you’ll never be with someone like him, not in reality anyway.

“Could you just decide what your fucking angle is with this whole thing?”

“What?” You can tell he’s confused, but you don’t care.

“You keep calling me boss. Are you going to do that tomorrow too? It’s like going from one extreme to the other Mingyu. You go from whatever the fuck that was with my parents to calling me boss? It’s hardly going to be very convincing is it.”

“What do you mean ‘whatever the fuck that was with your parents’?! I liked them! They liked me!”

“You liked them? That’s why you’re messing with their feelings?! We’re not together Mingyu and you’ve led my dad to think he’s taking you on a fucking fishing trip! Do you know how many men he’s hated, not even given the time of day to, and then he meets you and likes you so much he opens up his heart to you like a father would a son in law?!”

“So, you’re mad your parents liked me?” He frowns.

“YES! Because now it’s playing with their feelings as well as m….. As well as being confusing for us.”

Your hearts pounding in your chest. Nearly telling him that it’s playing with your feelings would have made this whole thing even more embarrassing.

“As well as what?” He presses, eyes burning fierce.

“As well as nothing.” You dismiss, “I get my words mixed up when I’m stressed.”

“I’ve seen you stressed. You don’t get words mixed up then.”

Fuck him for knowing you so well.

“Well, I did this time. Is this all a joke to you? I’m a joke to you?”

Now he does look pissed, he stands up quickly, staring down at you whilst you’re still sat cross legged on the bed.

“Why would it be a joke to me?!”

“Why else would you be here Mingyu?! What, you think I’m that pathetic I need you to do this for me? I bring the seemingly perfect man whose way out of my league, he makes my family and no doubt friends fall in love with him. And you don’t expect me to wonder what he’s getting out of all of this?! It’s just fucking cruel. It’d have been kinder to just laugh at me like my friends do!”

He’s silent for a moment, shock masking his usually kind features. It breaks your heart a little more that he doesn’t deny he’s out of your league.

“You think I'm like that? That I'd treat you like that?!” Him shouting so loud makes you jump in your seat.

“I didn’t until you just dragged my parents into this!”

“What was I meant to do?! Say no? Tell your dad to fuck off?!”

“I don’t know! Just not that! It’s going to make it even harder when they never see you again!”

A flash of hurt crosses his features before he just scoffs and walks off to the bathroom.

Leaving you alone. Again.

You should be used to this feeling by now. But sadness washes over you when you realise once again, he’ll never see you as anything more than his boss.

By the time he comes back from his shower, you’re pretending to be asleep on the very edge of the bed. He doesn’t come to bed straight away and you wonder if he’s going to sleep on the sofa. But instead, you open your eyes enough to see him, he’s writing in a pink and purple diary, stuffed with extra pieces of paper and looking like it’s more than well used. Your heart aches a little when your spiralling thoughts try to tell you that that diary is probably filled with thoughts about you. About how pathetic you are and how much he hates being here or even working for you.

Once he’s done, diary secured in his bag, you feel the bed dip as he gets in.

You fall asleep pretty quickly once he’s there with you. There’s just something about him that makes you calm even when you’re heartbroken.

Thank god Yongsoo booked a suite, you and Mingyu had managed to avoid each other somewhat for most of the morning. You showered whilst he still slept, when he went in the shower after you, you went to catch up with Yongsoo before the wedding. When you came back, he was changing in the bathroom into his suit and so you took the opportunity to change into your dress in the suite’s dressing room.

You’d chosen your dress before all your insecurities around Mingyu reared their ugly head. You loved it, a sky-blue slip dress which had a small matching string belt to accentuate the small of your waist. You weren’t thrilled about the thin straps, feeling somewhat exposed but you felt sexy and confident in it none the less. Or you did. Now you just feel like shit, having to pretend to be the fiancé of a man who sees you as nothing more than his boss.

You put your final thin silver necklace on, deciding to layer your two favourites, one was from your parents and one from Yongsoo on your last birthday, deciding they matched quite well with your bangles and simple pearl earrings. Your makeup was simple, classic you could say, minimal base, a small smudge of light pink blush, a simple shimmer on your eyes and your old reliable soft pink gloss. You wore your hair down, not really feeling the need to do some fancy hair do, being just a regular guest rather than a bridesmaid, so soft curls were the easy answer.

If this had been the you of two days ago, before Mingyu decided this was a good idea, you’d have been proud of how you looked. But now? After yesterday? You hated everything about it.

But today isn’t about you. It’s about your best friend. The best friend who took you to the emergency room when you were in university because you’d fallen off a bar table, drunk. The best friend who you’d move heaven and earth to make sure was happy.

You had to man up and do this.

You take one last deep breath, grounding yourself by holding the cool doorknob, before you finally leave the dressing room.

He doesn’t notice you when you first leave the room, you being quiet as a mouse and him being once again engrossed in his diary.

And you’re pleased he doesn’t because the second you see him, your soul bids you farewell and launches itself off the balcony. He looks, for want of a better word, beautiful. The type of man every woman thinks about when they picture their perfect man. He wears suits to work but nothing like this, this one looks like it’s been fitted just for him rather than off the rack, and to your surprise he’s paired it with a black dress shirt and black tie. If he’d have described it to you before today, you’d have reminded him this isn’t a funeral, but seeing it? There’s no hint of morbid around this outfit choice. It’s suave and sophisticated and if he’d just let you, you’d happily climb him like……

“Hey,” he interrupts your thoughts once he spots you standing by the dressing room door.

You swallow heavily when he runs his eyes up and down your body. You’ve never wanted to run away and hide more in your life, you’re caught between wanting his opinion on your look for the wedding and never wanting to hear a single thought he has about your body in your life.

“You look b…….”

“Shall we go?”

You interrupt him, you’d just feel like an even bigger fool hearing whatever pitiful compliment he was going to offer you.

“S-sure.”

He rushes to put his diary in his bag as you head for the door. You walk side by side but a stoney silence follows you all the way to hall which the ceremony will be held in.

You quickly find your seats next to your parents, them greeting Mingyu almost as warmly as they greet you.

You take in the scene around you, it’s opulent and exactly how you’d imagined it to be. Luscious fabrics adorn the chairs, rose petals are scattered along the aisle and candles are lit on every surface you can see. Yongsoo has really done herself justice with this, five-year-old her would be squealing with joy at what adult her has managed to achieve.

“I meant to ask last night,” your mom murmurs to you, not wanting Yongsoo’s nosey aunts in front of you to hear what she’s saying, “where is your ring? You’ve surely not said yes without a ring.”

Shit.

Why didn’t you think of this?! Of course, engaged people have rings!

You stare at your finger, hoping somehow an answer will appear to help you.

“My mom always promised me my grandmothers,” Mingyu leans forward to speak to your mom, “and I haven’t been able to get home in a few months. I didn’t trust her mailing it because, well, we all know what the mail service is like at the moment. So _____ said she’d be happy to wait until we manage to visit in a few weeks, then I can give it to her properly.”

Your mom looks fit to burst with happiness at that answer, a proud smile plastered on her face.

“You don’t have to tell me! Three weeks I’ve been waiting for my new engine for my train!”

“Your train?” Mingyu looks at you and your mom, a little confused.

“It’s his train set.” Your mom huffs in disgust.

You can’t help the sheepish grin as you watch your parents knowingly, as they carry on with their same old argument. Your mom hating his train set and your dad believing it’s his most prized possession.

Mingyu watches it play out, sending you a smile as he settles back into his seat.

You wish that smile didn’t shoot right into your heart, somewhere between happiness and crushing pain.

“Thanks for that, I didn’t think about the ring.” You say for only Mingyu to hear.

“No problem, boss.”

You don’t respond, just sit in the broken pieces of your heart as he once again calls you boss. Another rotten reminder that you’ll never be anything more.

The ceremony passes by in a blur of muffled sobs from family members and vows that sounded more like poetry than any who’ve heard before. But you’re not really paying much attention, you’re not even sure how you came to be stood at the side of the dance floor watching your best friend and her now husband share their first dance.

“Should we d…..”

“Should we get a drink?”

This time you don’t mean to interrupt him, but you’re relieved you did. You’re not sure you could cope with being so close to him, him being that close to your body, holding you.

“I’ll go get us some,” he rushes, probably relieved he doesn’t have to spin his boss around the dance floor, “I’ll be back in a sec.”

He’s gone as quick as he says it as you happily watch all the in love couples strut their stuff on the dance floor, now the music has become slightly more upbeat.

Five minutes pass and no Mingyu.

10 minutes and you begin to wonder just how long the queue for the bar is. You avert your eyes but quickly spot him. Leaning against the bar, Yongsoo’s sister hanging on his every word and her hand on his bicep.

You feel your last scrap of confidence wither and crumble. This is history repeating itself. Only this time, he’s supposed to be your fiancé and not your dead-beat university boyfriend.

You’ve no idea why but your feet move of their own accord, different thoughts throwing themselves at you with every step you take.

Of course he’d like her, she’s gorgeous. Why did you think this was a good idea? What happens when your parents spot him flirting with some other woman?

This whole thing has just been a lesson from Mingyu in how to embarrass someone and ruin their life. Has he been like this the whole time you’ve worked together? You didn’t think so but then you don’t truly know him.

You thought you did. But you didn’t.

It’s only when you end up at your feet’s desired destination, do realise you’ve brought yourself to the children’s table. Old habits die hard and, to be fair to them, they always inflate your ego, them all thinking you’re very cool building great big buildings.

“_____!”

They also say excitedly, one of them knocking over their fake pink plastic wine glass of soda.

“I couldn’t miss out on the fun, could I?” You huff as you throw yourself in a seat at their table.

Has Yongsoo just decided they can look after themselves? Surely, they need someone.

It’s just as you’re pondering Yongsoo’s lack of care for the little terrors that you spot her grandfather, fast asleep and with a moustache drawn on his face.

“Who’s work of art is that?”

“Mine.” One of the little boys says proudly, knowing you’d never tell any of them off.

“I’d give it a solid 8 out of 10, good work.”

His proud smile warms your heart, at least they’d never judge you and make you feel like an idiot.

“Why aren’t you with your furniture?”

“Fiancé.” You chuckle, happily letting Jiyoung sit on your knee.

“He’s talking with some people.”

You don’t know what takes over you, you really don’t.

“Never trust a man Jiyoung. All they do is break your heart and disappoint you.”

Well, that’s great, now you’re mentally scaring the younger generation and making sure their parents will be asking you some very odd questions when they inevitably snitch on you.

“Is your heart broken? I could try and fix it, if you like.”

She truly is the kindest little girl you’ve ever met. Sadly, you’re too far gone in your wallowing and not even her looking at you like you know everything in the world, stops your rant.

“You can’t break a heart that was already in a million pieces.”

Way to dampen the mood _____.

“I broke something into a million pieces once.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, my mom bought a glass photo frame, and I knocked it off when I was being spiderman.”

“That’s cool.” You and the other five-year-olds all agree.

It’s only when you’ve finished re-braiding Jiyoung’s hair that you spot Mingyu looking round the hall.

“I just need to make a call.”

“I just got comfy!!”

“You’re a big girl Jiyoung, I’m sure sitting on a chair won’t hurt your bum.”

She moves but not before glaring at you.

“Don’t frown, the wind might change and your face will stick like that.”

She smiles begrudgingly as you make a quick dart away from the table.

“What shall we tell your fridge?”

“Fiancé.”

“That’s what I said.” She rolls her eyes.

“Just say I went back to the room, he probably won’t ask.”

“Will you come back though? We normally dance together.”

You never thought you’d miss the children’s table, but you now realise how much fun you have entertaining them.

“I’ll be back for that.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“And” you stop to look at Yongsoo’s grandfather before you leave, “he could really do with something rude written on his forehead.”

“LIKE POOP?!”

“Good idea! You do that and I’ll make my call.”

This softens the blow of you leaving, all of them rushing to write poop on the poor man’s forehead. It’s lucky you know him and know he’ll see the funny side. If it was her grandmother, you’d all be grounded for two weeks. Even you.

“Why are you in here?!”

Shit, you hadn’t even heard him come in the room. Why does he look so pissed?

“I just needed a break.” You stand up from the sofa.

“From what? You’ve barely spoken to anyone, apart from your fellow children.”

“Fellow children? What the fuck is that meant to mean?!”

“You’ve been acting like a child all day. Sat in a mood and pouting. Do you know how many people have asked me if we’ve had an argument?”

“Not many, I expect. I’ve only seen you talk to one person.”

He stares at you, breathing ragged like he is genuinely pissed off at you.

“This can’t all be about your dad and that fishing trip.”

“It is about that! That and the fact it’s fucking embarrassing having to be the woman that can only pretend to mean something to someone like you. And then I see you flirting with her and I thought, what’s the point? She’s already stolen one boyfriend off me, why not a fictious fiancé.”

Your stomach drops. You didn’t mean to say that. Your mouth opens and closes, no words coming out as he stares at you with an unreadable gaze.

You presume he’s going to say something but instead he rushes past you to his bag.

Is he leaving? How the fuck do you explain that?

You hear the shuffling of pages before he rushes back to you.

“Read that.”

It’s not a request, it’s an order.

Your eyes scan the page.

“There was no need for them to bring April into the show, it ruined the flow and stunted…..”

“NOT THAT PAGE SHIT.” He snatches it back and skips forward a couple more pages. “That’s from my rewatch of Gilmore Girls. Read that.”

He shoves the diary back into your hands.

“Don’t kiss hot boss. Don’t tell her you love her.”

The world stops around you, you can feel your heartbeat all over your body. Your first thought is that it’s a joke, but why would he write it in something nobody ever sees?

He loves you? Mingyu. Loves…..you?

“You.....” you stare back at the page, “you love......me?” you point at yourself. “What?!”

He startles slightly at you shouting but slowly takes the diary off you and places it on the table.

He edges closer ever so slightly, like he’s not sure what reaction he’s going to get.

“That whole diary, well most of it anyway, is filled with every little thing about you that makes my heart flutter and melt. About how much I think about you every day.....and every night. About how much I want you. Need you. More than I’ve ever needed anyone. How you’ve had my whole heart since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

Tears well in your eyes, heart trying to break free of it’s cage.

“If you skip forward a few more pages,” he points back to his diary but makes no attempt to get it, “it’ll say how fucking pissed off I was with you last night for saying you’re not my type or not in my league. I know my type. My type is you. Just you.”

“I didn’t know,” you whisper, arms folding over you out of shame.

“I think you’re the only one that didn’t. Your dad caught me just as I came to find you to say that he could see it in my eyes how much I adored you. Fuck, when I told Hyejin about this weekend she was worried I’d even make it through it, laughing at me because apparently my eyes follow you around every room like a lost puppy.”

You chuckle a little at that and he finally sees that as his sign to move a little closer.

“I didn’t think you’d like so......”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence if you’re going to say what I think you are. You’re perfect. Pick up that diary on any page and there’ll be something written about how perfect you are.”

“Any page?” you challenge, remembering his rant about Gilmore Girls.

“Well. Almost any page.”

“I spoke to your friends.” 

“She’s not my friend.” You snap.

“Not her, she didn’t stay for long when all I spoke about was how beautiful you looked tonight,”

“But she touched your bicep.”

The words leave you before you can stop them. Your cheeks heating a little at your jealously bubbling over.

“She did. And I asked her to move her hand. Told her there was only one woman I wanted to touch me.” 

Your body tingles at that, though you try to remain calm.

“And I meant your other friends. The ones that are about 3 feet tall.”

“They’re all liars.” You dismiss with a shake of your head. “Famous for it.”

“Are they?” He grins, moving so he’s standing as close as possible to you without touching.

“Hm-mm.”

Your eyes are transfixed by him, your mind and body frozen in his whole aura.

“So she was lying when she told me you’d said all men do is break your heart?”

You scoff, a nonchalant act trying to shield your embarrassment.

“Or that you didn’t suggest that they write something on that poor old man’s forehead?”

“Did she just tell you everything I’ve ever said?! When I get hold of her,” you shake your head. “She’s lost her dancing privileges with me.”

“Good. Maybe I can have them instead.” 

You can’t help but smile, your heart now doing somersaults.

“Can I take all of this to mean that you might just feel the same way I do?”

Your eyes dart across his face, trying to find the tiniest hint of a lie on his features.

“I feel the same way you.” You say quietly.

He doesn’t even give you chance to say anything else, his big hands cover your cheeks as he connects his lips with yours. Any shock that may have been there disappears when his hands move off your cheeks and onto your waist, bringing you flush against his chest.

His kiss is desperate, filled with need and longing, his soft lips moving against yours easily as his fingers dig into your skin. His tongue prods at you, begging for entry and you happily accept it. It’s wet and needy, his tongue roaming around every part of your mouth it can. His tongue swirls around and around, your fingers playing with the hair on the nape of his neck, when you tug it slightly your pussy tingles at Mingyu’s moan that vibrates on your tongue.

He moves you back towards the bed, lips never leaving yours and tongue continuing it’s assault on your own.

It’s only when the backs of your knees hit the mattress that your brain catches up with your pussy.

“What are you doing?” 

“I didn’t get breakfast because someone was acting like a five year old,” he ignores your horrified face, instead deciding to drag his tongue along your tits. A satisfied chuckle leaving him when you arch slightly into his touch. “so I’m pretty hungry.”

You know where this is going. But you need a couple more seconds to build up the courage to show someone, even Mingyu, your body after a shit couple of days in your own head. So you stall him.

“And what does that have to do with me?”

Your breath hitches when he bites the soft flesh of your right breast.

He raises his head to look at you.

“Please, let me taste you. Please, I’ll be so good for you.”

Fucking hell he looks so pretty when he begs. You always wondered if he’d be some sort of hard dom or the type to whine when he came. Now you know and you can’t help yourself.

“Well when you ask so nicely.” 

You kiss him once more as he guides you back onto the bed, making sure you’re comfortable with your head resting on the pillows.

He moves onto the bed after you, eyes eating you up, as he moves closer. It’s only when you try to spread your legs for him you remember how tight the dress is over your thighs.

“Can we move this up?” 

You take a deep breath.

“Ok.”

He smiles at you for trusting him as your lift your bum for him to hitch your dress up over your thighs and ass, it bunching pretty messily around your waist.

You’re suddenly plagued by the same thoughts as this morning, the tightness of the fabric around your waist making it even more obvious you’re not flat and toned and sexy like the women he’s probably used to.

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you earlier, you look beautiful in your dress.” He looks up and his smile falters when he sees worry on your face. “What’s wrong _____?” he leans over you, thumb stroking your cheek.

You almost lose your train of thought when you feel something hard poking your thigh.

“Just. I don’t want you to see me and change your mind. The past two days since we decided to do this, I felt like I was playing at someone you’d like. I always thought you’d be with someone.....smaller?” your heart skips a beat when he clenches his jaw, “just even during the night when I’d normally....”

You slam your mouth shut. That is absolutely not something he needs to know.

His dark eyes snap to yours.

“During the night what?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me ______.”

“I-i. Normally......when I can’t sleep I........”

“Masturbate?”

“Well you don’t have to say it like that.” You frown.

“How else should I say it? You finger yourself? You tease your clit again and again until you cum undone and finally go to sleep?”

Your mouth hangs open at his words. Not really sure how to answer it.

“Do you think of me when you do it?” 

You nod.

“So what was different about the other night? After we’d made this plan?”

“It felt like I was insulting you. Using thoughts of you to get myself off.”

You say it quietly but see no reason to not tell him the truth. He says he loves you, after all.

“Insulting me?” His gaze looks down the bed, taking in your exposed lower half, “someone with the greatest tits I’ve ever seen? With an ass that literally mesmerises me every time I’m behind you. Fuck I could’ve murdered Hyejin when she said you had a great ass the other day. I hate the idea of anyone seeing you. And it’s a shame you weren’t playing with yourself the night before we came here. Because I was thinking of you, thinking of how much I want to fuck your incredible thighs until I’ve cum all over them.”

Well shit. You’re not sure what’s more wet, the tears streaming down your cheeks or the ones that would be streaming down your thighs if not for your, probably now ruined, panties.

“I don’t ever want to hear you question how much I want you. How much I need you. I think you’re the hottest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever met in my life.”

“I think the same about you. B-but man I mean, hottest, most beautiful man.” 

He laughs, eyes glittering as he looks down at you.

“You know what’s stupid. We’ve both been sat thinking the exact same thing? I didn’t think someone like you would ever look at someone like me.”

He can’t be serious. He’s like something out of a high-class porn film!!

“Well that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Guess we’re both stupid then.” He shrugs. “Now. Can I please get on with what I wanted to do?”

He’s almost whining, fuck his eagerness only makes you wetter.

“Be my guest.” You say smugly, legs opening as he settles between them.

The second he spots the wet spot on your panties it’s like he’s been possessed. He rolls your panties down your thighs, putting them in his pocket and takes off his suit jacket and tie. Him rolling his sleeves up shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does but it’s like he’s preparing himself, wanting to make sure he has no barriers stopping him from getting to you.

Mingyu lays on the bed, tiny, teasing kisses being placed up your leg until he reaches your pussy. He stops for a second to truly take in the beauty of it, staring in awe at how wet you are. He gives you one quick glance before he dives in. His finger and thumb spread you open, his high-pitched moan making your clench around nothing, when he sees truly how wet you.

He licks a long stripe from your aching hole to your clit before twirling his tongue around the tiny bud before his tongue sets back down on its journey down to your hole, again.

Your hand comes down into his hair, pressing him a little closer and your hips buck slightly when you notice just that first taste of you has him rutting his hips into the mattress.

You’ve never been one to take charge in the bedroom but the way he’s sucking on your clit like he’s desperate and his hips are humping the bed, you have a sudden burst of confidence.

Not in the ‘I’m going to dominate him' kind of way, although maybe one day, but in the talk him through it a little bit, kind of way.

“Does it taste good Mingyu? Does my,”  you moan when he sucks harder upon hearing your voice, “does my pussy taste good?”

“Hm-mm,” he nods, humming into your pussy, the vibrations on your clit making your mind spin.

“It’s feels really good baby,”

The pet name has him pressing his face further into you, tongue twirling up and down your pussy before carrying on sucking your clit.

You’re hypnotised by the way his hips move with every sucking motion on your clit. Shit, he really wasn’t lying when he said he wanted you, needed you.

Two big fingers prod at your entrance, as though he’s silently asking if he can slip them into your sopping hole. You don’t answer him, just move your hips slightly so the tip of his fingers stretch you open a little.

Your head throws back onto the pillows as he moves them slowly, easing them into you at a tantalising teasing pace. When he thinks you’ve adjusted, he moves them quickly in and out of your clenching pussy as his tongue now flicks over your bundle of nerves again and again.

Your moans are quiet compared to Mingyu’s. If someone was to walk past the room they’d think he was being fucked into next week. The fact he’s making those noises just because he’s pleasuring you, only makes you wetter. The room is filled with his moaning, bordering on whining, and the sounds of your sopping cunt as his two fingers plunge in and out of you.

You grind your pussy down onto his face, the need to cum on it ever increasing, causing the hand he has on your thigh to ripple into your skin. His hips move quicker the more you pull and tug on his hair keeping him exactly where you need him as you basically ride his face.

“I’m really close,” you manage to get out before a strangled moan takes over when he adds a third finger, that taunting tongue never stopping on your clit.

You can feel your heart beat in your ears as your hips keep grinding onto Mingyu’s face, his fingers being sucked into your greedy pussy every time it thinks he’s leaving it. It takes a couple more flicks off his tongue before he sucks hard and you come undone on his face. You hear a strangled moan from him which only makes your pussy clamp down on his fingers, as they try their best to keep finger fucking you through your orgasm.

Your whole body twitches, heat spreading through every fibre of your being, his big hand on your thigh the only thing reminding you that you’re not floating. His tongue slows, gentle twirls replacing the harsh sucking action as his fingers finally leave you. You continue to twitch slightly as he licks up every last drop of you that he can, before begrudgingly leaving your pussy and sucking his fingers clean whilst he’s still between your legs.

You’re both catching your breath, fingers running through his hair as he rests his forehead on your thigh.

“You’re really good at that.” You whisper, a chuckle escaping when you feel him huff out a breathy laugh against your thigh.

“Thanks.” He mumbles into your soft flesh before he kisses it gently.

“Did you....”

“Hm-mm.”

You stare at the ceiling, a goofy smile on your face at the idea of going down on you making Mingyu cum in his own pants.

“Are you laughing at me?” he challenges, moving up your body and looking down at you.

“No,” you smile up at him, moving his hair back off his forehead, “just feeling.... I don’t know...... Proud?”

“Proud?” his eyebrows draw together in confusion, though his smile remains.

“It’s not very often you make a man cum in his pants.”

He rolls onto his back then he doesn’t collapse on top of you with his laughter.

“What can I say, I finally got my head between the thighs I’ve admired for so long, what’s a man to do?”

He wraps his arms around you, bringing you into his chest.

“I don’t normally speak like that during sex,” you admit, it just now catching up with you that you’d been bold enough to even ask a question like that, “I hope it wasn’t weird.”

He draws back to look at you.

You decide there and then you hope he always looks at you with so much love in his eyes.

“It was perfect. You’re perfect. Everything about it.”

You grin and kiss his lips once more before settling back into his arms.

“I need to change my underwear before we go back down to the party.” 

He wants to go back?! If you’re being honest with yourself you were hoping to see what exactly was poking against your leg, not that long ago.

Your face must say as much because he laughs into your hair.

“I believe you promised a certain little lady a dance and I’m owed several dances. Plus. Now I can show you off properly, like the couple they think we are.”

You freeze.

“We’re not....we haven’t been on a date yet Mingyu!”

You sit up and look at him, ignoring the way your dress digs into the soft flesh of your stomach. Your body is covered in goose bumps when he sits up with you, fingers slightly soothing the skin you were so wary to show him, with nothing but affection. 

“They don’t need to know that do they! But we’ve both said we love each other. Well. I.....”

He freezes in horror when he realises you never said it back.

“I love you too.”

He sighs bringing you into his arms, both of you sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Then they don’t need to know we’re not engaged. People take years to get married, we both work and stuff, by the time we do get married they’ll never know we weren’t engaged here. And plus...... Now I can finally hold your hand down there, like I’ve been wanting to all day. I swear people were starting to wonder why we were barely stood near each other.”

“I’m sorry for yesterday.....”

“Hey now, I get it. You were protecting your parents. But I am going on that trip, I’m pretty excited to be honest.”

You look at him skeptically.

“I am! I really like them and they seem to like me.”

“I meant what I said, my dad has hated every man he’s ever met. I think that’s why I got so annoyed because he’d have been so upset when you flaked on him.”

“Well that won’t be happening. Come on, we need to get back down there.” He stands, grimacing slightly when his underwear feels sticky.

“I’ll change my underwear and then we can go,”

He turns to leave so you can sort yourself out before you head back.

“Hold on! You’ve got something of mine!”

You stand, pulling your dress down, trying to smooth the creases.

“What?” 

“My underwear.”

He looks you up and down, tongue poking his cheek before a smug grin forms on his lips.

“Nah, I think I’ll keep them.”

He walks off, leaving you staring after him in horror.

“I’ll just put fresh ones on then!”

“I wouldn’t bother!” he hollers as he enters the bathroom with his fresh Calvin’s, “As soon as we’ve stayed a polite amount of time, you’ve paid your dancing debts and I’ve eaten actual food, they’re coming straight off!”

“Fuck.” You mumble, willing your pussy to not start dripping.

“Exactly.” He smiles when he comes back in, having changed in record time. “Now.” He looks down at his suit trousers, “have I got cum on these?” 

You can’t help but laugh as you wander over to him, now you’ve got your shoes back on.

“Mingyu?” 

He looks up at you straight away.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

He pulls you into him, kissing you dramatically before letting you go.

“I love you too.”

He takes your hand to leave but you pull him back one last time.

“Please never call me boss again.”

“Yes.......boss,” he winks before he drags you out of the room.

“It’s my turn!!!!”

Jiyoung ignores Mingyu as he stands, whining next to your dancing bodies. You’d been jumping around, twirling her in your arms for the past three songs.

“I think it is his turn Ji.”  

“Tough. He was eating instead of being a good fridge.”

Mingyu frowns at her as you try not to smile.

“Fiancé.”

“That’s what I said!” She rolls her eyes again, just like earlier.

“You know. I heard they’re going to throw the bouquet soon. You don’t want to miss that, do you? If you leave now, you’ll have a good spot for when the dancing finishes!”

“REALLY!!” She stops mid-jump, a look of wonderment on her face. “BYE _____, I HAD A REALLY NICE TIME!!” She shouts as she runs off.

The music changes into something slow as Mingyu finally gets his hands back on you.  A proud smile on his face as his hand lands on your waist, the other holding your hand, as you both begin to move to the music.

“You don’t want to try and catch the bouquet?”

“I already have a fiancé.” You smile proudly. “I don’t think he’d be very happy if I went knocking over five years olds to catch a bouquet.”

“Damn right he wouldn’t. Not that bouquet anyway,” he looks over at a flower arrangement in disgust, holding your waist a little firmer, almost possessively, “the ones I’ve picked out are much more elegant.”

You freeze, feeling his body tense under your fingers.

“The ones you’ve picked out?”

“W-well,” he shrugs, “I had a lot of free time on my hands when the woman I love was utterly oblivious to it, so I’ve pretty much planned out the wedding.”

His cheeks turn a rosy shade of pink when you throw your head back in laughter, though he does pull you even closer to him

“That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. I need to see more of that diary."

“You wait until you see the corseted lingerie I’ve drawn for the wedding night. Your tits will be falling out of it as I fuck you again and again until you’re crying.”

He whispers it right into your ear, snickering a little when he hears the tiniest of moans leaving your mouth.

You don’t get a chance to reply, your parents fast approaching from the dining area.

“We’re heading up to the room ______ , my nights of dancing the night away are behind me and your mother says her bunion is agony.”

“I DID NOT SAY THAT!” She slaps his shoulder.

You and Mingyu end your dance and turn to face them, him holding your waist so you’re as close as possible to him.

“I’m really happy for you, munchkin.” Your mom says proudly, kissing your forehead. “Don’t leave it too long until you visit, we could go to a spa or something whilst they go fishing.”

“I’d love that, thank you mom.”

“You make a beautiful couple,” she adds, moving to hug Mingyu goodbye, “look after her. She’s our most treasured posession, even more than the trainset.”

You roll your eyes but laugh along with the three of them anyway.

Your dad hugs you goodbye before moving to shake Mingyu’s hand.

“You make sure you always look at her like you did last night and we won’t have a problem. And I’ll email you about the fishing retreat.”

“When did you exchange emails?” You frown.

“Come on dear,” your dad rushes off whilst you stare at Mingyu, “lets leave the love birds to it!”

“We swapped emails earlier.”

“But we were fighting earlier.”

“Last night, after what you’d said, I decided I’d finally tell you how I felt when I was brave enough. It was the first time I felt like you’d given away that you felt the same way as me. And so I figured I’d be going on the fishing trip.”

“That’s very cocky Mingyu.”

“What can I say. I always knew we were meant for each other.”

He kisses you to stop you arguing back.

“Have we stayed a polite amount of time?” you mumble against his lips.

“I reckon so.” He grins, shamelessly looking at your tits.

“Eyes up here Mingyu.”

His eyes flit up to yours, nothing but mischief in them.

“Yes, boss.”

“Status?” Tara’s voice sounded through the comms channel.

With a quick press on your earpiece, you responded, “Took up designated post. Awaiting target. What’s the ETA?”

“Three minutes. Target is brought to the elevator,” she said. You checked your watch. “Once you’re done, proceed to the rendezvous point.”

“Copy.”

Your focus shifted back to the building across the street. Steadying your breathing, your fingertip hovered over the trigger as you waited for the target to step out of the elevator and into your line of sight.

Sudden movement caught your eye, prompting you to look up from the scope. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…”

A window cleaner ascended on his lifting platform, climbing steadily up the building’s facade. To your annoyance, it stopped directly in front of the window for your intended shot, blocking your view of the elevator. 

There shouldn’t have been any cleaners scheduled for today—you had made sure of it—and instinct told you this wasn’t a coincidence.

After checking your watch again, you stretched your neck and tightened your hold on the handle. You spun the rifle, locking onto the cleaner and tracking his movements. 

Male, athletic physique, clad in black clothing, face obscured by a cap and sunglasses. So most certainly not a civilian, and he wasn’t even hiding it. Something metallic reflected the sunlight, drawing your attention to his hands. Your eyes narrowed to slits. Was that an MP7 he was loading?

He would ruin your shot, leaving you no choice but to take him out first. The guards inside would be alerted, your cover blown, but there was still a chance for a second shot at the target, if you reloaded fast enough.

“T-minus ten seconds,” Tara announced.

You cursed under your breath. It was a gamble, but there was no time to think of a better plan.

Forehead furrowed in concentration, you took aim and pulled the trigger, the silencer swallowing the shot. The bullet missed him by a hair—as if he had anticipated it, he had dodged to the left. Surprised, your eyes widened. It was a clean shot. How could you have missed him?

His head whipped in your direction, but you were already moving your rifle to the window behind him. Without a pause, you swiftly reloaded, scanning the inside of the building for the target. 

Your missed shot had found its mark somewhere beyond the window, sending the guards inside to scramble into action. As soon as the target emerged from the elevator, hands tied and surrounded by four heavily armed escorts, he was tackled to the ground to shield him from incoming bullets.

They hadn’t spotted you. Instead, they aimed their guns at the window cleaner, but he was already shooting at them, shattering the glass in the process. 

Heart pounding in your chest, you tried to remain calm as you searched for an opening to the target—but to no avail. Too many people covered him. The window cleaner guy was also unsuccessful, as his element of surprise had been ruined by your failed attempt to eliminate him. The two of you couldn’t get a clean shot. 

The last thing you saw of the target was a flash of purple hair before he was crowded by more guards and dragged away to another room.

Shit.

With the target gone and the guards firing at him, the window cleaner guy held onto a rope attached to his belt you hadn’t noticed before, pressed a button, and gracefully let himself be pulled upwards toward the roof.

On his way up, you locked him in your viewfinder, inhaling deeply, and on your exhale, you fired. The bullet managed to graze his leg, but he didn’t seem particularly impressed. While one hand was gripping the rope, the other held up his submachine gun and aimed in your direction.

The hail of bullets missed you—only because you had dropped to the ground, pressed flatly against the concrete. One of them struck your phone that was propped on the border, sending it flying across the roof. Fortunately, it was only a work phone for missions. 

You remained pressed to the floor as you frantically packed your gear, then you sprinted to the exit.

“Status?”

“Target got away,” you panted as you ran down the flight of stairs, adrenaline rushing through your veins. “Unidentified individual interfered. Mission aborted.”

“Copy. Extraction point was moved. There’s a car waiting.”

When you reached the ground floor, you dashed outside and straight into the black van waiting at the curb. With a frustrated exhale, you took off your cap and ran a hand through your hair. As you drove by, you looked out the tinted window to the building, but he was already gone.

Your head hit the backrest as you slumped against it. Andrew glanced at you through the rearview mirror, one corner of his mouth tugging upwards at your disgruntled state. “It went excellent, I take it?”

At your answering glare, he held up his free hand in surrender, but the amusement in his eyes betrayed him. 

You two had been locked in a constant battle of snarky comments and competitive bickering since the day you had begun working for the Hunter Agency. Despite being a team and all that, you both tried to one-up each other every chance you got. And you failing an important mission such as this one, was like a heaven-sent opportunity for Andrew to tease you. Especially considering you had recently been declared the agency’s best operative and appointed to this task because of it.

When you arrived at Headquarters, everyone was staring, their eyes following you as you made your way toward Simone. Her frantic hammering of keys on her keyboard told you she was just as tense as you were. You dropped your bag with the rifle onto her desk, prompting her to look up. A startled pause before her eyes widened.

“She already called,” was all she said, and it was all she needed to say.

Simone nodded toward Tara who was on a call. When Tara spotted you, a barely perceptible wince crossed her face. She walked over and handed you the phone. With one last unconvincingly reassuring smile, she hurried to her own desk.

In the car, you had mentally prepared for the inevitable reprimand of your superior in her familiar cold tone laced with disappointment. At the mission briefing, she had stressed how critical the success of this mission was, and now that you fumbled it, you would have to live with the consequences.

There was no exchange of greetings as you placed the phone to your ear. “You have 48 hours to eliminate the other agent, otherwise your compromised identity leaves us no choice but to relieve you of your duties,” Jenna declared, and a shiver went through your body.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I’ll make sure to leave no trace.”

With that, the call ended.

Staring at the opposite wall and slightly confused how Jenna had reached the conclusion that your identity was compromised, your thoughts were racing. You didn’t think he saw you well enough to recognise you, but that didn’t matter as long as your boss believed he did. In order to get out of this mess, you had to find out who he was, who he worked for, and then take him out.

Your hand tightened around the small device as you turned to your team. “Find him.”

Simone was already reviewing the footage of all the security cameras in the proximity while Tara and Nero checked for any digital footprint.

Without meeting your eyes, Nero requested your work phone for the analytics, and, with a surge of added frustration, you realised that, in your haste, you had left it behind after it got destroyed.

Sinking into your chair, you buried your face behind your hands. You had been careless, made one mistake after another like an amateur. Dealing with this required efficiency and error-free execution, so whatever happened today, couldn’t repeat itself.

You just had to find him first.

-

Your drive home was spent in frustrated silence. You parked your car in the garage next to your husband’s silver Aston Martin and navigated your way through the familiar path of your yard to your front door, your rose bushes that won you the neighbourhood garden award two years in a row lining the way.

“Hey Mrs. Shen!” a young boyish voice called out from the sidewalk. For a heartbeat, you looked accusingly heavenward, as if some kind of higher power had deliberately decided that today would be your worst day.

Hand lifted in the air in greeting, the browned-haired son of your neighbours jogged towards his house.

“Evening Caleb,” you greeted back, already turning to your door.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like him. He was a little charmer, always complimenting you and asking if you needed help whenever he caught you in your garden shed, thinking you were about to do some gardening. In reality, that was just where you had your weapons reserve. 

However, you couldn’t shake the feeling he had an infatuation with you as his compliments seemed to walk that fine line between flattering and inappropriate, each time becoming more shameless. Besides, he was the reason you didn’t hang your clothing outside to dry anymore, since some of your underwear kept mysteriously disappearing. Considering both his fathers weren’t interested in women, and with no other neighbours around, it only left him as the culprit. Or a postman, but that was unlikely.

Of course, you never mentioned any of that to your husband. Even though Caleb was just a teenage boy—despite him constantly insisting he was “mature for his age” accompanied by a waggle of his eyebrows—you didn’t believe that would necessarily keep your husband from trying to strangle him. He was, after all, a jealous man.

Not that you particularly cared, but you suspected one of Caleb’s fathers to be an arms dealer, and you simply didn’t want to start a fight with the local gang. As long as your neighbour didn’t interfere with your business, you wouldn’t interfere with his.

“Your new curtains in the living room look great!” Caleb shouted over to you, his face split by a wide grin.

“Thanks!” you shouted back and unlocked your door with your fingerprint. 

Wait. But before you could have asked how he knew you had new curtains—not even your husband had noticed them—Caleb was already gone, swallowed by the shadows behind the driveway to his house.

Shaking your head, you took a deep breath. You had more pressing problems.

“I’m home,” you announced once you were inside. The smell of your husband’s cooking wafted over to you from the kitchen as you shed your coat. He was making hot pot again. He usually reserved it for days when one of you was feeling down since it had always been your shared comfort food. The spicy broth and tender meat reminded you two of the day you first met, a memory steeped in warmth and laughter.

-

It was at an old hot pot place in Chansia City. A seemingly innocuous location, but in the backroom, nestled right next to the illegal gambling room, was where one of the city’s crime lords conducted their money laundering. The local police wanted to get rid of them in one go, a simple breach and clear operation. However, your agency favoured a more subtle approach. So they sent you to discreetly eliminate him.

The ‘discreet’ part had proven to be more difficult than expected, and due to unforeseen problems, you were forced to make a rapid escape before one of his henchmen could spot you standing over their boss, who was bleeding out on the floor, wide, empty eyes staring into space. Unfortunately, they had heard noises and began investigating.

When you re-entered the restaurant through the ‘staff only’ door, you saw him. In a booth alone, bathed in the last rays of sunlight shining through the window, he sat calmly eating his hot pot while absorbed in a comic book—a stark contrast to the gruesome scene just moments before. The way the light was caught by his silver hair cast him in an almost ethereal glow and held your gaze captive.

Something drew you to him and from one moment to the next, you found yourself sitting across from him in his booth. At your sudden appearance, he looked up from the page he was reading, blue eyes blinking twice as if he was verifying your existence before they assessed you with open curiosity.

“Is this seat taken?” you blurted out like a fool, as if you hadn’t already sat down.

“It’s now,” the silver-haired stranger responded, tilting his head. A simple statement delivered with a matter-of-fact tone and no hint of sarcasm.

Under the weight of his full attention, you became hyperaware of your own words and movements, causing you to feel uncharacteristically nervous. Just a minute ago, you most certainly hadn’t felt nervous when you punctured the heart of that dude in the backroom.

As if on cue, the door to said backroom was thrown open, and three of the henchmen stepped out, handguns barely concealed by their suit jackets. As they scanned the restaurant, searching for the culprit who killed their boss, they appeared to be looking for people who were alone.

He followed your gaze to the visibly agitated men questioning customers and stalking through the place with concentrated purpose. Leaving the restaurant right now would raise unnecessary suspicion, so the best course of action was to stay and convincingly pretend you belonged there with the handsome stranger in front of you. 

“I’m Y/N.” Why you revealed your real name to him, you couldn’t say.

To your surprise, he silently pushed the bowls brimming with an array of vegetables, meat, and other ingredients closer to the middle around the steaming pot, and offered you a pair of chopsticks. “Do you want to join me, Y/N?”

Your mouth curved into a smile, but it faltered once you noticed the amount of food on the table. “I’m sorry, were you waiting for someone?”

“No,” he replied, and already resumed eating. Something soft gleamed in his eyes when he glanced at you and added, “But I don’t mind company.”

Wow, it seems he has quite the appetite. It could easily be assumed he had ordered for two, considering the mountainous pile of food between you. That made your little act in front of the henchman all the more convincing. When they arrived at your table, you were pretending to be very engrossed in enjoying your meal.

“Hey, did you come here together?” one of them asked, coming dangerously close to scrutinise you two. Trying your best to maintain your composure, you shot an anxious look over to the man across from you, but his eyes were solely fixed on the meat simmering in the pot, his chopsticks moving with elegant precision.

“Yes,” he simply said, not minding them at all. 

To an outside observer, you likely looked just like any other ordinary couple on a date. That was probably why they left without another word.

You released the breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, and allowed yourself to relax in your seat. Now that the situation was taken care of, there was an amused smile on your face as you regarded him more closely. “You haven’t told me your name.”

He paused to meet your eyes, offering a smile in return. “I’m Xavier.”

You sat there for hours, finishing your meal and talking until the sun had disappeared behind the buildings. Outside the restaurant, he hadn’t hesitated to say, “I want to see you again.”

Enjoying his directness that belied his unassuming appearance, you accepted without having to think about it. Your attraction was undeniable. He wasn’t just handsome, he was beautiful. Soft silver-blonde strands, striking blue eyes, and a lean, firm body sculpted by years of training as he was working for the police.

Beneath his stoic, calm demeanour, he possessed a remarkable boldness and effortless confidence that left you wondering what else he was hiding behind his feigned innocence.

You found out rather fast. Usually, you would wait until you got to know someone better, but Xavier managed to get you on your back—among other positions—already after the first date. That something that had initially drawn you to him kept pulling you in, like a moth you were drawn to his light. 

Falling in love had never been an option in your line of work, not to mention maintaining a long-term romantic relationship, but you found yourself willing to try.

Seven months later, you got married. 

Every one of your friends thought you were crazy, that you were rushing things, but you knew, with a certainty that couldn’t be put into words, that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him.

And that remained true, on your end at least. Xavier, however, seemed to have changed his mind a year into your marriage. 

At the beginning, it was like a dream. Lingering touches, stolen kisses, the comfort of his presence, and morning sex before sleep had barely released you from its clutches. 

But then, a shift. 

You didn’t know what caused the change, but suddenly he withdrew. He became like a distant star. No matter how many times you tried to reach for him, you could never bridge the widening space between you. 

So eventually, you stopped trying. Instead of living together, you began to simply exist in the same house, leading two separate lives and drifting apart day by day.

-

And here you were. Two years later.

“How was your day?” you asked as you entered the kitchen and greeted Xavier with a kiss on his cheek—a gesture that was more routine than a show of affection. 

He had changed out of his police uniform, now wearing a white hoodie, and his hair was still slightly damp from a quick shower he must have had before you arrived home.

His “Uneventful,” was delivered without taking his eyes off the chopping board, only pausing the cutting of the beef into slim slices to lean down and receive your kiss.

That was his standard response. Your conversations had settled into a predictable pattern of disinterested questions, hollow answers, and polite small talk. You never probed, nor did he. Sharing stories of your day while cuddling on the sofa belonged to the past. Sometimes, though, you caught yourself reminiscing, wishing back the Xavier, who had let you be part of his life and who wanted to be part of yours.

“How was work?”

“Ah, you know,” you waved off, already distracted by your phone, checking for updates on the agent you were searching for. He shouldn’t be too hard to locate since you had CCTV footage of him, and considering you had wounded his leg with a graze shot, maybe your team could find some drops of blood as well.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Xavier’s left leg seemed to tighten with tension with each step he took as he began to set the table. “Are you hurt?”

“I bumped into the counter edge before you got here,” he explained, but you weren’t listening as a notification redirected your attention back to your phone. You had received an email from Simone. Unfortunately, they couldn’t find any trace of him on the roof of the opposite building. Nada, not even signs of the rope he had used to pull himself up. Your work phone was nowhere to be found as well.

You let out a frustrated sigh, slamming your phone face down onto the countertop with more force than necessary. Time was of the essence. Tomorrow, you needed to find him, or you would have trouble eliminating him in the given time frame.

After a silent dinner, the both of you retreated to your separate routines. While he  would usually settle himself on the sofa, playing videogames or reading a book, you would go upstairs, step into a hot bath, and enjoy your evening downtime on your own.

Once you had gotten ready to sleep, part of your bedtime ritual involved going downstairs and waking Xavier, who, without fail, managed to fall asleep every day in the most interesting of gaming or reading positions imaginable.

A short while later, he would join you in your shared bed, plopping down on his side and drifting off to sleep almost before his head hit the pillow. No talking, no cuddling, and most certainly no shared intimate moments. 

Prior to his sudden withdrawal, he had been something close to insatiable. Once he got his hands on your skin, it was hard to detach him from you. Not that you ever complained. That was why you found yourself missing being close to him every so often, a quiet ache of wanting pulling you to him, and wondering if he ever missed you in that way too.

Your mornings were spent similarly. As if to maintain the illusion of a happy marriage, you left the house at the same time and exchanged perfunctory greetings with your neighbour Dr. Li, who had to leave for work as early as you—the complete opposite to his husband, who usually didn’t leave the house until late in the evening.

In front of the garage, Xavier kissed your cheek and wished you a good day before getting into his car. “Dinner’s at seven,” he said like every morning. You hummed in acknowledgement and got into your own car. It always was.

And this was your everyday life with your husband. 

Watching him drive away, the last glimpse of his car disappearing around the next corner, you asked yourself: would he always stay the distant star you couldn’t reach?

-

Tara brought you a cup of coffee when she noticed you slumped over your keyboard. Despite already having had a cup at home not that long ago, you accepted it and took a sip, the hot liquid doing nothing to soothe the anxious knot in your stomach. You hadn’t slept that night, too busy thinking about ways to find the other agent and about your time running out. 

To get to your current position, you had poured everything into this job. Years of relentless effort and countless sacrifices later, you were finally where you wanted to be, and you were unwilling to give all that up just because of a single failed mission.

A shadow suddenly fell over you, and a glance upwards revealed a tired looking Simone, stifling a yawn. She must have spent the night reviewing all the CCTV footage.

“This is all I could find,” she said, and after handing you a tablet, she returned to her desk. Leaning back in your chair, you propped your legs up on the desk and checked the video files she had neatly prepared. 

Whoever he was, he had been careful. Barely any security camera had managed to capture him. And then later, it was as if he simply vanished into thin air.

The building’s security footage showed him as he climbed onto the lifting platform. Something in the way he moved seemed familiar, yet you couldn’t articulate why. Frame by frame, you examined him carefully. The quality left something to be desired, and the cap and sunglasses he wore made it hard to see any distinguishing features besides a flash of blonde hair peeking out from beneath the cap.

The last frames revealed his lower body as the lifting platform ascended. You paused. Sitting up in your chair, feet hitting the ground with a thud, you zoomed in as close as the grainy quality allowed and stared at your discovery. 

There was something poking out of his pants pocket. The shape resembled the star tassel keychain you had made for Xavier’s birthday last year, since he insisted on having a physical key for your house even though he could open the door with his fingerprint.

This was just a couple of pixels, surely your brain was simply recognising patterns and matching them with something familiar.

Yet, your heart began to race as you rewind the footage and checked everything about him a second time. 

The way his body moved, the muscles straining under the black compression shirt, was like seeing a movie you had watched a thousand times, and his hair wasn’t just any shade of blonde, but one you encountered regularly in your house, on pillows, in the shower, and sometimes on your own clothing.

You weren’t able to rationalise the unsettling truth right in front of your eyes. Especially when you spotted a ring. It was impossible to discern any pattern on the silver band, but you felt a terrifying certainty that it had a star in its center, just like your own.

There was no doubt as to who the other agent was. You stared at the screen frozen in disbelief, your pulse a frantic drumbeat against your ribs.

It was your husband.

-

Dinner was at seven.

In the garage, you remained sitting in your car for a while, contemplating your next move. Xavier’s car was parked next to yours. That meant he was already cooking dinner. Or preparing an ambush.

Did he know that you were the sniper on the roof? Was he also assigned to take you out like you were him? You had been given 48 hours to get the job done, to clean up your mess. Otherwise, you would become their next target. That left you with no other choice than to end it today.

Without realising it, you had started to fidget with your wedding ring. Looking down on it now gave rise to a cocktail of mixed feelings. You had been married to this man for three years now, and it was hard to believe that everything between you had been a lie.

Even though you hadn’t been honest with him either, you had genuinely fallen in love with him. Xavier was gentle and kind, possessing a quiet dominance that made you feel some type of way. He knew how to set a trap, how to lure you in with his eyes and soft voice, and before you knew it, he had you right where he wanted.

Perhaps your marriage was some kind of elaborate trap of his as well, exploiting you for cover and playing house to raise no suspicion. Considering how distant he had become over the last two years, it was highly likely that he had no feelings for you to begin with and simply portrayed the infatuated husband until he was sure you wouldn’t leave him.

If that was true, then he wouldn’t hesitate to kill you. However, it was still a gamble. You couldn’t be sure that he knew of your actual job and involvement in yesterday’s mission.

But did it matter? There was only one unchangeable fact: you had to eliminate him, or you would get killed yourself.

You exhaled, rubbing a hand across your face. Then, you opened your glove compartment and pocketed the gun you had stored there, tugging it in your waistband. That should be enough for now.

As you unlocked the front door, you peered through the glass but couldn’t see anything suspicious. After hanging your coat, you followed the sounds of sizzling oil to the kitchen where Xavier was standing at the stove, pan-frying steaks. Ironically, he was wearing his ‘number one husband’ apron you had bought him for Christmas two years ago.

“I’m home.”

“You’re just in time,” he said after you gave him the obligatory peck on the cheek to greet him. Since he seemed to be acting normally, you had to keep up the act too. 

He handed you a glass filled with colourful liquid. An orange slice was draped over the rim, and the ice cubes inside cooled your clammy palm. “I made your favourite cocktail.”

You eyed him carefully as he turned back to the stove, flipping the steak in the pan. Would he poison you? There was no change in his behaviour—he was as calm and composed as ever. Still, you wouldn’t drink from it just yet. Instead, you asked, “Is there something to celebrate?”

“Does there have to be a special occasion to drink cocktails?”

“I guess not.” Discreetly, you scanned your surroundings. Pretending to be busy stirring the ice cubes around, you added casually, “Did you not make one for yourself?”

“It’s already on the table,” Xavier responded, and motioned with his head to the doorway leading to the dining room. He told you to sit down, dinner would be ready soon.

On your way to the adjacent room, you emptied the contents of your glass into the next flower pot. When you sat down at the already set table, you placed the steak knife slightly closer within reach. Shortly after, Xavier joined you and put one of the steaks on your plate.

The clinking of cutlery against porcelain was unnervingly loud in the otherwise quiet room as silence settled over the two of you, the air thick with tension. While you piled the vegetables on your plate, your mind raced. How could you find out if he wanted to poison you or not? Maybe you could feign an illness in order to get out of having to eat anything altogether.

Just as you were about to open your mouth, Xavier broke the silence. “How was your day?” Usually, you kept your small talk to a minimum and ate without talking, but today he even sought eye contact with you from across the table.

“Uneventful,” you replied, deliberately using his own words.

One corner of his mouth briefly quirked up before settling into a neutral line again. “I read the Linkon Central Bank had cut interest rates by 0.5%. That must have been a stressful day for you.” He kept his voice in a conversational tone, but you didn’t miss his scrutinising gaze as he studied your facial expression.

In all that excitement, you hadn’t kept up with the news or checked the latest figures. Xavier believed you to be a broker, representing a large trading company and overseeing their investments. A cut in interest rates would mean the investments were likely to suffer losses as stock value decreased, putting you between a rock and a hard place. 

Was he…testing you? If so, his question could be a bluff, a trap. At this moment, you couldn’t possibly check if the LCB truly had announced an interest rate cut. If what he said was true, today would have been a stressful day indeed.

You had no choice but to go along with it for now. “Yeah, that did cause some problems. But nothing I couldn’t handle.”

The last part you had said while meeting his analysing stare head on, an unspoken challenge. If he was actually testing you, you wanted him to know you were ready. His face remained unnervingly stoic. He was a closed book, offering no hint of his intentions.

“Do you want some music?” he asked, stirring the conversation in a different direction. Xavier was already out of his chair and standing in front of the shelf filled with his extensive CD collection before you could have answered. You never quite understood why he insisted on buying physical copies, even though you had a streaming service subscription.

His sudden movement made you tense, and your hand reflexively shot out to grab the handle of the steak knife, hiding it in your lap. When a gentle melody began to play from the speakers—a tune you knew intimately—your grip loosened, confusion and surprise momentarily flashing across your face.

Clearing your throat, you quickly composed yourself. “Cocktails, our wedding song… Are you sure I haven’t forgotten our anniversary or something?”

“If it were our anniversary, I would have brought you flowers.” He tilted his head to observe you with a small, playful smile.

That was true. He always gifted you the biggest, most beautiful bouquets you had ever seen, each year’s arrangement more vibrant and extravagant than the last. The way he meticulously chose the flower types and colours rekindled a flicker of hope that he was about to transform back into the loving husband from the beginning of your marriage. However, his usual distant behaviour returned the very next day.

The bouquets came from his best friend Jeremiah’s flower shop, who had been his best man at your wedding. You hadn’t seen him much since then.

Xavier looked at you expectantly, one hand extended toward you. You hesitated, assessing him then his outstretched hand cautiously. It could be another trap.

“I’m really tired and—”

“Just hold on to me,” he interrupted, his smile turning into a smirk. “I’ll do the rest.”

Despite every instinct screaming at you, you rose from your seat, concealing the steak knife swiftly under the napkin, and accepted his hand. Once you were in front of him, he pulled you close, his other hand finding its place on your waist. His blue eyes didn’t leave your face, and you were unable to look away too. The soft sway of the music accompanied you as he guided you elegantly through your dining room. You hadn’t been this close to him for a while and the smell of his cologne enveloped your senses.

It was difficult to understand what his plan might be, because at this point, you were convinced he had one. You had to stay vigilant and resist the magnetic pull of his gaze, the expanse of his eyes threatening to drag you into their depth. But it wasn’t easy. The whole situation plunged you back into the past, triggering a flood of memories of your wedding day. Come to think of it, back then he had looked at you the same way he did now.

Lifting his arm, he twirled you around, and when you faced him again, he pressed you even closer to him than before, the sudden closeness of his face making your breath hitch and your heart skip a beat. 

His eyes travelled down to your lips and then back up, as if asking for permission. But you had stopped breathing, and all you did was stare at him, eyes wide and lost in anticipation. You hadn’t even realised that he had paused your waltz.

Slowly, he leaned closer, and your eyes fluttered shut instinctively, waiting for the pressure of his lips. Instead of on your mouth, you felt them brush against your jaw, a fleeting touch that then traced down the curve of your neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Your grip on his biceps tightened as your heart picked up its pace, still waiting for him to finally kiss your lips while his hand on your back slid  along your spine.

With a jolt, you shot your eyes open and tried to shove him away. But it was too late. Xavier had felt the outline of the handgun tucked in your waistband through your clothes and tightened his hold on you.

In a quick series of motions, he pulled it out from under your blouse and carelessly dropped it to the floor before spinning around and pushing you against the shelf, caging you in with his broad frame. His CDs rattled from the impact.

How could you have fallen for the most common trick in the book? Like a love-struck idiot, you had let him toy with you like that, and he didn’t even kiss you. 

Damn him and his stupid, innocent-looking face.

“Do you want to explain to me, honey, why you’re carrying a gun in our house?” His voice was deeper than usual and there was a threatening gleam in his eyes.

“I could ask you the same thing, honey.” It was a bluff, but from the way his eyes narrowed, you knew you had guessed right. 

You didn’t wait for him to make the first move. Raising an arm, you reached it across to push his arms down, creating an opening to knock your elbow against his head and forcing him to release his grip. As he was slightly bent over, you held onto his back, followed with a kick to his stomach, and then slammed him into the shelves next to you, causing CDs to clatter onto the ground.

Xavier recovered faster than you had anticipated, blocking the path to your gun that was lying on the ground behind him. “So it’s true,” he said to himself rather than to you, and rubbed the spot where your elbow had made contact. What confused you was that he didn’t look angry, or particularly surprised. But there was a proud little smile playing on his lips.

Not giving him the time to collect himself, you charged forward and delivered one punch after another. However, he manoeuvred his body gracefully out of the way each time you tried to kick or strike him—a fluent dance you weren’t sure who was leading.

The fact that he wasn’t attacking you back, instead dodging effortlessly your every move, ignited a white-hot fury and simmering frustration within you. If he truly had a weapon hidden on his person too, then why wasn’t he drawing it?

Once you were close enough, you grabbed the steak knife from the table and flung it at him with practised precision, but he simply stepped to the side, the knife getting stuck in one of the paintings adorning the walls.

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Your aim certainly has room for improvement.” 

You huffed in response. You had a feeling he didn’t just mean the throw, but also your missed shot during your double-assigned mission.

His teasing, competitive side was coming out. It reminded you of your dating phase when you had visited a fair with a shooting booth. You had pretended to be bad at it, but after he shot each target perfectly, saying he “got lucky” with his feigned innocence, you had insisted on having a go again, fuelled by a stubborn need to wipe the smirk off his face. The giant bunny plushie in your bedroom was a memento from that day. The owner of the booth probably gave it out to finally get rid of the two of you.

Doubling your efforts, you advanced on him and unleashed a series of blows and kicks. He pivoted on his heel, a blur of motion as he bowed under one of your swings. With a swift grab, he caught your wrist and pulled you aside, causing you to stagger past him.

Despite not being able to hit him, you managed to make him back up and get closer to your gun. Xavier seemed to read your intention as he cocked his head after effortlessly dodging one of your attempted attacks yet again. “Go on, pick up the gun.”

You froze in place, irritation flashing in your eyes as you met his gaze. The confidence behind his words was unsettling. What game was he playing?

Not letting him out of your sight, you slowly retrieved the gun from the floor. He didn’t stir, but his eyes tracked your every movement as you raised your arm, aiming for his head. Still, no reaction. As if he was waiting for an answer to a question, he wouldn’t voice out loud. 

Taking a step closer, he remained rooted to the spot, a silent challenge in the quirk of his raised eyebrow. Frustrated by his lack of response, you closed the distance between you. Your hand was trembling as it held the gun under his chin, forcing his head to tilt slightly backward. 

However, you didn’t pull the trigger. 

Xavier looked down at you through his silver strands of hair, his eyes holding your gaze. “You can’t do it.” It wasn’t a question. He had immediately clocked your hesitation, probably way earlier than you would like to admit. In a last attempt, you narrowed your eyes and pressed the muzzle harder against his chin.

“Fight back!” you demanded, frustration raw in your voice. “Why aren’t you fighting back?”

“Because I can’t do it either,” Xavier responded calmly.

It took a moment for his words to sink in. You studied his face for any signs of deception, but were only met by an open honesty in his unwavering gaze.

He was right. You couldn’t do it. Despite his distance in the last two years, you cared for him and found yourself unable to shoot the love of your life, even if it meant disregarding your own. 

“I assume you were also giving a time frame to get rid of me,” he began and snapped you out of your thoughts. He didn’t wait for your answer. With his low, soft tone, he continued, “I’m not planning to kill you.”

At last, you dropped the gun with an exhale, your chests rapidly rising and falling in sync. For a moment you regarded one another. The longing in his eyes took you by surprise even though it was a reflection of your own. “They will come for us.”

“Let them try.”

With the adrenaline still high in your systems, you crashed your lips together. There was nothing gentle about the way you devoured each other, both desperate for the taste of the other, familiar and intoxicating. It had been a long time since you had been intimate. Like a spark, your sudden need was ignited. Your hands were roaming, the need to touch every single part of him overwhelming.

Feeling his shoulders relax, Xavier sighed into your mouth, as if he had been hoping this would happen. Your back hit the nearest wall as he pressed you against it. As he kissed down your neck, your hand found purchase in his silver strands, holding on tightly, causing a groan to escape his lips. 

His hands explored the skin beneath your blouse before they glided down your body and then hoisted you up, your legs reflexively wrapping around him. He made his way through your house, stopping only to restlessly place you on a sideboard or a table and remove one piece of clothing at a time while not breaking away from your lips or your neck.

When he pulled your blouse over your head, he immediately made it his mission to litter the newly exposed skin with wet, open-mouthed kisses, making you gasp and arch into him. You tugged at his hoodie in a silent plea, one he complied with in a rapid, impatient motion.

Before you could get lost in his touch, he was moving you again, carrying you up the stairs while your mouth didn’t leave his neck. Occasionally, he would pause to chase your lips, as if he couldn’t be apart from them for too long.

Once you had reached the bedroom, he dropped you onto the mattress, and after removing his shirt, he followed closely behind. The only clothing left on you were your panties. Your head was already foggy, unable to recall when he had taken off your bra. One of his many skills was stripping you naked with such swiftness that you barely realised he had started before you were already bare underneath him. 

Your hands reached down to free him from his pants, but he stopped you, simply getting a hold of your wrists and pinning them above your head.

“Not yet.” 

There it was. His quiet dominance, his careful control.

After kissing and exploring your mouth with his tongue, igniting a fire in your core, he let go of your wrists and planted kisses along his descent. Each searing kiss was more heated than the last as his lips left small red marks behind. Sucking, licking and claiming each part he had claimed before once again, making sure you remembered who you belonged to. He wasn’t just mapping you anew with his mouth but retracing his path from a time long past.

Your nails scraped across his naked back and arms, scratching his bare skin whenever he sucked on a particular sensitive spot. You could feel how he got more impatient with each scratch and tug at his hair.

One of his hands trailed down from your throat to between your breasts to your stomach while he looked at you reverently, having missed this view and the feel of your skin. Like a predator watching his prey squirm before they devour it.

When Xavier reached your thighs, you felt his hot breath against the wet patch on your underwear, making you unconsciously shift closer. His amused chuckle prompted you to open your eyes. “Someone’s eager.”

Just as you were about to quip back that he was just as eager as you were, he bit your thigh—an unexpected, piercing sting. You inhaled sharply, the pain short-lived and replaced by a rush of pleasure as he soothed the skin with a languid lick, your legs already shaking from his attention.

“I love it when you’re trembling because of me,” he rasped with his half-lidded eyes looking up at you, his cheek resting on your thigh.

You couldn’t wait any longer, you needed some kind of friction. “Xavie, please,” you whined. In your desperate state you hadn’t realised that you had said his nickname you hadn’t used in the last two years. 

His eyes darkened with lust, glinting with something dangerous, before he impatiently tugged your panties down your legs and tossed them carelessly away. His mouth was on you a second later. A moan slipped past your lips at the sudden pressure against your clit.

Groaning at the taste, he nuzzled the lower half of his face deeper between your legs. His hands tightened around your thighs, holding them in place, as he draped them over his shoulders. “God, I’ve missed this.”

First, he broadly dragged his tongue up and down, lapping up your taste, and then flicked it against your clit. Your back arched, legs twitching, as you squirmed from the overwhelming pleasure. 

“So responsive,“ he chuckled, opening his eyes a fraction to shoot you a smug look. “Your body is telling me it missed me too.”

You weren’t able to reply as he dove back in and swirled his tongue around your clit, shortly followed by a finger slowly pumping in and out of your hole. When he added a second finger and curled them in the exact angle he knew by heart, he picked up his pace, making you see stars as he managed to hit that one spot inside you over and over again. 

Every time you glanced down, you were greeted by the subtle flex of his shoulder blades and the contentment in his expression. Despite the hungry way he ate you out, he looked serene, radiating an angelic calm.

Already lightheaded, your hips bucked to chase your release, you felt was close, your fingers fisting his silver-blonde hair. But he abruptly stopped his movements, prompting you to whimper at the sudden loss of stimulation.

“Stay still,” he commanded, his voice remaining soft, but there was a darker undercurrent that made you clench around his fingers. “Or do I need to restrain you?”

Without waiting for an answer, he pushed your knees towards your chest and resumed devouring you. One hand kept your legs up and the other returned to their relentless mission of fucking you open. It took you a considerable amount of effort to remain still, not wanting to provoke him to stop yet again.

“I need to properly prepare you for what I want to do with you.” Xavier seemed to have noticed your struggle. “So be good for me, baby, okay?”

You nodded hastily, not fully registering his words. 

He reduced you to a moaning mess, clawing at the sheets and legs shaking uncontrollably. Even when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, he continued and coaxed another orgasm out of you. At one point, you had stopped counting. 

Xavier had left you dazed, breathless, and still wanting more.

With one last, almost tender kiss to your pussy, he finally straightened, the lower half of his face glistening from your many releases. His hand reached up, his thumb caressing your cheek before parting your lips. Watching you closely as you blinked up at him blearily, he put two of his fingers in your mouth. Instinctively, you eagerly sucked on them, hollowing your cheeks and tasting yourself on his skin.

Xavier’s eyes were fixed on you, the blue of his irises eclipsed by his dilated pupils, and resembled a dark, hungry void threatening to consume you.

“Do you want to continue?” There was a hesitation to his tone, as if he wasn’t sure if he took it too far.

His question roused you from your daze, a smile spreading across your lips. “Yes, I do.”

His mouth was on you before you saw his relieved expression. His fervent kisses had you melting and desperate to finally feel him inside you. Your hands travelled down to his pants, fumbling with his belt. “Condom, Xavier,” you were able to press out and unzipped his fly.

Reluctantly, he pulled away from your lips to reach for his drawer and retrieved a condom. When he didn’t move and simply stared at the packaging, you asked if everything was alright.

“They’re expired.”

Oh. So that meant you hadn’t had sex for…a while.

He rummaged through the drawer but each one he found had the same expiration date. You might regret this later, but after years of nothing and the thrill of your fight still in your veins, you grabbed him by his neck and pulled him down to you again, kissing him urgently.

“Let’s do it without one,” you breathed, and he stilled, searching your eyes for any kind of hesitation.

“Are you sure?”

You nodded, and his ravenous eyes glazed with lust in response. The way he captured your mouth now was different from before as his tongue glided against yours in a sinful claim, shooting an electric tingle down your spine.

You and his hands moved with a shared urgency, making short work of his trousers and boxershorts. Fingers tangled in a frantic dance, both yearning to finally feel the other in a way you haven’t for so long.

Then, finally, he was bare hovering above you, pumping his cock a few times before settling between your legs. Your foreheads met, and you both sighed in pleasure as he slid inside. As if your bodies hadn’t forgotten, you moved in sync, the heat radiating from him overwhelming. His lips left yours in favour of kissing and sucking at your neck before travelling even lower to your breasts, teeth nibbling and biting the soft skin around your nipples.

Your gaze drifted to the window as a noise outside made your ears perk up. Xavier grabbed your face, forcing your attention back to him. His cheeks were flushed a rosy shade, and his eyes stared down at you with a stern intensity that bordered on a warning. “I guess I have to double my efforts if you’re this easily distracted.”

Your surprised yelp got stuck in your throat as you were suddenly flipped around and found yourself on all fours, his cock already sliding back in without giving you time to catch up.

“Wait,” you gasped, trying to stop him from going deeper. The stretch was too much. Even with his extensive preparation, you still needed time to adjust to his size.

“You’ll get used to it,” Xavier said from behind you, his tone carrying a finality, a command that left no room for disobedience. Taking a shaky breath, you tried your best to relax while he grinded against you, pushing in inch by inch. “See?”

He started slow, his hands holding your hips or trailing appreciatively down your back. “Look at you, taking me so well,” he cooed, planting a kiss on your cheek. You hummed, already lost in the sensation of his cock gliding in and out of your pussy in an agonising rhythm.

Then with his hand on your back, he pressed you down so that your face was smushed in the pillows and turned his unhurried movements to punishing thrusts. You cried out, your moans muffled by the soft fabric rubbing against your face with each slap of his hips.

His grip on you tightened, probably leaving you with bruises in the morning, as you held on to the sheets for dear life. Drunk on pleasure, your moans and sighs echoed through the room unrestrained. When one of his hands began to rub circles on your clit, the double stimulation quickly tumbled you over the edge. As you clenched around him, muscles tensing and spasming, you came with a strangled gasp and buried your face deeper into the pillows.

“That’s it, baby,” Xavier praised and squeezed your hips approvingly. Since your thighs were shaking, and you were barely able to hold yourself up, he took a pillow and placed it underneath you. “Lie down.” His command, firm but gentle, had you clench around him once more, causing a groan to escape his lips.

Now lying flat on your stomach, your ass elevated by the pillow, he hovered over you, your bodies almost pressed against each other. Showering you with kisses to the side of your face, his thrusts turned messy and even harsher as he chased his own release. Xavier observed your face with half-lidded eyes, mesmerised by the view of you mewling and shivering in response to every thrust. His heat and scent enveloped you completely and clouded your senses.

“Tell me you missed me,” he rasped, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

Your voice was swallowed by the mattress as you choked, “I–ah–I missed y-you.”

“I can’t hear you. Say it louder.” His hips slammed harder against you, rendering you unable to speak at all. His arm snaked around you in a sudden, possessive embrace, his hand settling on your throat before lifting your head and pressing you against his chest. “I know you can do it.”

Xavier was breathing heavily from the exertion, his hot breath raising goosebumps down your arms and spine. The pressure from his hand around your throat wasn’t enough to restrict airflow, but the dominating gesture sent a dizzying wave through you.

“I missed you,” you whimpered. “I missed you so much.”

A badly suppressed moan, followed by a stutter in his relentless pace announced his orgasm crashing over him. As he rode out his high, you felt the way he filled you up. Shortly after, he collapsed on top of you, his weight a comforting presence as you both steadied your breathing and calmed your racing hearts.

After giving you a kiss to your temple, he gently rolled you onto your back and took in your fucked-out state with a predatory smirk.

“I’m sorry, starlight. We’re far from done.”

-

Dawn just broke and a sliver of soft light found its way through a crack in the curtains and shone down onto Xavier’s collarbone. You couldn’t help yourself and bend down, kissing the soft skin all the way up to his face. He stirred a bit, but his eyes remained closed. The hitch in his breath betrayed him. Smiling to yourself, you smothered him with kisses until he finally opened his eyes a fraction, a smile curving his lips.

“Is it my turn now?” The rasp in his voice, deep from sleep, made heat spread in your core. In one swift motion, he had you flipped on your back, his weight pressing you down as he lazily trailed warm kisses down your neck. Your breathing came in shallow as your heartbeat quickened. He knew exactly where to apply pressure, where to nib gently, and where to suck harshly, to make you restless underneath him.

The sound of cars driving onto your driveway brought you back to the present. You and Xavier exchanged a glance before jumping out of bed. A peek out the window presented you with three SUVs, each with a couple of heavily armed men swarming your yard.

Your mouth set in a hard line. “They didn’t even wait until 48 hours were up.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Xavier said, his tone serious, while his eyes assessed the situation below.

Well, it surprised you a little. After all, you had been working for your agency for years now. You always completed your work with diligence. Fast and efficient, you were their best agent. But, of course, you were replaceable; everyone was. And you had a feeling Andrew was already jumping at the opportunity to take your place at number one.

The both of you quickly grabbed clothes out of your closet since fighting naked was not something you were keen to do. Xavier threw on a black compression shirt, the same one he wore back on your mission. Now up close, you could watch how the fabric clung tightly to his biceps and revealed just the right amount of sculpted abs. When he fastened a shoulder holster around his back, you forced yourself to look away, struggling to control your drifting thoughts.

You focused your attention back on getting dressed yourself, opting for an all-black outfit, mirroring his choice. “We need a car,” you mused out loud while putting on pants, an escape plan already forming in your head. Using one of your own cars would be too easily trackable since they were registered under your names.

“We’ll take one from the Li’s. They keep the keys in their garage,” Xavier replied. Once he was dressed and noticed your matching attire, his serious expression softened into an endearing smile.

Then, he reached underneath his bedside table, retrieved a handgun which had been attached to the underside, and tugged it in his shoulder holster. The leather straps accentuated his shoulders and chest, prompting you to glance over to him more than once.

In a secret compartment inside the closet, you got out a rifle. This was far from enough to face several armed agents with the sole purpose of ending your life. However, there wasn’t enough time to get to your weapon reserves, so you quickly made your way through the top floor of your house, collecting the few weapons you had stashed upstairs. In the end, you had a couple of throwing knives on your person, two handguns each, and your rifle.

The sound of breaking glass and the frantic pounding of several footsteps on your expensive red oak flooring made you press your backs against the wall near the stairs.

“We could climb out the window, escape over the garage,” you suggested, holding your rifle at the ready.

Xavier shook his head, one handgun in his hands. “They’re already waiting for us there. Besides, we would need to round the back of the house to get to our neighbour’s yard.”

You would be lying if you didn’t at least enjoy it a little bit seeing your husband like this. Serious, competent, with that tiny furrow between his eyebrows as he meticulously thought about how to escape out of your own home. “Sounds like you already have a plan.”

“First, we need more weapons. There’s a shotgun in the living room, behind the sideboard.”

Your position at the top of the stairs would have been ideal, but considering you wouldn’t have enough bullets to take them all down as they climbed the stairs, some likely attempting to gain entry through a window, it simply wasn’t a smart strategy to remain there.

“I hid another rifle in the dining room,” you added. “Now what? We just breach downstairs?”

Xavier held up a flashbang, one side of his mouth quirking up. “Yes.”

He raised his hand, counting slowly, and on three, he tossed it down the stairs. A loud bang echoed through your house, followed by a burst of light, and a chorus of groans and yelps of surprise. Straightaway, you slid down the wooden railing of the stairs and started to fire.

Their momentary confusion wasn’t enough to stop the other agents from shooting the instant they spotted you. Once you hopped down onto the floor, you took cover behind the living room wall, reloading as bullets whizzed past. 

A glance at the bottom of the stairs revealed your bra, dangling forgotten and discarded between the beams of the railing. Ah, so that’s where it went.

With the hallway mirror, you assessed their position and gauged their movement. To cover for Xavier, you crouched down and sent a hail of shots in their direction, forcing them to run for cover. Shortly after, Xavier joined you behind the wall, taking over your position and your rifle while you quickly got the shotgun from where he had told you earlier.

Heavy footsteps came rushing closer. You shot the first person to appear in the doorway in the chest, the recoil slamming the handle against your shoulder and causing you to wince. A shotgun wasn’t usually your weapon of choice as you preferred stealth over brute firepower.

“Nice shot,” Xavier complimented and swiftly took out the next one. At his praise, you couldn’t suppress your smile.

This time, they came in as a group. You immediately switched between shots and close combat. You were just choking one of them, your arm pressing against the sides of their neck while your legs tightly wrapped around their chest, when a loud crash made you look up. As if they weighed nothing, Xavier hauled one agent over him, sending him sprawling onto your coffee table, shattering it in half.

Damn. From your vantage point on the floor, you were able to watch him fight three opponents at the same time. Just as he did during the fight with you, he effortlessly moved his body out of their range and neutralised them with unsettling velocity.

When, finally, the squirming in your arms stopped, you focused back on the task at hand. 

As the first wave was taken care of, you rolled onto the couch, ducking behind the backrest. On all fours, you propped yourself up on the armrest and peeked at the doorway.

“Does this remind you of something?”

You felt Xavier’s hand glide down your back, a caress that stood in contrast to what that hand just did to those agents on the ground. “It reminds me of our wedding night.”

Surprised and slightly confused by his answer, you looked over your shoulder, finding Xavier kneeling behind you with a contemplative expression.

It dawned on you what was going through his mind, and the timing couldn’t have been worse. “Oh god, Xavier!”

“Ah, so you remember too?”

You quickly turned around again to hide your flustered expression, your cheeks burning from the memories of your first night as a married couple. Xavier had made a point to consecrate every room and every surface to your new status, turning it into a never ending night you wouldn’t soon forget. It ended with trembling muscles and a sore throat from all the noises he had coaxed out of you. The following days, you weren’t able to walk probably.

“I meant– You know what, nevermind.”

You were going to say it reminded you of that one time you and Xavier had thrown a garden party for the neighbourhood’s annual get-together, and got so tired and overwhelmed by everyone that you hid inside, using the sofa as a shield—just like right now.

After you had checked your inventory of weapons and ammunition, you proceeded to navigate through the house and dove back into the fray. It became clear that together, you were unstoppable. As if you had been fighting side-by-side for years, your teamwork was like a well-oiled machine. What one started, the other finished, making your way forward with a relentless, efficient rhythm until you reached the back door.

Once outside, you made a run for your neighbour’s garage, unleashing a barrage of shots at the approaching agents who had been waiting in your garden. 

“Get the car. I’ll hold them off,” you told him and reloaded the shotgun. Xavier vanished almost instantly, leaving you amazed at how fast he was moving.

Several agents were closing in, so you jumped behind a bush for cover. You paused. From here, you had a clean view of your living room and your new curtains. “So that’s how he knew…”

Your neighbour’s Bordeaux-coloured pick-up truck screeched to a halt in front of you, and you quickly scrambled into the back seat behind the driver while Xavier shot out of the open window. The moment the car door slammed shut, he stepped on the gas pedal, accelerating around the corner onto the road at such terrifying speed that it threw you to the other side of the car with a sharp groan of pain.

“Sorry,” Xavier smiled sheepishly and gave you an apologetic look through the rearview mirror.

You climbed to the passenger seat and checked your magazine. “What’s next?”

“I know a place we can go.” His gaze flickered between the road and the mirrors. “We just need to get rid of them first.”

With his head, he motioned to the back and a glance confirmed the three SUVs closing in, a parade of black metal tailing behind you. He pushed the accelerator further, the increasing speed pressing you into the seat. As Xavier maneuvered the truck through the busy traffic, narrowly avoiding collisions and trying his best to lose your pursuers in the maze of the city streets, you seized the opportunity to get something off your chest. What better time than now?

“Why didn’t you fight back yesterday?” 

Xavier glanced in your direction before focusing back onto the road. “I could never hurt you, even if you were out to get me.” A small smile curved his lips. “And I wanted to see how far you would go.”

Your head whipped in his direction, but his gaze remained fixed ahead. “I wasn’t sure if our marriage was just one big cover for you,” you confessed, your fingers fidgeting with the barrel of your shotgun.

As soon as Xavier hit the highway, the three SUVs blocked all three lanes and opened fire. “How could you think that?” he asked, genuinely confused. He yanked the wheel, swerving the truck to dodge the incoming bullets from the left side.

“You were the one who suddenly got distant after one year of marriage,” you reminded him while rolling down your window. “Are you aware of how you acted the last two years? How was I supposed to know you still have feelings for me!”

There was a beat of silence as he thought about your answer, and you leaned out of the window, releasing a volley of shots at your attackers. “You’re right,” he began once you were back in your seat. “I felt guilty, like I’d been selfish marrying you, because I was putting you in danger thanks to my job. I didn’t want to drag you into this world.” Mimicking you, he rolled down his window and sent a couple of precise shots behind him, effectively puncturing the front tires of one of their cars. “But as it turns out, I didn’t need to worry,” he added, smiling contently.

Returning his smile, you huffed playfully. “I wasn’t really careful during our first meeting. Didn’t you question me suddenly sitting down with you, trying to act innocent while the thugs were clearly looking for someone?” 

“The second you sat in front of me I wasn’t exactly thinking straight.”

Heat crept up your neck, but your private moment was disrupted when one of their SUVs pulled up closer and shot straight at you, shattering the back window and forcing you to turn away, shielding your faces from the flying glass shards.

In order to hide your face and the emotions that welled up, you announced to take care of them. Climbing to the back of the truck, you took cover behind the backseats, switched to the rifle, and shot at your attackers through the broken window. For a while no one spoke as you continued your assault, occasionally gripping the seat and bracing yourself against Xavier’s violent swerves.

“Since we’re honest with each other now,” you eventually shouted, your voice barely audible over the noise of the wind rushing in, the relentless gunfire of the other agents, and the strained roar of the truck pushing its engine to the limit. “You know the flowers that are sent for my birthday every year?”

“The ones from your parents?”

“They’re actually from my ex from university.”

When they were first delivered and Xavier asked who they were from, you had to improvise on the spot, claiming they were from your parents. After that, to hold up your lie, you didn’t tell your ex to ‘fuck off’ but instead let them continue sending the bouquets each year in order to not raise suspicion. It would have been odd if your parents suddenly stopped buying you flowers for your birthday.

Xavier’s hands tightened around the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. “What’s their name and social security number?”

“No, you’re not going to kill them,” you chided with an exhale and turned your attention back to your pursuers.

Deciding to go on the offensive, you used the handle of your weapon to hack away at the shards framing the window before climbing onto the truck bed. When you stumbled across something and discovered two weapons under a blanket, among them a machine gun, you raised one of your eyebrows.

So Dr. Li’s husband really is an arms dealer. Might have been a bad idea to steal his car, but that was a future-you problem.

Quickly, you checked whether it was loaded and then positioned it in front of you on the tailgate of the truck. The incessant rattling of the machine gun reverberated through your body as you aimed at heads and chests, eliminating them, one by one. 

One of the SUVs sped up and reached the side of your car. At the next moment, two agents jumped onto the truck bed and immediately engaged you in a fight. You knocked the weapon from the first agent’s hand with a precise kick before drawing one of your knives and lunging at him. After blocking the right hook of the second one, you slammed the blade into her throat and hurled her off the truck.

Xavier suddenly jerked the truck sharply to the side, ramming its flank against the other car and causing you and the remaining agent to stumble onto the ground, your bodies connecting with the metal underneath with a loud thud. Your knife flew across the air and landed onto the road. 

Swiftly, you climbed on top of him and delivered one brutal punch after another. A spray of blood streamed from his nose, the crack of breaking bone barely audible above the chaos. With an angry roar, he threw his head forwards and smashed it against yours, the impact blurring your vision. Seizing the opportunity by your momentary incapacitated state, he reversed your position, and returned the favour by slamming his fists into your face.

Before you could have retaliated, a shot to his temple sent him crumbling to the side. Xavier had already turned back to face the road by the time you had realised what happened.

Scrambling to your feet, you continued your fight with the next agent who jumped onto the truck bed and quickly disposed of him by kicking him over the tailgate. When another SUV appeared on your other side, you yelled, “Xavier!”

“On it.” With a sudden jolt, he hit the brakes, causing you to fall forwards and hit your head on the roof. Xavier made a sharp turn off the highway that left the SUVs in front of you unable to turn around fast enough.

You rubbed your forehead while grumbling to yourself and climbed back into the passenger seat.

“I also have a confession.” He picked up your conversation where you had left off, as if nothing had interrupted you, and handed you a handkerchief which you used to wipe the blood from your face. “I never cooked a day in my life. But I want to though.”

Xavier explained that his agency prepared the food, and he only needed to cut the vegetables and reheat everything else.

At this very moment, you had no idea that letting him cook would turn out to be a horrible idea. You would remain blissfully unaware for at least another week before a fire in your kitchen confronts you with the reality that one of you would have to learn how to cook and it better not be him.

“I never even so much as touched the rose bushes,” you shared. “In fact, I hate gardening.”

Xavier’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Then how come you keep winning the gardening award each year?”

“You should ask our gardener,” you shrugged and attempted to turn on the radio. However, it was riddled with bullet holes and, unsurprisingly, no longer played any sound.

“We have a gardener?” His voice easily carried over the loud noises of traffic without him having to raise it much. “What other men did you invite into our house that I don’t know about?”

Rolling your eyes, you didn’t deign to answer him, and you didn’t need to. One of the SUVs suddenly appeared beside you and shot through the driver’s window. Xavier ducked, but the bullet grazed his arm. Leaning over him, you drew your handgun and shot at the front and rear tires, rendering them incapable of pursuing you further.

Once you were certain you got rid of them for good, Xavier slowed the truck to a more civil pace. “Your arm!” He let you examine it, smiling down at you as you carefully assessed the injury. 

“It’s fine, it barely hit me.”

Meeting his blue eyes, radiating a calming stillness, convinced you he was telling the truth. You let yourself relax in your seat and asked, “Where’s this place you said we could go to?”

As one of his hands remained on the steering wheel, his other sought out yours and intertwined your fingers together. “You’ll see,” he responded and gave your knuckles a tender kiss.

-

At the sight of the flower shop of his best friend, you glanced at Xavier questioningly, but he was already pushing open the door. You were greeted by an explosion of colours and shapes in every size imaginable, the lush, fresh fragrance of the flowers around you filling the air. The bell announced your arrival as you walked in and a head of brown curls emerged from under the counter.

“I was hoping you would show up!” Relief was clearly written all over Jeremiah’s face. His smile faded when he took in the state you and Xavier were in. Your clothes were torn, stained with blood and dirt as well as the rest of your bodies, but it was your tightly clasped hands that drew his attention.

“We have a problem,” Xavier said. “I was hoping you could help us.”

With a sigh, Jeremiah motioned with his head to the back of his shop. He sat down in his office chair and offered you the couch, but you and Xavier remained standing. A look behind him at his desk revealed the remnants of your destroyed work phone. So that was how Xavier figured out that it was you. Jeremiah must be exceptionally good at what he did since he managed to find you with it, despite Nero’s meticulous efforts to keep your identity untraceable.

“There’s no easy way out of this,” Jeremiah began, his gaze darting back and forth between you. “You don’t just ‘have a problem’. Both the Hunter Agency and Philo Agency are out to get you.”

A quick acknowledgement passed between you and Xavier. So he was working for the competing agency. It wasn’t surprising since you had seen his abilities with your own eyes, and working for any other agency that wasn’t one of the top three would have been a waste of his skills.

“Your best chance of survival is to split up.” At Jeremiah’s words, Xavier levelled him with a withering glare. Throwing his hands up in surrender, he quickly added, “Or you bring them something they want more than you.”

You and Xavier exchanged a glance, a silent understanding. There might be a target both your agencies wanted more than you; the one you two had been tasked with eliminating a couple of days ago. Getting the job done might be enough to redeem you. Even if it did not, it was worth a try and better than staying idle.

The door opened, revealing a man you had never seen before, yet instantly recognised similarities to your husband. Beyond their shared silver-blonde hair, there were certain details in his facial features and overall demeanour betraying his connection to Xavier. However, while the stranger’s regal posture was laced with arrogance, Xavier’s possessed a self-assured elegance.

“You’re here.”

“Isaiah,” was all Xavier returned. He didn’t appear to be particularly happy to see this man.

Next, Isaiah turned to you and a look of disgruntled distaste washed over his face, but instead of addressing you directly, he addressed Xavier again. “You should have gotten rid of her right away, then we wouldn’t be in this mess!”

Now you had a pretty good idea why he hadn’t been invited to your wedding, despite them undoubtedly being related.

Xavier’s eyes darkened and the temperature in the room seemed to drop. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.” His threatening tone gave you a shiver. You never heard him speak like that before and your heartbeat quickened at him calling you his wife.

Jeremiah defused the tension in the room, even though he also looked like he wanted to kick Isaiah in the knee. “You can stay here as long as you need and sleep in my guestroom upstairs.” With a glance to Xavier’s arm, he added, “There’s a first-aid kit in the bathroom.”

Xavier gave a curt, thankful nod, and you offered Jeremiah a smile. On your way up, you heard a loud yelp.

“What was that for?!” Isaiah yelled.

“For being a jerk!” Jeremiah countered. Their bickering voices grew quieter with each step up the stairs and faded completely once you closed the door behind you. 

The sudden silence was like a balm. It was the first quiet moment since this morning and your body finally released the knot of tension it had been holding.

When Xavier sat down onto the edge of the bed, the sleeve of his shirt soaked with blood, you eyed him concerned. “How’s your arm?”

“It hurts really bad,” he said in a feigned pitiful tone and patted the space next to him. “I think you need to come closer and have a look.”

You shot him an amused sidelong glance, not buying his act. Still, you couldn’t help but to smile at that and quickly retrieved the first-aid kit from the bathroom. Xavier watched you rummage through it before joining him on the bed. Although he clearly wasn’t in any pain, you humoured him and began to carefully clean the wound. It wasn’t deep, just a minor graze.

As you tightly wrapped the bandage around his biceps, he pretended to wince. “Shouldn’t you handle a wounded person more gentle?”

“I don’t think you particularly want gentle,” you remarked with a sly smirk, and tied the bandage together. “Here, all done.”

“Thank you.” Xavier looked at his arm and then at you, mischief gleaming in his eyes. “How can I possibly show you my gratitude?”

Heat crept up your neck at the way he was observing you. Tilting your head, you challenged with a low voice, “I’m sure you can think of something.”

Returning your smile, Xavier leaned closer, and meeting him halfway, your lips touched in a soft kiss. His hand came up to cup your cheek as he sighed into your mouth and pulled you even closer. The unhurried movements of his lips against yours made you melt into his arms, surrendering to his warmth and comforting familiarity. His other hand travelled from your waist down to your thigh with deliberate intent, and his tongue boldly demanded entrance into your mouth.

Even though you didn’t want this to stop, a sudden desire to mess with him ignited within you. You gently pushed him away, a knowing grin on your face as you watched his reaction. “You should rest since your wound hurts ‘really bad’.”

Noticing his mistake, Xavier put on an innocent face, his lower lip jutting out in a disarmingly cute pout. “I’m feeling much better already. Probably because you took so good care of me,” he murmured and leaned down again, but your hand on his chest kept him from coming closer, a gentle barrier that held him at arms length.

“Nice try,” you chuckled. Tonight, you wouldn’t fall into one of his traps, no matter how alluring and irresistible they might be. Both of your agencies were hot on your heels. You must act before they find you.

“We should make a plan.”

-

Xavier had parked the car near the venue. The moon was out, providing you a little light through the windshield as you sat in darkness. You stayed seated, double-checking if each of your weapons was loaded and secured in your holsters.

“Sooo, how many?” you asked conversationally. Xavier briefly glanced at you while he attached the silencer to his handgun. The suit he was wearing created sharp angles which accentuated his lean, muscular form. “Alright, I’ll start. Somewhere around 80, maybe 90 if you count non-targets.”

You didn’t miss the small smile that tugged at a corner of his mouth. Alright, so he had more kills under his belt. He probably had been working longer than you in this type of job. It was natural that he would—

“214,” he answered without looking up. To say you were shocked was an understatement. Eyes wide, you almost dropped the throwing knife you were about to attach to your thigh beneath your dress. “237 if you count non-targets.”

You blinked, then cleared your throat. “Oh.”

“Are you impressed or concerned?” Xavier asked after noticing your astonishment.

I think I’m aroused. “Just surprised.”

At last, you slipped on the masks you had bought for the event, matching your black formal attire. Then, Xavier drove up to the gate and showed the guard your invitation. When the gate was opened, you followed the winding driveway, and parked besides an alignment of similar sports cars.

As Xavier offered you his arm with a smile and guided you to the entrance, your eyes scanned the other guests, and located the patrolling guards and the security cameras along the perimeter.

According to Jeremiah, the target was being held hostage on the highest floor of the villa, an area off-limits to the public. Security was tight. However, the masquerade ball provided the perfect cover, allowing you to blend in with the crowd as you made your way through the halls. Disguised as a charity event, it was intended to be the best location for striking nefarious business deals and networking with your fellow local gang leaders.

When you entered the main ballroom, you were greeted by classical music played by a live band in one corner, accompanied by dancing and chatting guests adorned with an assortment of different kinds of masks. As your gaze swept across the crowd, a flash of white caught your attention.

Was that…your neighbour? His unmistakable white hair and crimson eyes would have been enough to recognise him, but he didn’t bother with a mask, clearly unconcerned over his own safety.

You tapped Xavier’s arm, but his eyes were fixed elsewhere. The host had entered the room and on his person he had the key to the upper floors. It was time for phase one of your plan.

After reaching for a glass of champagne from the tray carried by a waiter passing by, you freed your arm from under Xavier’s, and with slow, confident steps, moved towards the host, the sound of your heels echoing languidly over the wooden flooring.

Even as other guests as well as guards encircled him, you had no problem joining the group and sliding into their conversation with ease.

As you spoke, deliberately sending glances through your eyelashes, and exchanged one or two carefully chosen flirtatious words, you felt the heat of Xavier’s burning stare at the back of your head. You knew he disapproved of this part of the plan, yet you would be lying to yourself if you didn’t enjoy his jealousy a little bit. For two years, you’d believed him to have mentally moved on from you, convinced he no longer found you attractive. It was satisfying to watch him so clearly affected by another man’s proximity to you.

During your chat, you stopped mid-sentence, pretending to catch your mask. “Oh, I’m afraid my mask is slipping,” you said, your voice carefully neutral. “Could you hold my glass for a moment, please?”

“Of course.” The host politely accepted your glass, his eyes travelling down your form in open interest. It made you slightly uncomfortable, but as long as he was distracted, it didn’t matter.

You fiddled with the strings of your mask before you took it back, mindful of touching only the slender stem, and flashed him a grateful smile.

“May I have this dance?” The sudden, familiar soft-spoken voice beside you startled you. Xavier wasn’t supposed to approach. He had positioned himself between you and the host, his eyes fixed firmly on you, as if the other man didn’t exist.

“What are you doing?” you whispered once you were out of earshot. Xavier discreetly scanned the fingerprint on the glass with his watch and then placed it on one of the sidetables. He guided you to the dance floor before settling into a gentle sway to the music.

“Am I not allowed to dance with my wife?” There was an intensity behind his words, his grip on your waist and hand tight, betraying his feigned nonchalance.

Shaking your head, you couldn’t suppress your smile. Yes, you enjoyed his jealousy immensely. “You’re ridiculous.”

As you two danced, you couldn’t help but stare into his blue, twinkling eyes framed by his winged mask. They regarded you with matching longing and an unspoken need that had your heartbeat pick up its pace.

“You’re mine,” Xavier breathed, holding up his hand with the wedding ring. “Not just tonight, but every single day you belong to me.” His face was close enough that his warm breath fanned across your already heated cheeks. “And I want everyone here to know that.”

His hand reached up to spin you in an elegant twist before pressing you flush against him. Trying to keep a clear head, you focused back on your plan. “We have the biometric key. It’s time we go up.”

“All in due time.” One corner of his mouth lifted and as if on cue, the music switched its rhythm. Xavier glanced at the band, then to you. Without saying a word, he changed your stance to fit the new dance. A tango.

Despite him enjoying showing off with you and your obvious close relationship as he let his lips brush against your neck or his hand glide down lower than appropriate, he guided you closer to the other end of the ballroom, near the hallway leading to the stairwell.

“There’s a guard,” he informed you, dipping you low with one of his hands securely on your back while the other held up your leg. Looking backwards, you spotted one armed man in front of the stairs. With an abrupt movement, he lifted you back up, foreheads touching, and your leg suspended as his hand was still on your thigh.

“I have a knife,” you told him, and observed how his smirk grew wider. Without breaking eye contact, his hand trailed higher and beneath the slit of your dress. Your  breath hitched as his touch ignited a sudden desire and caused your thoughts to drift to the other night. He removed the knife from its sheath, then, in one fluid movement, twirled you while using the momentum to flick his wrist and send the blade toward the guard. It found its mark in his throat, his gurgle drowned out by the music and loud chatter of the crowd.

“Nice throw,” you praised, and he flashed you a smile in response. After quickly hiding the guard beneath the staircase, you made your way to the upper floor. Avoiding the patrolling guards, you reached the top of the stairs without being detected.

“The room he’s in is the last one down the third hallway to the right.” Jeremiah’s voice crackled through the comms channel.

“I’m still convinced you should just shoot her and get it over with,” Isaiah chimed in. “That would save us a great deal of trouble.”

You chuckled, unfazed by Isaiah’s obvious dislike towards you. “Do you value his opinion?” you asked Xavier amused, already knowing the answer.

“No,” Xavier shrugged, poking his head around the corner and keeping an eye out for security.

“I heard that!”

“Good.”

Two guards suddenly appeared up ahead and, before you knew what happened, Xavier had pulled you into what appeared to be a guest bedroom and hid both of you inside a closet. Their footsteps outside stopped for a moment and then retreated. You let out a relieved breath.

“We should wait here until the guards change shifts,” Xavier said and checked his watch. Jeremiah had managed to discover the layout of the villa’s security precautions, including blind spots of their security cameras and when the guard’s shift changes took place.

The two of you were pressed against each other due to the cramped space inside the closet. You enjoyed being this close to him, especially after your rather charged dance mere moments ago. But what you liked even more was feeling just how much he seemed to like it.

You shot him a teasing look, watching how his expression changed as one of your hands lazily trailed up his thigh. Xavier’s arm wrapped around your waist as he gazed into your eyes with a sharp focus.

He checked his watch again. “We have ten minutes.”

“I know you’re fast, but I doubt you’re that fast,” you chuckled and immediately regretted saying that.

His eyes flashed with something dangerous as he cocked his head. You shouldn’t have doubted him. Xavier would always accept a challenge.

His nose trailed up your neck to the shell of your ear, the slight touch already making you shiver in anticipation. As one hand steadied you on your hip, the other parted the fabric of your dress. Once you felt his calloused fingers on the bare skin of your thigh, you drew in a shaky breath, eyes fluttering shut.

“Eight minutes,” you murmured, not able to hide the grin.

Xavier huffed, leaning back to sternly look down at you with half-lidded eyes. “Where’s that attitude coming from?” 

Your hips involuntarily chased his hand as you desperately needed him to touch you, but he held you in place.

“I see.” A smug expression came onto his face, his fingers gently caressing your cheek. “Don’t worry, my star. I’ll take good care of you.”

Then, with a fluid motion, he slid his hands between your legs and pushed your underwear to the side. When he began to circle your clit with just the right amount of pressure and pace he knew made you weak, a moan got stuck in your throat.

“And I’ll fix your attitude while I’m at it,” he rasped and one finger pushed inside your heat, followed by a groan when he felt how wet you already were. He added the second finger right away and set a slow, agonising rhythm while his thumb kept circling your sensitive bundle of nerves. You clawed at his shoulders, trying to hold yourself up as your legs trembled. You wanted more, your hips meeting his fingers, searching for a faster rhythm.

“Xavie,” you mewled, but he only chuckled.

“I haven’t heard you beg for it yet.”

You thought you would struggle with submitting yourself to him after such a long intimate pause between you, but the pleas came naturally over your lips. “Please, please, please, Xavie, do it harder.”

Satisfied with your request, he pumped his fingers in and out of you faster and harder, his other arm supporting your weight as you buried your face into his neck, biting down to muffle your moans and cries of pleasure.

Your orgasm was embarrassingly fast approaching. For a moment, your mind cleared enough to consider trying to delay your release in order to make him lose your little challenge. However, you wanted to come so badly that you immediately dismissed the thought.

When he reached that sensitive spot inside repeatedly, it finally snapped. Your body surged forward from the force of your orgasm as you gripped Xavier’s suit jacket tightly and bit the soft skin of his neck even harder, silencing your gasp as best as you could.

While you came down from your high, catching your breath and trembling from the aftershocks, he locked eyes with you and licked his fingers clean in an unhurried manner, making you clench around nothing at the sight.

“Thirty seconds,” Jeremiah’s voice brought you both back to reality.

You rolled your eyes at Xavier’s obvious self-satisfied smirk and straightened your clothes. He had a bite mark on his neck from your attempts to stay quiet, and you were a little proud that you managed to leave a mark on him this time too.

Outside in the hallway, Xavier entered the host’s biometric key into the control panel using his watch, allowing you access to the restricted part of the villa. Another corridor opened before you. 

Two guards emerged from the corner and once they spotted you, raised their weapons. Instead of slowing down, you rushed forward, kicked the weapon from the left guard’s hand and delivered two precise punches to his jaw. Grabbing his head, you smashed it against the wall. He collapsed to the ground next to his colleague, who was already unconscious after Xavier had knocked him out.

After you took care of the third pair of patrolling guards, you followed Jeremiah’s instructions from earlier and found the room where the target was being held. From inside, you heard voices as you pressed your ears against the wood.

“Do you mind switching the channel? If I have to watch the same cartoon one more time, I hurl myself out the window,” a voice complained. No one answered him, so it was hard to say how many people were inside.

A quick nod passed between you and Xavier before you pushed open the door and charged into the room, guns drawn. At the far end, a man with purple hair was bound to a chair, limbs leisurely sprawled out. Completely unfazed by your arrival, two men wearing identical masks sat seemingly bored in front of the TV, watching cartoons. They didn’t even stand up.

“Take him,” one of them said and motioned with his head behind him. Confused, you blinked a couple of times. Then you spotted them, the actual guards, tied up and gagged in a corner.

“Yes, please do. He’s been complaining about everything for the past hour,” the other one added, their gazes trained on the TV.

Seeing that Xavier shared your irritation, you both raised an eyebrow. With a mutual shrug, you approached the target, whose face lit up with eagerness at the prospect of being rescued. “Fiiinally, you know how long I’ve been waiting for someone to show up? Jelly fishes are walking naked, sea turtles climb trees, sharks are eating grass for free and—hmmpf!”

Xavier had put his hand over his mouth to shut him up and looked at you questioningly. “That was easier than expected.”

“What now?”

Your gazes switched to the purpled-haired man who was struggling against Xavier’s unyielding grip. The moment Xavier withdrew his hand, he was talking again, but you quickly interrupted him. “Why are our agencies after you?”

“Long story, I suggest you wait for the movie,” he quipped. The slap came out of nowhere, not just for him but for Xavier too. Surprised, both blinked at you. 

You shrugged. “We don’t have all day.”

“I admire your initiative,” Xavier smiled.

You giggled and the man in front of you rolled his eyes. With cheeks heating up, you cleared your throat. “Where were we?”

“The part where you let me go.” His eyes suddenly widened at the blade in Xavier’s hands. “Woah! Alright! Wait, I’ll tell you everything!”

Now, it was your turn to look startled. You didn’t expect Xavier to torture someone. But then he did kill over 230 people…

“My name’s Rafayel. I actually work for the Philo Agency. They found out you guys were married, and since they didn’t particularly like two assassins from different agencies possibly sharing confidential intel, they planned to get rid of you. You were supposed to kill each other during your mission. I was just bait.”

Xavier looked down at his knife, then back at Rafayel. “I actually just wanted to untie you.”

Rafayel looked like he was close to complaining some more, so you grabbed Xavier’s arm and stepped a few meters away. “What now? When they planned to get rid of us right from the start, there’s nothing we can do.”

“We’ll figure it out once we get out of here.” Xavier took your hand in his, his thumb gently caressing the back of your hand in a calming gesture that eased your nerves.

“Jeremiah might be right.” Your voice was laced with sadness. “We should part ways, so we have a higher chance at survival.” You didn’t want to leave him, but if that was the only way he could escape and find safety, then you would.

“Once we run, we’ll run for the rest of our lives. Besides,” Xavier responded and held up your joint hands with the wedding rings. “I made a vow. I’m not going back on my word.”

“But—”

“Right now I have you,” he cut you off, squeezing your hand for emphasis. The intensity in his eyes made your heart swell. “And I’ll never let go.”

You swallowed the emotions bubbling up, and nodded.

“If he’s really just bait, then agents from both our agencies will be here soon,” Xavier continued, and as if on cue, several heavy footsteps came rushing closer.

Glancing at the hallway, you exhaled. “You really had to jinx it…”

As you readied your guns and sought cover, you noticed the identically masked guys switching off the TV and rising from the sofa. They had shown no interest in involving themselves in your business the entire time you had questioned Rafayel, but now, with armed agents storming the room, they joined the fray. At that point, you didn’t question it and accepted their assistance in eliminating the waves of attackers.

With a quick roll behind the purple-haired man’s chair, you swiftly reloaded as bullets flew past and, while using his body for cover, shot at the chest of someone attempting to sneak up on Xavier.

Rafayel snorted indignantly. “I’m not a meat shield!”

Ignoring him, you moved on to the next one. You underestimate the speed of your opponent and when your gun was knocked out of your hand, you reached for the man’s arm and flung him over your shoulder onto the floor. A fist connected with your face as another agent materialised beside you. Your lip split open, a thin stream of blood trickling down to your chin.

Just as you prepared to strike back, a dagger pierced the agent’s throat. He collapsed and revealed one of the masked men lurking behind him. He offered a playful salute, which you answered with a grin.

Your unknown accomplices turned out to be great at close combat. With their help, you were able to quickly take care of the incoming agents. After the last wave was reduced to a pile of limbs on the ground, you caught your breath. Xavier was by your side in an instant, cradling your cheek and checking your injuries. 

One of the masked men waved you over to him and pointed to a hidden door at the back of the room. “Let’s get you out of here.” 

Xavier’s hand reassuringly laid on your lower back, and together you followed the two out of the building.

“Heeey! Are you just gonna leave me here?!” Rafayel shouted after you, but no one from your group heeded him any mind and ignored his incessant shoutings until his voice was nothing but a faint echo in the background.

As you navigated the labyrinth of hallways, you quickly reached the backdoor. Outside, the chilly nightly breeze ruffled the fabric of your dress, but since you were still running hot from the fight, the heat fuelled by adrenalin pumping through your veins, you welcomed the cooling air.

Surprised to find yourself facing none other than your neighbour, you came to a stop. “Mr. Li,” you blurted out.

“Mr. and Mrs. Shen, good to see you in good health and with all your limbs still attached,” Mr. Li greeted, a casual smirk on his lips. He leaned against the railing of the terrace, clearly waiting for your arrival. His white hair was slightly tousled by the wind, but other than that, he looked like he fit right into this place with his tailored suit and dangerous ruby eyes.

“Here.” With one hand, Xavier caught whatever he tossed into the air with ease. Opening his palm, you were presented with a key. “There’s a car at the other end of the property. It’s fuelled and should be enough to get you out of town.”

When the masked men positioned themselves next to Mr. Li, everything clicked into place. “Why are you helping us?” you asked. Your neighbourly relationship never went beyond polite greetings and the occasional package exchange when one of you had accepted one on behalf of the other.

“Take it as a thank you for keeping my…occupation a secret.” A sly smile curved his lips as he looked each of you in the eyes. “And as an apology for my son’s behaviour,” he added, his smile fading. Ah, so he must have found Caleb’s secret stash of your underwear. Xavier threw you a questioning look, but you waved him off.

“However, I still expect a check for my stolen car.” With that, Mr. Li turned on his heel, waved goodbye, and returned to the party as if nothing had happened. His two henchmen snickered and vanished into the darkness of the surrounding garden.

Processing what just happened, you stared at the spot your neighbour had been standing a moment ago. Huh, what a night.

“Do you want to go get hot pot?” Xavier’s blue eyes twinkled brightly, mirroring the stars above as he gazed down at you and intertwined your fingers together. 

You chuckled, wiping the blood off your lip with the back of your other hand. “Sure.”

Glancing at your joint palms, a warm feeling spread through you. From now on, whenever you extended a hand, your distant star would always be within reach.

usually you wait for him until he's done with his TA duties so the two of you can go back together. but today is different. you're tired of all the girls clinging on to him while he doesn't care about how that affects you. so with a pout on your face, you trudge all the way to the library.

you sit down at your usual table and take out your supplies to begin studying. you're able to make it through half of your notes before you feel stumped. you sigh, tapping your pen against the notes you took earlier in class.

you feel your emotions rising up again. caleb was supposed to be here at the library with you to help you study for your exam. and you were so looking forward to it. something about the way caleb explains things to you, makes it so easy to understand. not to mention the way he always praises you for getting the answers right. he made studying so much more tolerable.

speak of the devil, you hear the chair next to you scrape against the ground. you don't look up, you don't want to acknowledge his presence at the moment. it's childish, yes. but you can't help the way you feel right now. you pretend to be concentrated on the papers in front of you.

caleb doesn't realize. he slides in the seat and scooches it closer to you. with his elbow on the table he rests his head on his hand and leans in closer to examine what you're looking at.

"mm, yeah. that one's a bit tricky babe. don't worry though. professor caleb's here to help!" he says with a smile.

you turn away from him with a pout on your face, "oh now professor caleb's free, huh. . ."

"what'cha mean, pips? i'm always here for you, you know that." he says while wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

you shrug it off. "i dunno. . . you seemed pretty busy earlier with all those girls at the end of class."

mirth dances in his eyes, "awhh is my widdle apple jealous right now?" he teases you.

you turn towards him with a scowl and gently hit your fist against his chest a few times. "not funny, caleb."

"hahaow- ouch! okay, okay. i'm sorry." he grabs your hands and holds them in his, pulling them up to leave gentle kisses on your knuckles. "talk to me, tell me what's goin' on in that pretty head of yours."

you sulk, "well. . . i-" you avoid eye contact.

his hands squeeze yours, thumb stroking the back of your hand. "take your time, m'listening."

your eyebrows furrow. "it's just that. . . don't you think those girls are too close? a-and it's like you don't even notice how hard they try to flirt with you. . . and i just have to sit and watch. so yes. . . i am jealous."

he takes a few moments to listen and absorb your thoughts and feelings. "i'm sorry i made you feel that way. i only ever have eyes for you, i promise." there's a slight frown on his face. "i really didn't know. i was just trynna do my best for the TA job."

he sits and thinks for a few seconds before speaking up. "tell ya what. i'll move my office hours to be online instead of in person, is that better?"

"yeah. . . m'sorry." you mumble, feeling like you're making a big deal of nothing now that he's clarified himself.

"hey, you have nothing to be sorry for, pips. if anything, i'm glad you told me. i want you to be able to tell me anything." he reassures you.

he looks down at your papers spread across the table. one by one he begins to collect them and put them back inside of your bag.

"wha- caleb, what are you doing? i still have to get through those notes." you say.

"nope." he pops the p. he looks at you with a lopsided grin, glasses slipping down his nose and his hair sticking out of his beanie. "we are gonna go walk around campus, like this." he says while slipping his hand into your back pocket and giving your ass a light squeeze. "gonna hold you nice 'n close so everyone knows who i belong to." he winks.

he slides your bag across his arm and pulls you close as you walk out of the library. "and later we're gonna go back to my dorm and i'm gonna love on you sooooo hard. you're gonna be tired of my kisses by the end of the night."

your feelings of jealousy have disappeared, a smile breaks down on your face as you feel reassured and full of love. "nah. . . i don't think that's possible." you let out a chuckle.

“This thing is so ugly,” you whine, picking at your cast as he walks you back home. “Do you think I’m gross now, Caleb?”

“It’s not ugly. You need it to get better.”

“I thought you’d fall in love with me if I went high enough,” you sniffle fake tears, which he reads in an instant. “I did go pretty high up, though. So maybe you like me at least.”

He laughs, and you scowl, insisting that you aren’t joking. So instead, he smiles and holds your free hand in his again. Your heart skips a beat. A childish, but innocent love fluttering in your chest. “Come on, splints. Let’s go watch TV, and I can sign your cast.”

The broken wrist is so worth it.

With MC being two grades lower than the two of you and thus having a different schedule, it doesn’t take long before you’re doing practically everything with Caleb. He’s your seatmate in class, the two of you walk to and from school, and there doesn’t seem to be a moment where you aren’t glued at the hip. Throughout all of this, you make sure you shoot your shot whenever the chance arises—even when it doesn’t arise at all.

“You get any chocolates for Valentine’s?” you ask as you plop down in your seat with your lunch, not-so-conspicuously eyeing his desk as his friends begin to crowd around the two of you. It didn’t take long for Caleb to adjust to ordinary school life. After his initial bumpy introduction where he seemed hesitant to get close to anyone his grandma would introduce him to, he was quick to adjust to a level of charisma even you haven’t gotten to. 

By now, he’s charisma personified. You, yourself, have no idea how quickly he adapts to things. Though, you do recall that after an exam measuring his intelligence, he was told he couldn’t lower his grade by two years to be with MC. So you suppose he’s rather bright—almost as much as his face.

“Too many,” one of his friends groan, dragging his hand down the side of his face. “Life’s so not fair, dude.”

“Just a few,” Caleb laughs, turning to feel me stare at him expectantly. “Most of them are obligatory. I just helped a couple people out during gym.”

You glance at his friends. “How many is a few?”

“At least five,” another one grins. He wiggles his eyebrows at you, and his friend snickers at his shoulder. “You jealous?”

It’s not like your crush on Caleb is new news. In fact, it’s practically common knowledge at your school, given how open you are with your affection with him. Asking him out with a giant poster on orientation day, sending him notes with hearts littered everywhere during class, and refusing to be subtle when you’re discussing it with your friends…it tends to add up. Most people believe your relationship to be strange, but those who matter thought of it as the norm, so it doesn’t really matter. 

“Jealous? I don’t think so, why?”

“Most girls would be if their boyfriend got a bunch of chocolates,” he responds, to which Caleb immediately reminds him that you’re not dating. Then his friend sighs. “It’s cute when girls get jealous, isn’t it?”

At this, your ears perk.

“Should I be jealous?” you ask Caleb, making his friends erupt into snickers. “Do you think it’s cute too?”

He rolls his eyes and flicks your forehead softly. “Do you ever ask normal questions, splints?”

Throughout your childhood together, everything involves him. Family dinners, graduation, holidays, all of it. Of course, this means that MC is there for all of it too. You’re helplessly in love, but you’re not stupid. You know what love looks like from the movies their grandma would play on their TV. He cares for her with a different look in his eyes. He protects her with a lovingness in his voice that he doesn’t spare for you. 

The same fingers that flick your forehead touch her arm gingerly, like she could crack in half if he holds too hard. He doesn’t touch her very easily either, whereas he often falls asleep with his head fully leaning against your shoulder on the bus ride home. He wakes up at the crack of dawn to make her lunch, while the two of you munch on sandwiches from the school cafeteria during lunch breaks. He scolds you when your clothes are tossed on the ground while he folds hers without her having to ask. He never enters her room to protect her privacy while he lounges in yours like he owns the place.

Your Caleb, you have found, is different from MC’s Caleb. 

MC’s Caleb is easy to depend on. Trustworthy, perfect, and never makes a mistake for the life of him. He never loses his cool in front of her, never has a hair out of place, lets her win at all the board games, and always has this clear but dazed look in his pretty purple eyes. Your Caleb has none of that. Your Caleb teases you mercilessly when you lose the card game for the fifth time in a row. Your Caleb passes out on his desk while studying for an exam, essentially drooling on his notebook to lie to MC that he’s naturally talented at math. Your Caleb sends you stupid videos about plane models and forces you to sit through a thirty-minute explanation about it.

You know he likes her. He knows you know he likes her. She doesn’t know anything at all. All jumbled up, like a wordless pact ready to crumble at any moment. 

Of course, this means that he prioritizes her over you at times. All the time. It’s to be expected. She’s family, you’re not. You’ve grown used to it, and so has he.

MC doesn’t notice though, because she doesn’t have to. Because to her, Caleb is just a slightly nagging but cool adoptive brother. Nothing more, nothing less. And you’re one of her childhood friends, and Caleb’s best friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

The first year after you graduate high school is a dramatic shift from your cozy hometown. You somehow manage to get into the same college as Caleb–and you attribute his tutoring to be the main culprit—though in different majors. It’s a lot to convince him to go so far from home given that MC is still at home, but after a lot of reluctant discussion, he agrees.

“Take off your shoes at the door,” he reminds you as you barge into his dorm room after a particularly difficult exam for one of your classes. You do as he asks, grumbling about how he has no mercy for the fallen, tossing them haphazardly beside the door and prancing past him. He takes the time to tidy them up, as if he’s expecting it. “How was your exam?”

“Awful. I went through war.”

Caleb grins as he sits down at the coffee table beside you, watching as you bury your face into your arms. “And whose fault is it that they didn’t want to study?”

“Yours.”

“Funny,” he snorts, and you feel his large hand ruffling the top of your head. “It’s alright, splints. I can tutor you a bit earlier on the next one.”

“Even you can’t save me for this class.”

“Is that a challenge?”

He ends up cooking up something quick in his makeshift kitchen (essentially just a rice cooker), while you laze around on his bed, scrolling aimlessly on your phone. Once he’s finished, you scarf down his food like a man starved, lips stretching widely. At times like these, you’re oddly grateful for his hopeless love toward MC. How else would he have learned to cook such good food?  “You should honestly be a chef, Caleb. Actually, no, that would mean other people would eat your food. I guess you can just be my personal chef when we’re married.”

Caleb remains completely unaffected, wordlessly cleaning the plate in front of you. “I didn’t realize I was engaged.”

“Well, now you know. Not sure if you remember, but I had fireworks for you and everything when I proposed. Plus an orchestra.”

He hums, looking up as if he’s in thought, and then nods. “Now that you mention it, that does sound familiar, splints. How could I forget?”

You shrug. “You tell me.”

His face falls as you pace to the door and begin to put your shoes back on. “Where are you going? Aren’t you done with class?”

“Going out. I deserve it after that exam.”

“With your friends?”

“No, with four guys,” you joke, but he doesn’t seem to find it very funny. “I’m just going to a club. I won’t be back too late.”

He’s already grabbing his jacket. “I can come.”

You push him back with your finger by the nose, and he blinks in surprise, making you laugh. “No need. You have exams too, y’know.”

“I’m done studying.”

“Liar.”

Though it takes some convincing, you eventually have him sit at his desk once more. He manages to nag a whole lot as you leave, reminding you to call him once you’re done so he can pick you up, but you just wave him off as you leave out the door. You take your time getting ready–dolling yourself up to hide the dark circles beneath your eyes. As you get ready, you video call MC, where she asks how you and Caleb have been doing in her absence. She rants about her days with her grandma, complaining about how quiet the house is when Caleb isn’t home, though she indulged in the beginning. She asks you to show her your outfit once you’re done, and she beams brightly in your screen, squealing about how you’d likely get a boyfriend soon that you can tell her all about.

You just smile, because you don’t know how to tell her that the only boy you want is wrapped around her unknowing hand.

The club is loud. Where the music rumbles through your feet to the tips of your fingertips, and the lights are flashing in a dimly lit room. Your friends flock to a table and order drinks while you let yourself feel the music and crack a joke or two once in a while.

A group of guys approaches you with easy smiles and louder voices than necessary—confidence sharpened by cheap cologne. One of them leans against your table like he’s done it a hundred times before, asking your name, where you’re from, if you come here often. The usual.

You answer, choking out a laugh to humor his unfunny jokes alongside your friends, while the swigs you take from your drink become deeper and deeper. 

He’s not bad at flirting, you think. Subtle, and not too glaring about it. But you don’t particularly enjoy humoring it, and it becomes gradually more apparent as your eyes keep drifting elsewhere and you keep having to ask him to repeat himself. You’re growing bored. Irritated.

Because he’s not Caleb.

It hits you in strange, inconvenient flashes. The way this guy stands just a little too far away. The way his voice doesn’t quite reach you over the music, even when he’s close. The way you don’t feel that familiar, grounding presence like an anchor holding you to the ground.

You find yourself glancing past his shoulder. Half-wishing to see Caleb there. Watching. Hovering.

But there’s only strangers. Blurred faces and flashing lights.

“You okay?” the guy asks, tilting his head.

“Yeah,” you say too quickly. “Long week.”

He grins, like that’s an invitation. Says something else—something about getting you another drink, maybe dancing, maybe getting out of here.

You nod again. Smile again.

Across the room, your friends are already disappearing into the crowd, dragged toward the dance floor by laughter and hands you don’t recognize. One of them glances back at you, gives you a look that asks ‘you’re good, right?’ before she’s gone.

You sit back down at the table when the guy steps away. Maybe to grab drinks, maybe because he senses your attention drifting. You don’t really care which.

The music swells in your chest. The lights flicker. You wish you could enjoy yourself, but it’s particularly hard today.

You take another sip. Then another. Your phone rests face-down on the table, but you flip it over anyway.

No messages.

Of course not. He cares, but not like that. Not in the way that he would spam MC’s phone whenever he didn’t know where she was or how she was doing. No, not like that at all.

Another sip. The glass is nearly empty now.

And suddenly, you’re pressing send before you can even register what’s happening.

[you]: hi

The answer comes immediately, the grey bubbles popping up on his end of the screen.

[futre hubs <333]: do you need me to come pick you up?

[futre hubs <333]: i can

You’re not sure why you feel like shit, but you hate it. In moments like these—moments where the alcohol lets you lower your walls and truly think—it hits you like a truck, like a deeply sinking feeling in your chest. The years of rejection after rejection that the two of you frame like a bit—as if your feelings have become so miniscule that it no longer even phases him. 

It hurts, a bit. More than you let yourself feel.

You’re not sure how much time passes. Maybe minutes or maybe an hour. There’s buzzing throughout your body. The grip on your waist belonging to the man you’ve been half-heartedly entertaining suddenly becomes harsher, snapping you out of your trance. It feels unlike Caleb, but you let it sit anyway. However, the hand moves to your wrist, and you’re being pulled out of the crowd towards the wall.

Too touchy. He’s saying something into your ear, and you feel his breath against your skin. You don’t like it. Too close. The buzzing feeling feels more like an alarm now.

The words either go unheard due to the music or don’t deter him. You want to go back. Back to Caleb. In the moment, you begin to think—almost as if the world is in slow motion. Perhaps the drinks, you think. You wonder if Caleb will leave you. You wonder if he’ll leave to go be with MC. You wonder if the years you’ve spent expressing your love to him meant as much to him as it did to you, or if he just found it plain annoying. You wonder if now that you’re in college, he’d want to explore other people, and he’ll finally find an outlet to get rid of you for good. 

But you know he wouldn’t. Because he cares for you. Just not as much as he cares for her.

You wonder if he’s ever looked at you with the same softness he does with MC.

Someone pulls you away from the man and into their chest, and the worries dissipate in an instant. His scent. His warmth. You knew he’d come. He always does. It only takes a warning glare from Caleb before the man disappears into the crowd again, and you feel the grip on your wrist loosen. Caleb stares down at you, your back still to his chest as you blink wearily, almost in slow motion, and he sighs. He doesn’t give you the same smile he gives to MC when she’s in trouble. 

A part of you wishes he wasn’t always there for you—not when it’s so different from how he’s there for her. 

You sit idly in front of a convenience store parking lot while Caleb fetches you some water and ice cream. You have your knees to your chest, arms pulling them close as you shiver against the cold autumn breeze. You should’ve brought a jacket. The buzzing, hot feeling of the alcohol is subsiding too quickly.

“Drink.” You feel a water bottle press against your cheek from behind, and Caleb plops down beside you with a plastic bag. He notices how you’re holding yourself together and frowns. “Are you cold?”

“No.”

“I told you to grab a jacket.”

“You nag too much.”

He snickers and twists open the cap of the water bottle for you to drink, which you sip carefully. He strips his jacket off and drapes it over your shoulders, and you immediately bury yourself in it. It smells like him.

“What kind of woman do you like, Caleb?”

“You and your questions.”

“I want to know.”

He shifts to face you, motioning for you to lift your arms. He grabs either side of his jacket and pulls it shut, fumbling with the zipper until he manages to zip it to your chin. You can barely claw your hands out of his sleeves—the fabric almost engulfs you—but he just laughs. “My type? A woman who brings jackets when it’s cold.”

You scowl, making his laugh echo louder. “Other than that.”

“A woman who goes to class in the morning.”

“...Other than that.”

“A woman who doesn’t leave her clothes all over my floor when she feels like sleeping over.”

“Something else.”

“A woman who eats healthy, balanced meals. A woman who doesn’t steal all my pens and then still ends up asking me for more. Maybe someone who doesn’t pass out drooling on my pillow. Or someone who doesn’t let half the world know that they like someone—hell, maybe even the entire world.”

Caleb glances at you, chuckling to himself, but stops the moment he sees that you’re not laughing with him. Your head hangs low, your feet shuffling anxiously. His face twists, and suddenly the air thickens.  “Splints?”

You pick at your sleeves. “So just not me?”

“I was just kidding around.”

“Jokes have some truth to them.”

“Not all of them. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay, Caleb,” you finally meet his eyes again, and shrug. “I know you like someone else. I’m not an idiot.”

Silence commences, like a bell dropping on your head.

Caleb shifts his weight, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. It’s a nervous habit you’ve seen a hundred times—usually followed by some half-joke, something to smooth things over.

But nothing comes.

The space between you suddenly feels too small and too big all at once. You try to act normal. You really do.

You fiddle with your sleeve again, smoothing it down, then pulling at it, then smoothing it again. Anything to give your hands something to do, so they don’t reach for him out of instinct. 

Caleb glances at you. Then away.

Then back again, like he’s trying to solve something written across your face but can’t quite make out the words.

“Hey,” he starts, softer this time.

You hum in response, not trusting your voice yet.

Another pause. God, it’s awkward.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters again, quieter now. Not defensive. Unsure. “You know I think you’re amazing.”

Just not enough.

“I am pretty great,” but it comes out too soft.

Neither of you knows what to do with another stretch of silence. So you opt to drink some more water instead.

“Why do you like me so much?” He eventually mutters out as he bites his bottom lip, eyes falling to the ground like he can’t bear to watch your expression. “You could do a lot better.”

You smile, but it’s half-hearted. “How could I not?”

He pauses, as if choosing his words carefully before his voice comes out in a soft whisper. “You mean so much to me. You’re smart, beautiful, and everything good in between—whoever gets to call you theirs is the luckiest person I know. And you know I’d do anything for you.”

Despite their sweetness, his words feel like judgement wrapping around your heart in vines, squeezing just before it’s about to pop. You wish you could block your ears out for what comes next.

“But it can’t be me.” Caleb’s lips purse, brows furrowing as he looks away. “I can’t give you what you want.”

The rejection hurts more than you realized it would. You want to tell him that it’s not fair to treat you the way he does and expect you not to fall for him. That holding your hair when you vomit, falling asleep at your bedside when you’re sick, and his eyes closing in on you in any room that you’re in is not fair. 

Instead, you nod. And you swear to yourself that you’ll swallow this sickening lump in your throat that makes you want to hurl and sob at the same time. That you’ll bury it deep in a graveyard within you that even the closest person to you would never know of. Especially him.  

“I don’t want it, either,” you snort back, immediately perking up to slap his back in what results in a jolt. His shoulders tense as he blinks wide at you, unsure of the sudden shift in atmosphere. “I don’t want feelings that belong to someone else, dumbass.”

Once it sinks in that you mean it, a smile finds its way onto his face, though something flickers beneath it, like a flash of something you don’t want to look too far into.

Not because you still had hope, but because whatever existed between you had never been something as simple as a crush. It had roots—tangled deep into your souls and impossible to pull free without tearing something open. You wanted to keep what was left. Even if it lingered just a little longer, and even if you pretended not to see the splintering strands in the string tying you together.

So you let it settle. Let it rot somewhere you couldn’t feel it.

The two of you fall into the kind of closeness that you’ve always had, and time passes as if it was always meant to be this way. It’s easier this way. For a while, it does work, but nothing ever really stays under wraps. Despite your incessant protests in telling yourself it’s fading, the scars he’s inflicted on you are just that. Scars. Unmoving yet subtle.

The thinning thread finally snaps a few years later, when MC develops feelings for a coworker in the Hunter’s Association. The day the cracks in the glass bridge holding you together shatter beneath your feet into a million different pieces.

“When’s the last time you’ve slept?”

He’s sprawled shirtless on the couch of his apartment in Skyhaven, freshly out of the shower after you arrived to visit him for the first time in months—only to see that he’s nearly overworking himself to death. Despite him going off to the DAA after college, you’d kept close contact, the connection between the two of you never wavering regardless of your restricted time. It only changed after news of MC broke out. Worried, you’d rushed to Skyhaven to make sure he was doing okay, which you’re clearly glad you did now. You’d practically had to drag him to the shower to keep him from passing out next to the front door in his gear.

Caleb, clearly, is off. You suppose you don’t blame him. The woman he loves is yearning for another. Almost poetic, really, but you don’t like seeing him this way. Especially when you know what it feels like yourself, even if you’ve gotten used to it. Gotten over it. He looks like a kicked puppy. Hurt, like a dog who’s just been scratched by its owner. 

“I dunno.”

You peer into the empty abyss that is his fridge and frown. There’s a few measly apples sitting inside, and a half-eaten protein bar that’s been there for god knows how long. “What the hell have you been eating?”

He responds with a grunt, letting his head fall back against the sofa. You decide to make do with the instant noodles he has stashed in one of the cupboards and bring it over to him once it seems mostly done. With a fork, you stick out a few noodles to his face, urging him. “Eat.”

“Not hungry,” he mutters.

“Don’t care. Sit up.”

He opens one of his eyes to peek at you, which somehow urges him forward. There’s darkness beneath his eyes—even stubble littering his chin from a few days worth of not shaving. You want to reach out and poke fun at him, but the state he’s in deters you. Instead, you silently feed him, watching him chew his food while staring at your hands. It makes you wish you put on a fresh set of polish before you came.

You twirl another small forkful and hold it out. He leans forward this time without being told, taking it quietly. His shoulder brushes yours as he settles back against the couch, and you can feel his skin through your shirt.

“Thanks,” he mutters, voice rough from disuse more than anything. “For coming.”

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t rot in here.”

He huffs a faint laugh, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Probably would’ve. Dramatic way to go out, huh?”

You nudge his knee with yours. “Starving to death in your own apartment? Real heroic.”

A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. It makes your heart flutter. Stupid feelings.

“…thanks for coming, splints,” he says.

Your chest tightens—sharp and sudden. It feels like it’s threatening to feel something that’s not yours to feel. So instead, you look down at the bowl, pretending to focus on separating another bite. You twirl your fork, more carefully this time. “I had to. You weren’t responding, so I thought you died, or something. Open.”

He rolls his eyes, but obeys anyway. “Bossy.”

“Learned from the best.”

His lids flutter shut, voice dropping to a lower hum. “I missed this.”

Your hand stills. “What?”

He shrugs, eyes still closed. “You being here.”

His hair is sticking to his forehead, still damp from the shower. Before you realize what you’re doing, you brush a stray strand of hair off his forehead. You speak quietly. “You look like shit.”

“Wow,” he mutters. “You have a way with words.”

You frown, and without thinking, your hand lingers at his temple for just a second longer than it should. His skin is warm, still hot from the shower.

“Idiot,” you whisper.

He catches your wrist. Not tight, not stopping you. Simply holding it there for a moment that feels too long and not long enough at once. Your eyes meet for a fleeting moment, and then you’re looking away, setting the mostly finished bowl of noodles onto the coffee table to pull away.

“Don’t make this a habit. I’m not flying out here every time you forget to eat.”

“Could,” he murmurs. “You would.”

You don’t respond to that, because he’s not wrong.

“…Is she okay?”

It slips out of him like instinct. Like breathing. And just like that, everything shifts. You don’t answer right away—instead, your fingers tighten slightly around the fork.

“She’s fine,” you say eventually. Leave it, you plead in your head.

“Did she say anything?” he asks, sitting up a little more now. There’s something in his eyes, like he’s searching. “When you talked to her.”

You shrug, trying to keep your tone even. “Just normal stuff.” Stop, you think. Please stop talking.

“Like what?”

“Like her job. Her grandma. Nothing serious.” Shit.

He frowns slightly. “She didn’t mention him?”

There it is. It’s always about her.

You know he’s in a vulnerable spot right now, but it does nothing to ease the sudden flame roaring in your chest. Whether it’s from years of repressed hurt or shame, all it amounts to is a relentless ball of rage inside of you that leaves your nails digging crescents into the palms of your hands. You stare at him, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you inch away from him. 

“Does it matter?”

Caleb’s face relaxes. “What?”

“Why does it matter what she thinks about him? She likes him, end of story, no?”

“I just want to know if he’s a decent guy.”

Your ass. “That’s not really your business, Caleb, but sure. He’s a great guy. Amazing, honestly. He’s really gentlemanly and checks every single box. He lives above her apartment, so they’re right next to each other. He treats her gently, too. I’d bet every girl would jump at a chance to date a guy like that.”

You’re not sure where the words are tumbling out of, but it’s too late to go back. Neither do you want to.

“I wonder if he has a brother. Maybe MC could set me up or something.”

“Oh. Is he…” Caleb’s back straightens, and you notice his fingers digging into his thighs. “...handsome?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I’m telling you, he’s perfect. His face could pay for the Linkon rent by itself.”

He suddenly stands, and you glare up at him through your eyebrows. “Why are you talking like that?”

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

He narrows his eyes. It’s something you haven’t seen in a while, since Caleb rarely gets upset at you. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, splints.”

“Can you just spit it out? What am I saying differently?”

“You’re angry.”

You stand, following suit. He looms over you to have his shadow essentially engulf you, and you wish you could kick his ankle so he falls to the ground. “Maybe if you weren’t so irritating, I wouldn’t feel so annoyed right now.”

“What?”

“It’s hard to watch, Caleb,” you hiss out in exasperation, throwing your hands into the air. “It’s always pipsqueak this, pipsqueak that, pipsqueak what. Seriously, we’re not kids anymore, you need to get over it!”

You’re not sure if you’re talking to him or yourself anymore.

“Can we calm down and talk? If I’ve been talking too much about it, I can stop, so—”

“We haven’t seen each other in months, Caleb! And all you want to ask me about is how she’s been? Why don’t you ask her yourself, if you’re so curious? Oh, but you can’t, because you always have to be perfect in front of her. So instead, you dump all of this on me. Your goods and bads, all of it, just for me to get kicked to the curb like I’m some dispensable object.”

“What?” his balks. “Dispensible? Are you serious? As if I haven’t gotten you out of every little thing you’ve gotten yourself into the past decade of our lives? As if I haven’t picked you up every weekend from your friends’ places at three in the morning? Like I haven’t called you every single week—”

“Well, I want you to stop that!” your words spit at him like weak knives, growing louder by the second. 

“You didn’t seem very against it the last forty times.”

“I am now.”

“What has gotten into you, splints?”

“Don’t call me that right now,” you glower, and you try to ignore the hurt flashing across his expression. “I’m just sick of seeing you follow her around like some wet dog. She doesn’t see you like that, can’t you see that?”

Your breathing begins to stutter, and you suck in a deep breath through your nose. Your chest stings, and you pray that you don’t lose composure so the tears threatening to bubble at the corners of your eyes remain hidden.

“You told me that you couldn’t give me what I wanted. Well, she can’t either,” you bore holes into his chest, too afraid of what you might see if you look up. “If I can get over my stupid feelings, so can you.”

But you’re not over it. Not at all.

He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. For the first time in a while, you’ve rendered him speechless, and it feels even worse than what it felt to be rejected years ago. You’re not sure how your nails haven’t drawn blood at this point. You’d rather that they do, so you have some excuse to use the restroom.

“It’s not fair what you do, Caleb,” you try to will your tears to stay at bay, but you can’t help them. They sting, blurring your vision as you drop your head in some pathetic hope that he won’t face them head on. “How you treat me when you don’t like me like that is not fair. At least MC doesn’t know, but you—you know, and yet you—”

The rational part of you says that it’s not entirely his fault. Sure, you insisted on staying by his side. Sure, you insisted that you could push down your feelings. Sure, you’ve promised a lot of things, but it’s his fault too, for being the way he is—so kind, so thoughtful, just so him. 

You wipe desperately at your tears. It was a lost cause from the start.

“Please don’t cry.” His face drains of color, apparent even against the dim lighting in his apartment. He steps towards you, and you take a step back. “Please don’t cry, splints, just not that.”

But when your tears refuse to cease dripping down your cheeks, your face flushing in humiliation, you feel both his hands cupping either side of it. He tilts your gaze up, and you realize that he’s only inches away from you, so much so that you can feel his breath against your skin. It’s moments like these that you lose yourself in his beauty. The deepness of his eyes that seem to peer into your very soul is one of the first features that you fell in love with as a child, and it hasn’t changed since. Damn him. You blink, eyes wide while his own flicker to your lips. 

“Be as mad as you want. Hit me, hate me even,” he whispers, his nose almost touching yours now. His thumb pad smooths your tears away. “But don’t waste your tears on someone like me.”

You think you might be imagining things. Because with the tension that nearly suffocates you and his lashes almost fluttering against your skin, you think he might be about to kiss you.

A sharp pain jabs you in the chest. Is it pity? A consolation prize dressed up as something softer? Is it to smooth things over, to make this moment easier for him to leave behind? Or is it rebellion? Something reckless from the fact that he can’t have her? Your tears have dried up, but the rest of your body seems to weep, as no excitement, no butterflies course through your veins. 

Why is it always something else? Why is it never you? It only hurts—because even now, you’re just the place he empties everything he feels for her.

Instinctively, you press your palm into his lips to push him away, and it feels like the air itself has stilled.

His breath lingers against your skin. Yours stutters like it’s forgotten how to exist in the same space as him. The air is so thick you could slice it with a knife.

Eventually, he pulls away. Caleb stares at you with an expression you haven’t seen before, though you don’t look long enough to analyze it. Wordlessly, you gather your things, stuffing your jacket into your bag and stumble over to the door—all while he stays locked in a petrified state, like he’s processing what he just did. Your gaze remains fixated on the wooden panels of the floor while you pack, refusing to look any higher in case you might see anything other than his feet.

“Don’t follow me,” you tell him as you leave. 

You don’t wait to see if he hears you.

The journey home feels like there’s a gaping hole in your chest, and all you can do is stare out the window as you feel the vibrations of the train through your fingertips. Outside, the world blurs past in streaks of dim lights and shadowed shapes, and you wish that your feelings were as fleeting as the buildings blurring by. 

You try to count the number of trees you see. Not on the warmth of his breath against your palm. Not on how close he’d been. Not on the fact that, for a second, you almost let him.

If you hadn’t pushed him away, would it have meant anything? Or would you have just been a mistake he’d regret in the morning?

Your phone buzzes frantically in your pocket, and you pull it out to see his name in big bold letters. He’s texting you simultaneously, apologizing in so many different ways that they all start to blend into one message you don’t plan on reading. You refuse to give into what your heart wants. It’s hurt you too much in the past. So instead, your thumb hovers above the ‘mute’ button.

You press it and shut your eyes.

Even if it’s difficult to adjust the first few weeks without him, you can’t bear to face him either. He shows up at your door. Nearly every day for some time, knocking softly and asking if you’d be willing to talk. When you simply plug in your earbuds and bury yourself into your bed, he apologizes through the door and leaves you something to eat. You tend to throw it out at first, but after a while, you figure it’s just a waste. Just like that, a month goes by. And then another. Then another. Until you can’t count them on one hand anymore. He comes by once every two weeks or so now, likely busy with his work.

Despite how much your body seems to miss his presence, you wonder if you should distance Caleb permanently. It’s a daunting idea. One that you never would’ve thought just a few years ago, but the embarrassment runs deeper than you want to admit. The feelings you’ve tried so hard to hide clearly aren’t hidden. Is this sustainable? 

Regardless of what you think, he comes around like clockwork.

“Are you in there?” He knocks gently on your door, voice soft. He probably knows you are.

“No.”

He chuckles from the other end. “Right. Happy birthday, splints.”

You glance at your phone calendar. He’s right. 

As usual, he begins to talk about random events in his life that he hasn’t had the opportunity to tell you, and while you usually muffle it out, you decide to quietly shuffle over to the door today. To tell him, maybe, that you don’t want to keep doing this. Or maybe just to hear his voice, you don’t know. Either way, you slide your back down the door where he’s on the other side, pulling your knees into your chest.

“I don’t know if you’ve read my text, but–”

“I don’t read them.”

Caleb stops, and you can almost hear his breath hitch. You usually don’t give him more than a few words, much less a full sentence, so it seems to have taken him aback. After the brief remission, you hear him clear your throat. “Splints, can you open the door? I want to talk—apologize to you.”

Silence.

“Or I can do it out here. That’s fine,” he sighs. “I want you to know that it’s okay if you want to hate me forever after this. I won’t keep clinging to you if you at listen to what I have to say, but I really just—I need to say that this is my fault.”

You half-heartedly hear his words drone on, his confidence wavering every so often while you pull up his chats on your phone. You have no idea how you hadn’t folded and read his chats until now, though it might’ve been more so for your own peace than anything. There’s too many to scroll up to, so you read the most recent messages, squinting in the dark against the light of your phone. 

[1:41PM]

[caleb]: are you eating well?

[caleb]: i made this today

[caleb]: [image attached]

[caleb]: your favorite dishes :) i’ll drop them off at your place later

[caleb]: i hope you’re not just throwing them out…wouldn’t blame you tho

[caleb]: at least take care of yourself :)

[8:13AM]

[caleb]: hi splints :)

[caleb]: you probably watched it already but that movie you wanted to see came out a week ago. I went to go see it

[caleb]: i still think it’s kind of bad…but it was entertaining

[caleb]: unless you wanna argue about it ?? :3

[5:32PM]

[caleb]: ranked first today

[caleb]: i was excited to celebrate it with you and then remembered :/

[caleb]: it doesn’t feel as good when i can’t tell you lol

[caleb]: hope you’re okay

[11:23PM]

[caleb]: i wish i hadn’t been so stupid

[caleb]: i didn’t deserve you back then

[caleb]: i still don’t

[caleb]: i shouldn’t have lost my cool when you were over here. didn’t like hearing you talk about that guy like that

[caleb]: im sure he’s a good looking guy, and i know you’re particularly weak to good looking guys…

[caleb]: i was being childish and i wish i could’ve explained it to you then

[caleb]: i know you don’t owe me anything and you don’t have to listen to what i have to say

[caleb]: but i never wanted to make you feel used, and i never did. if that even sounds believable lol

[caleb]: it was never about her

[caleb]: there’s so much more i want to say but i’ll say it in person

[caleb]: miss you a lot

[caleb]: sleep tight

You wish the tightness in your chest would go away. You wish you didn’t feel his sorrow through him. And you wish you didn’t care about your own feelings for him.

“I love you, splints,” he murmurs, and your attention tears away from the chats, your phone nearly clattering onto the floor. Your eyes widen, suddenly regretting that you missed the first half of his speech. 

“Not in the way you say it to your friends, or the way you say it to family. You’re my life, and you’ve been my life since the day you gave me that ring. I care for MC, but what I feel for you is different. It’s always been different. I realized that years ago, but I was afraid that it wouldn’t be fair for you. I thought you deserved someone better than someone who doesn’t know how to understand their own feelings.” Your throat dries. “I thought it wasn’t fair because I’d already put you through so much.”

“At the same time, I’m a selfish guy, you know? I couldn’t let you go either, because I couldn’t bear to see you with someone else. I wanted it to be us, and the only way I could think of existing without feeling like I was ruining you was to stay how we were. Stagnant, I guess,” he chuckles, but it feels sad. Weak. “I’m an idiot when it comes to you, you know.”

You don’t respond.

Not because you don’t have anything to say—if anything, there’s too much. It crowds your throat, every word scraping against the next until none of them can make it out. Your fingers hover uselessly over your phone, screen still lit with a conversation you can’t even remember reading.

‘I love you.’

The words echo, but they don’t land the way you once dreamed they would. They don’t bloom or soften or fix anything. They just sit. Too heavy. Too late.

Your chest tightens, aching outward like it’s trying to break free. Because you’ve wanted this—God, you’ve wanted this—for so long that you stopped letting yourself imagine it could ever actually happen. It should feel like relief. Instead, it feels real, but fragile.

Because you remember too much. The almosts. The waiting. The way you learned how to swallow your emotions when he built a wall between the two of you—and that doesn’t disappear just because he finally found the words.

Your hand curls slightly against the door, fingers brushing the cool surface.

Even with all that, you still miss the warmth of his skin. How his hair felt through a towel as you dried it. How he’d flick your forehead when you’d get a question wrong during one of his tutoring sessions. How he’d tease you about your grades or interests, and learn more about them anyway. How he’d message you throughout the day about random endeavors. How he’d always be there. How with just a call of his name, he would’ve crossed the continents for you. His eyes. His lips. His face. His painfully handsome face.

You remember him in all parts of your life—and not a single moment you’ve spared has gone without him. You remember how he held your hand when you’d broken your arm, and the way he’d lifted you into the air and embraced you when you were accepted into the same college as him. You remember how he’d pet your hair as you complained about him going too far for the DAA, promising he’d visit often. And he did. He always kept his promises.

Your body moves on its own, as if this was how it was always meant to be. The door slowly creaks open.

“…We’re a mess.”

A faint, tired smile is all you can give him. Still, when he sees you, the world seems to stop for just the two of you, and it takes him a moment to fully register that you’re really there. That you’re not just a figment of his imagination, and he hasn’t truly lost you forever as he’d feared. “This doesn’t mean you’re completely out of the woods. I’m still mad.”

“You should be,” he whispers out, nearly breathless.

Hesitantly, you step towards him. He reaches his arm out, brows furrowed cautiously like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to even blink right now. The tips of his fingers twitch towards you. You raise a brow, and he swallows the lump in his throat, retracting back until you nod. 

Realizing you don’t have shoes, you step onto the fronts of his shoes one foot at a time, taking his hand until you’re flush against him and he’s already engulfing you into a crushing embrace. His arms wrap around you, strong and warm. He smells good. Though you can’t confidently say the same for yourself given the state you’re in, he drops his chin into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply, like a man starved.

“Note to self,” you mumble. “Don’t propose to any handsome guy you see.”

Caleb laughs, airy this time, and you feel it against your collarbone. “I thought you were going to leave your husband out here to die in the cold.”

“I should divorce you. We’re not even married yet.”

He grins, lopsided. “You should.”

“I won’t.”

“I know.

You bury your face into his chest, fingers digging into the fabric on his back. “I don’t want a version of my life without you, Caleb. As annoying as you are.”

He pulls away for a brief moment and places a kiss on your cheek, his own dusting red. Flowers feel like they’re blooming on the spot he pecked, but somehow, it feels natural. You’ve always been close to him physically throughout your upbringing, even if it never involved lips–that was new territory. You cross your arms, relying on his hands around your waist to keep you upright. “Tell me more.”

“You nag too much.”

He kisses your nose. “Hm?”

“You’re emotionally repressed.”

“Ouch.” He kisses your temple.

“You’re too good at things you don’t try at.”

Your jawline.

“You’re unstable. You’re too protective. You’re stupid.”

“I love you,” he says, pressing his forehead against yours. His lips hover above your own, just centimeters away.

Your lashes flutter against his. “Then prove it to me.”

Yoongi's only ever been with one woman his entire life.

Ever since he turned old enough to introduce someone to his parents without them mistaking it for puppy love, which in his case was at seventeen years old, Yoongi quickly realized that he doesn’t ever want to introduce anyone other than Haein.

Yoongi, at his fresh age of seventeen, made a pact to himself to never bring someone home again if it’s not Haein, because bothering a nineteen-year old you for your own house slippers to lend to his girlfriend (he didn’t want to spend his allowance buying a nice pair when he could just sacrifice his dignity by groveling at your feet for it) was too much of a hassle.

He didn’t like the fuss that came with forming crushes. Yoongi’s spent countless nights scrutinizing his first love’s actions during recess and microanalyzing her tone towards him from the morning earlier— he doesn’t want to go through any of that again. 

He doesn’t want the grown-up equivalent of it either, because all throughout high school and some bits of college wherein he and Haein were together and totally not broken up in a perpetual on-off cycle as usual, Yoongi thought that he was set for life with her.

Unlike you, he hasn’t had his share of multiple first kisses. Yoongi, not even once, stepped into a bar with wandering eyes and a hopeful perk to his tone. He hasn’t worried about making first impressions again, nor has he ever had to ask how many people came into the picture before him.

In Yoongi’s eyes, it’s only been Haein the entire time. There’s no before, during, and after her, even if the last phase in time is just something he hopes for and is not set into stone. 

It’s still Haein for him, the kind, starry-eyed girl that wore your house slippers when she stepped foot into his childhood home for the first time to meet his parents, and it’s been her ever since.

It’s still her, because she never knew that the slippers she wore was actually yours, which made it her one and only designated pair, so much so that she even took it with her when she moved in with Yoongi in their shared apartment.

It’s still her, because you’ve gone through multiple pairs ever since, and so did the boyfriends you took home to meet your family.

It’s still Haein, because Yoongi hasn’t moved on from her even if they broke up for good (or atleast that’s what you’ve heard in verbatim and what Yoongi refuses to confirm) a year ago.

"There's nothing wrong with being with someone new," you snort, your tone bordering on condescending to which Yoongi predicted correctly, simply because you’ve had this conversation a million times already. 

You told him that in your attempt to comfort him when Haein broke up with him back on the second semester of their first year in college, wherein he found himself wailing against your sheets at your dorm.

You told him that in your attempt to appease him when he broke up with her during their junior year, wherein he had to wipe at his tears furiously before fixing his tie because it was only hours before your graduation and both your parents downstairs are calling for a picture.

You tell it to him now too, in your attempt to convince both Yoongi and yourself, as he starfishes on your couch while reminiscing what could’ve been another anniversary (albeit choppy and not at all continuous) of the first time they held hands.

"Yes there is," he groans, his emotions maturing enough not to cry helplessly unlike the past breakups, but not enough to stop glomming onto you. “I don't want to talk about my favorite color again. I don't want to answer how many siblings I have. I don't want to be asked the extremely quirky question of whether I think pineapple belongs on pizza or not, again!"

"It's only normal to introduce yourself again and again until you find the right one for you!" you laugh, your self-built amusement keeping the entire situation light for you because if you don’t find a way to distract yourself from Yoongi holding onto Haein pathetically, just like how you do so with him, you’d be as devastated as him.

You’d be devastated too if you realize that there’s little to no chance of earning back the only person you’ve ever truly loved, if not more— except you’re not Yoongi, and he’s not Haein.

What you have to go through is more devastating because Yoongi’s never really been yours in the first place.

"But I want Haein to be right for me," he whines, his eyes sleepy from all the fatigue that comes with driving all the way to your place, just so he could be miserable around you and not apart from you. “Even if she's not, I want it to be her."

You’re quiet for awhile, and Yoongi doubts your silence because you’ve only ever chewed his ear off whenever he started moping about Haein. He’s noticed it ever since you were young; you’d never let a single second pass without overwhelming him with your words whenever he thought too deeply, too lowly about anything. You didn’t give him a break to even think when it comes to times like these, so Yoongi grows even more concerned when you give him a break.

He’s used to the noise that is you trying to distract him from everything that pains him.

"For the record, you already did those things twice in your life,” you murmur after some time, looking up from the glass of wine that Yoongi poured you and bought for your collection before he made the decision of crashing out over Haein in your living room.

"Oh my god, did I kiss someone while I was drunk? When you dragged me out for drinks last week? When-… when it was, uh, when it was the anniversary of me and her moving in and-…”

"No, you monogamous asshole," you interrupt, rolling your eyes. "You did it with Haein."

"What are you talking about?" Yoongi tilts his head, his eyebrows furrowed as he tries to comprehend what you’re saying.

You still look annoyed at him, as you’ve always done whenever he comes to you crying about her, but now, you look more subdued; like you’re a little more melancholic for god knows what reason (Yoongi knows it’s definitely not about him and Haein’s breakup), and a little less agitated at having to have this conversation for the nth time.

"I knew you first, Yoongi," you remind faintly, shoulders offering a weak shrug. "You had to do it all over again for Haein when she came into your life, but I don't see you complaining."

Yoongi hits pause on his agony to frown slightly, sitting up on your couch in order to nudge you with his shoulder. ”But that's different because I grew up knowing you. It's only natural for you to know me this way.”

The snort that leaves you borders on offensive, and Yoongi automatically narrows his eyes when he senses the hint of sarcasm in your smirk.

”You mean know you as intimately as your one and only girlfriend did? Maybe even more than Haein actually does know you?"

"If you put it that way it sounds weird, but yeah," Yoongi scoffs defensively, crossing his arms on his chest before looking up at the high ceilings of your apartment in surrender. “Aren't just close friends basically lovers without the formalities?"

Yoongi’s only ever been with one woman his entire life.

You figure it’s because of that so he doesn’t know what he’s saying. 

You figure it’s because of Haein’s monopoly on his feelings and experiences that you convince yourself that Yoongi hasn’t been kicked around enough, to realize that what he’s saying is enough for you to assume a higher, closer place in his life.

You figure that Yoongi only knows love because of Haein and not love itself, enough for him to tell you that being close friends with him is the equivalent of loving him in that light, only without the coveted crown that comes with being his first and only love that Haein still possesses.

"You're right," you mutter, downing the rest of your wine and the assumption that Yoongi knows it’s him whom your hearts yearns for. "It does sound weird when you put it that way."

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s a manny. 

More specifically and less confusingly, Yoongi’s a male nanny and he enjoys the job.

When you graduated two years earlier than he did, all he talked about was how happy and envious he was for you over being born earlier than him. He told you that you were unfair (and so were your parents) by bringing you to the world earlier and not as the same time as him, even detailing how he wants to be just a day older than you instead of you being ahead by two full birthdays.

When you graduated two years earlier than him, proving just how lucky you were (even if Yoongi argues that it’s your sheer intellect and not something as silly as luck) by landing a coveted job, all Yoongi could talk about was how he wanted to follow in your footsteps.

He’s not in the place where you are now, and although neither of you are bitter about it, some part of Yoongi still thinks what could’ve been.

“I should’ve never brought it up,” you apologize sincerely, nudging him with your knee to get the point across because you didn’t really mean to throw him into a loop.

You’re sure that Taehyung, your colleague who’s one year your junior and knew both you and Yoongi from college, didn’t really mean to offend the latter either, or atleast that’s what you think. 

You only opened up about your brush-up with Taehyung in the elevator because it was your first time bumping into each other having worked in the same company for so long, and you thought (read: thought) that Yoongi would be amused about the interaction too.

You thought that Yoongi would be amused about your encounter with Taehyung because the third question he asks you (the first asking how you were doing and the second asking if you were single) ventures straight to Yoongi and what he was up to. 

You thought he’d be amused that Taehyung still remembers how the both of you were attached to the hip despite being apart in year levels, but with the way Yoongi scowls (even for just the briefest second), you knew that you hit a sore spot. 

“Nah. It’s okay,” Yoongi exhales, glossing over the random question of Taehyung asking if you were taken before willing himself to forget it completely, and moving onto the facet that you thought offended him. “It pays well, honestly. I didn’t think I would ever score a job like this.”

“Me neither,” you shrug lightly, being relieved when you see the playful roll of Yoongi’s eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he whines, throwing his head back in faux annoyance, to which he may or may not attribute to Hwayoung’s (one of the children he looks after) tendencies.

“I don’t mean it in a bad way, Yoongs. It’s just that, well, I pictured that you’d be this hotshot data analyst, or I.T, or something equally as technical and now-…” you trail off, the smile in your face genuine. “You’re a hotshot nanny.”

“This wasn’t my dream. You knew that,” he snorts, asserting his point by once again bringing up your extensive knowledge about him. “But I was just strapped for cash this one time, and I was behind on rent and my stupid, complicated job at my old company didn’t pay on time– then you already knew about my neighbors being these newlyweds with twin babies and before I knew it, I was looking after them! I was making bank by staying up like I’ve always done, and I get an audience when I’m talking to myself!”

Yoongi doesn’t overestimate your familiarity for him, and neither does he overestimate your sincerity towards his decisions. You judge him, sure (you’ve never made your annoyance for his weakness for Haein and his affinity for their backwards-moving relationship a secret), but you’ve never actually discouraged him from anything.

You didn’t talk him out of getting back with Haein all those breakups ago.

You didn’t talk him out of applying for unrelated jobs outside of his degree.

You don’t talk Yoongi out of anything, even anyone, that’s capable of bringing him joy.

“You love what you’re doing and you’re earning a shit ton. You don’t have to be affected by what an old classmate is asking.”

“That old classmate is working in the same Fortune Global 500 company as you are,” he chuckles just a little bit bitterly, making you nudge his knee a little harder this time. “But still,” he deadpans. “It’s okay. I’ll get over it. I can consider this as practice anyway.”

“You’re… opening up a babysitting company…?”

“Stupid,” Yoongi snickers, squeezing your knee tightly before his hold disappears. “No! I mean practice before I have a family in the future!” he laughs, shaking his head at you as if it wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world; as if his optimism for a future with Haein isn’t persistent. “I don’t know what’s Haein’s take on working if we ever do have children, but either way, it’s nice to know that I already have the basics mastered.”

Whenever you least expect it, even if you should know by now after spending so much of your life with Yoongi, he reminds you of your place.

“You and Haein aren’t even together now,” you mutter, keeping your gaze low.

“Can you shut up?” Yoongi groans, slouching in his seat. “I’m not saying we’re gonna have a family now. I’m saying maybe we’ll have one in the future.”

“But you’ve been broken up for years.”

“Again, Y/N,” Yoongi rolls his eyes, the playfulness between the two of you slowly but surely dissipating. “I need you to be quiet.”

( ♡ ) 

Your parents like throwing thanksgiving parties for you and your siblings.

It’s quite literally the joint event for all seasons because your parents don’t even dare to set out cake for anyone outside of your family to eat when the holidays come, promising to make the party they excessively fuss about to be an umbrella for the rest that they miss throughout the year.

It’s an event that none of you really asked for but your parents insist on anyway; mostly to celebrate their accomplished children, and just a tiny bit more to brag about the lives they’ve managed to cultivate.

Yoongi, like for every other thanksgiving party that your parents have thrown, shows up in his most prized suit. It’s his most expensive and cleanest one to date, and it’s a suit that he reserves only for your parents’ shenanigans; not for a relative’s wedding, and not for a rich friend’s event either — he wears it just for you.

“I’d hate to be your unemployed cousin during this time of the year,” he jokes, being unable to look around the room without locking eyes with atleast one of your relatives or mutual friends and waving at them, yet Yoongi’s not really peeved about it at all.

“Yeah, that side of the family hates us,” you laugh, the tension in your shoulders loosening when you realize that you have nothing to be anxious about, especially when you’re just across the person who knows you the most.

You have your fun in these thanksgiving parties, and Yoongi has his own. Your definition of fun means owning up to your achievements and not attributing them to luck, poking fun at your siblings behind their backs, and maybe striking up a conversation or two with a family friend that you forgot was more handsome than you thought he’d be.

Yoongi’s fun on the other hand, only ever revolved around you and Haein when it comes to these parties. Now that the latter wasn’t invited this year and he’s not capable of trailing after her like a puppy, feeling like an outcast amongst a sea of accomplished individuals, Yoongi can now trail after you, feeling like he belongs.

“Look at my parents. They keep boasting about you so much, you’d think they gave birth to you,” he nods his head to them, talking your aunt’s ear off as they keep gesturing to you, grinning when you catch their gaze.

“I don’t look at you as a brother. Gross!” your nose scrunches, making Yoongi roll his eyes and subsequently kick you lightly in the shin.

The two of you, thankfully, are okay. The awkward conversation that transpired about Taehyung’s curiosity and Yoongi’s own insistence of a future with Haein seems to never have sprung up in the first place.

You’ve known each other for a lifetime; it only felt appropriate, nevermind unhealthy, to let familiarity take its toll to make the two of you complacent enough to not apologize to each other and still be okay by the next day.

“My parents didn’t graduate college, but you knew that already,” Yoongi talks, gaze still holding out to his parents from a distance like it’s a stare he can’t break off because his eyes feel too comfortable. “They found a lot of things– a lot of people annoying because they made them feel inferior, but we never felt that way with your family, y’know?”

You’re not one to deny the distance between you and Yoongi; everything from your age difference, to how your childhood house overlooked his, and even to the feelings you share and don’t share, there’s an imbalance the two of you would never be able to tip.

“Your parents are genuine, close friends with my own, and your family never pitied ours,” he smiles, eyes crinkling in gratitude as he does so.

“I know that,” you return the sincerity, eyes set on his while his gaze is directed elsewhere. “But where’s all this coming from?”

“I see the way you look at me,” Yoongi shrugs, the second that it takes him to turn his attention to you making you falter.

You don’t know if you’re more scared or relieved at the possibility of Yoongi knowing about your feelings.

“And how do I look at you?” you test the waters, tilting at your head to try and closely gauge the tiny smile on his lips, but you come up empty.

“I can’t tell exactly, but you always look at me with some sort of guilt.”

“Why would I look at you with guilt?” a breathless laugh escapes you, the ease plastered on his face making you more and more pressured.

“I don’t know either! You tell me,” Yoongi laughs brightly, slinging an arm across your shoulder to which no one bats an eye to, because although they don’t know the two of you as well as you know each other, they have a semblance of it.

They know how you and Yoongi are friends; how you and Yoongi are close friends who are basically lovers without the formalities.

“We’ve known each other for a lifetime, Y/N. There’s nothing about one another that could surprise us anymore.”

“That sounds so boring,” you mutter, the words slipping out of you before you could even control them, effectively dampening the sentimental mood that Yoongi’s in.

“Excuse me?” he asks, a little bit offended but a lot more hurt over your comment.

“We’re not always gonna be the same, Yoongi,” you continue, staring at your feet with your voice low because it’s not like you can retract your words anymore; they’re as out there as you are when it comes to loving Yoongi silently.

“Do you… not want to be friends with me anymore?” he whispers, arm suddenly stalling as he tries to deduct whatever the hell you could possibly mean.

“Where did that come from?”

Yoongi chuckles uneasily, almost regretful he even said that outloud in fear of manifesting it. 

“I don’t– I-I don’t know! It’s just weird with the way you’re talking. Like you purposely want us to change.”

“You don’t?”

“No, I don’t,” he emphasizes. “If you’re already comfortable with the life that you have now, you don’t need to change,” Yoongi blinks slowly, unfamiliar with the way your eyes lack emotion. “I have you. I have the manny job. I have Haein.”

You’re quiet as you let Yoongi think and simmer in whatever he had to say, and he hates it.

“Is this life not enough for you yet?” he asks hesitantly, the premature scoff that leaves his throat making the bitterness linger for the slightest second. “What more could you want?”

You want to say it’s only him whom you lack, but you stay quiet.

You give Yoongi both the silence and the space to think, and he realizes that he’s never wanted to be overwhelmed by you more.

( ♡ ) 

Things have been awkward between you and Yoongi.

You didn’t mean to sound beyond ungrateful and out of touch, but simply (and maybe even arrogantly) put, Yoongi just didn’t get it. 

He didn’t get where you were coming from because he’s only stayed in one place long enough to call her his future. He didn’t get what you could be possibly going through because Yoongi only longs for comfort and not change because the latter wouldn’t benefit him in any way.

He’s right about him having the manny job makes him happy because he gets a heavy check and a learning experience. He’s also right, even if he’s rarely accurate when faced with her, about having Haein because you figure that if you were in his position, you wouldn’t ask for anything more.

If you were anything like Yoongi by having had the privilege of harboring the person you love and the life-long burden of having to yearn for her, you would be satisfied too.

It’s been a full week since the two of you talked and it’s the longest you ever went without any communication. There’s no texts coming from your end, but there had been plenty of it coming from Yoongi’s.

Yoongi, your best friend, knows that you didn’t end your thanksgiving party in the happiest note because he happened. He felt apologetic about it ever since because he didn’t mean to sound self-absorbed to the point of projecting his selfishness onto you; painting you as the villain would be the last thing he’ll ever do because he knew that between the two of you, you were the stronger one.

You’re the more rational, focused one who studied the same degree as he did, yet actually amounted to something infinitely more even if he’s the younger one who had more opportunities than you ever did.

You’re the more unyielding one between the two of you, because you can stomach ignoring him for a week while he’s about to lose his mind.

Yoongi could send a hundred more texts wherein he pretends to have mistakenly sent a discreet, low-lying sorry to you (because the two of you barely ever apologized to each other) instead of another person. He could react to a message of yours from two months ago just to try and see if you would comment on it.

He could even call you by Haein’s name just to purposely piss you off because he’d settle for anything if it meant breaking you out of your silent treatment, yet you don’t even move an inch whether he calls you on your phone or lingers in the coffee shop you frequent at in your workplace.

Yoongi can pull a hundred different reasons with most of them involving how he’s running errands with the children he looks after. He can say that Hwayoung knows your name (and he’s not lying about it either) and that she asked where you worked, and the both of them just happened to be in the area during their morning walk. He can say every excuse under the sun just to try and get you to talk to him, but you won’t budge.

Yoongi doesn’t like change but he likes the days wherein you rant to him about your day and ask how his went, just like every week before this one. He doesn’t like growth in the guise of everything he’s comfortable with being stripped away, but he likes the nights wherein he could call you and ask you to look after the children in the living room while he goes to the bathroom, when really, he’s just standing from a distance to look at you coo at them.

So when Yoongi got the call from your brother, asking him for a favor to look after your nephew if only he was free for the day (he wasn’t, but he made it work nonetheless), he immediately jumped at the chance of maybe, just maybe seeing you drop by at your family’s home.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he says under his breath when he locks eyes with you in the nursery, your presence only being a surprise to him alone because he didn’t think you were staying with your parents the entire week when normally, you’d be a little high-strung staying with them after three consecutive days.

“Just been busy. Sorry,” you reply quietly, your apology only being an afterthought because you’re unsure who’s at fault.

“Me too,” Yoongi clears his throat, bouncing your sleeping nephew on his arms as he indiscreetly makes his way to you. “I’m sorry too, I mean.”

It’s weird for the both of you to apologize to each other.

It’s weird for you to see Yoongi in your childhood house and have no one question his presence, because the scene of him cradling your brother’s baby with a cloth strewn over his shoulder and your sister’s headband on his head to keep his hair away from his face, only looks right.

It’s weird for Yoongi to see you so torn up over him, and it’s even weirder that all the anger he had towards you for ignoring him just immediately dissipated.

Yoongi puts your nephew down on his crib with a precise gentleness to him, his hands cramping up not because he spent so long trying to get him to calm down, but because he doesn’t ever know what to do with them whenever you face him.

“You didn’t have to do this for my brother, y’know? You shouldn’t feel pressured to say yes just because he asked,” you clear your throat, filling the silence in with your voice that Yoongi has missed so badly.

“What are you talking about? I’m not on the clock right now,” Yoongi furrows his brows, the frown on his face evident. “I’m not here as a manny. I’m here as an uncle.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” he snorts, the snarky expression from him cutting through the tension between you. You could just throw your head back out of relief, knowing that Yoongi’s not that mad at you, but the both of you know you’re far from the clear.

You’re far from the clear when you don’t make a single move to come towards him across the room, even if it’s the only thing you wanted to do the past week.

You know you’re far from the clear and even further from moving on when it’s Yoongi who comes to you, his pace slow yet definitive, his fists unclenched for once as he practically leaps towards you in the end.

It takes one, two seconds for you to realize that although it’s Yoongi who made the first move to get close to you, it’s you who puts your hands on his cheeks, forehead rested against his with your eyes closed, tightly. Painfully.

Yoongi opens his eyes when you do, staying in your grasp even if he realizes that you almost kissed.

“You can read my mind, Yoongi, right?” you whisper, pulling apart briefly to look up at him, yet close nonetheless because you could still practically hear his heart beating out of his chest.

“Yeah,” he swallows the lump in his throat, the hand he has around your waist loosening for just a fraction of a second, yet you don’t need it— you don’t need him to unravel further to confirm what you’ve always known.

“So I don’t need to say it out loud,” you smile tightly, the shaky sigh that leaves you making Yoongi’s lips purse out of guilt. “So I don’t need to say it out loud that I love you,” you say in your mind, eyes already stinging even if Yoongi hasn’t let go of you yet.

“You don’t,” he affirms, his voice hoarse as his hand on your waist still doesn’t budge, the other cradling your wrist because he can’t decipher if it’s him wanting to keep your hand on his face, or if it’s him keeping you away. “You can read my mind too, right?”

You nod earnestly, the smile that he gives you even being tighter than yours.

“Right,” he clears his throat. “So I can’t— I-I don’t have to say it either,” he whispers. “I don’t need to say out loud that the feeling isn’t mutual,” you read in his mind, the silent admission effectively relieving you of the weight you’ve carried ever since you knew him.

Yoongi’s phone ringing is the only thing that snaps the both of you from your daze, your immediate composure being shaky despite having prepared for this for so long because you knew it anyway.

You know that no matter how much Yoongi looks like he belongs to you, your life, and everything in between, you still won’t stand a chance against the person who’d make him drop everything new for the promise of coming home to everything he’s familiar with.

“It’s uhm— it’s Haein,” he explains, the nervous grin he has on face being infectious despite your very own appearing for a much different reason. “She wants to talk about things.”

“You don’t have to let me know,” you shake your head, shoving your hands into your pockets. “Go, Yoongi.”

.

.

.

You’re not ignoring Yoongi anymore.

Apropos of nothing, Yoongi and Haein are talking again.

They’re not together, yet, but you know how it always ends between them anyway, so you steel yourself for the worst despite it being Yoongi’s best.

( ♡ ) 

You badly want to change.

You badly want to change and although it’s not Yoongi’s fault, the way he hovers around you makes you feel otherwise.

You already made well on your promise of not shutting him out whenever things get tough for you, but even then, no part of the way you’ve been acting recently ever appeases Yoongi.

He’s accustomed to you growing like you always have been, yet he didn’t even think that you changing bit by bit could ever impact him this greatly, Sure, Yoongi’s happy that you’re no longer ignoring him intentionally, but his stomach still turns every time you do reply to him at an ungodly hour and he’s reminded of your little joke (he hopes it is) that you’re more active at that time of night because of your extracurriculars.

Yoongi’s happy that you still turn to him, but a large part of him, if not the entirety, grows bitter when he sees you looking happier nowadays and he can’t tell if it’s because of something you’ve already told him or if it’s because of something totally unrelated and how he could never know, because the one thing that he made you promise is for you to keep being his friend.

You’re still Yoongi’s friend before, during, and after your confession, and he doesn’t know if that placates him.

Yoongi doesn’t want to amount to anything less than a friend to you but he doesn’t want to be your family either. He wants to be whatever it is in your life that knows why you’re smiling so much and why you barely rant to him.

He wants to be whatever, whoever, it is your life in order to know that you’re seeing Taehyung right from your mouth and not from your brother’s like he’s a jaded suitor that’s been anticipating bad news.

Yoongi wants to matter enough, as if he already doesn’t, to know about you having a boyfriend.

“You have a boyfriend and you didn’t tell me?” he spits, the way he barrels into your apartment with his own keycard being unceremonious. 

Yoongi knows today’s your rest day and he knows that by this time, you’d be on a call with him to ask about his day and entertain Hwayoung who keeps butting into your conversation. By this time, it would’ve still been you and him, whether or not Haein and Taehyung were in the picture.

“You’re hooking up with the guy that talked shit about me, and you didn’t bother telling me?”

“Taehyung didn’t talk shit about you,” you scoff, closing the door after him as you follow him into your living room.

Yoongi’s eyes widen comically, heart clenching when he realizes that you have no comeback for anything else he’s said, jaw clenching as he points a finger at you.

“He fucking looked down on me-…”

“He was just shocked!” 

“Are you seriously defending him instead of being on my side?!” he exclaims, the sarcastic chuckle that leaves his lips rubbing you wrong because for any other person and any other instance, you’d laugh with him too.

“Do you not expect me to?” you snarl. “You’re dragging my boyfriend’s name to an argument that you started, and you don’t expect me to defend him?”

“You’re being a hypocrite,” he grits, nostrils flaring in sheer anger.

“And if I am, then what about it?!” you throw your hands into the air, poking your finger at his chest yet he refuses to get out of your face. “Have you not ever been a hypocrite when it comes to defending the person you love?”

It’s not your glare that gets him to back off.

It’s not your hostile, defensive nature towards Yoongi, in defense of Taehyung, that makes him deadly silent.

It’s you, holding up a mirror for the same blind defensiveness that he’d always carry whenever your words just barely graze Haein’s honor.

You’re guilty of judging Yoongi, but not of dissuading him from pursuing Haein like he’s always done — Yoongi, however, can’t say the same for himself.

“I hope Taehyung’s worth it,” he spits. “I hope he’s worth treating me like this, because not once have I ever made you less of a priority even when Haein was still in the picture.”

The use of was makes you pause, the past tense making you blink owlishly and finally take a step back from Yoongi as if it’s just your proximity to him that was the raging problem.

“Haein was my girlfriend but I never, never turned my back on you. I never made things awkward for us. I never stopped showing up for you, even if it costed me with her. I never made you feel the way you’re making me feel now,” Yoongi heaves, jaw clenching from how hard he’s ignoring the lump in his throat.

You chuckle sarcastically, the briefest glimpse you have of yourself in Yoongi’s words making you feel utterly pathetic. “Yeah? And how am I making you feel now?”

“Like we haven’t known each other our whole lives.”

( ♡ ) 

It’s been months since you and Yoongi properly talked to each other.

Life got in the way between the two of you and as much as Yoongi didn’t want to push, you didn’t want to grow out of the comfort that you already had with Taehyung either.

There were still texts and calls, but in between Yoongi getting whisked away for his employers’ vacation for a change and you being content with your job and your boyfriend as your comfort, neither of you made any drastic moves after your fight.

The only apology that Yoongi could get out of you after storming off from your apartment was you asking if he had already eaten dinner two nights after your fight, while the only apology that your close friend could ever give to you was that he hadn’t (even if he actually did), just to get your conversation rolling.

You feel guilty reserving parts of you from Yoongi, namely Taehyung and how he fits into your life, even if it’s always been established that there’s no use hiding. You know a terrible lot of information about how Yoongi and Haein are in bed against your will, and Yoongi has an awful amount of knowledge about your preference for condoms and how you like your men. 

There’s guilt in your chest and you don’t think it would ever disappear for as long as Yoongi’s still in your life. Being defensive about anyone outside of your family and Yoongi, specifically because neither are synonymous no matter how much Yoongi keeps recurring from your family’s mouths, is something entirely brand new.

Taehyung is new to your system, just as Yoongi was all those years ago, and it scares him more than it scares you.

The concept of lagging behind someone who had just been a casual topic of interest (more specifically because he had seemingly offended you and him) then became your boyfriend overnight feels like a giant slap on the face because Yoongi, not once, has ever entertained the possibility that you’d be as lovesick as him.

He didn’t think that you were also capable of being defensive about a loved one who isn’t him, just like he is over Haein. 

He didn’t think about how angry and offended he’d feel seeing you become so protective of someone who doesn’t know you like he does, because in Yoongi’s defense, Taehyung doesn’t know shit about you.

Taehyung does not and will never know you like he does, because he never trailed after you and idolized you in everything that you do, so much so that he only pursued his degree because you did before him.

Unlike Yoongi, Taehyung never had to be taught by you how to drive and what it means to have his family’s manual transmission car stall right after the stoplight turned green, because it meant you having to comfort Yoongi who was in tears after being honked at, and you lying straight through your teeth to his parents by saying that he was excellent and should definitely be trusted with driving the car alone with Haein to take her on dates.

Unlike the person you know the most, Taehyung never had to have the conversation with your dad about looking after you in college despite being younger, yet puffing his chest out nonetheless to agree because he made it his personal mission.

Taehyung will never be Yoongi and the latter takes pride in it, except now, he feels that Taehyung doesn’t ever want to be in his position—

Why would Taehyung vie for his position when it’s clear that he’s at an advantage?

Yoongi ignores his feelings and grievances the best that he can, yet unlike the old him who could endure so much shit because it meant having you to lean on, he can’t help but explode now that it’s you whom he can’t see eye to eye with.

“Taehyung and I were thinking of eloping,” you say out of the blue, your admission feeling appropriate (in your eyes, atleast) because you and Yoongi have so much to catch up on after being apart and he strayed the topic towards your sister who’s expecting her first child.

You thought it was your turn to say something equally as life-changing, because with the way Yoongi hasn’t talked about Haein once and you assuming that it’s because they were back together and he was just shy to talk about it, you bit the bullet first.

You thought wrong, clearly, because the happiness completely drains away from Yoongi the moment you finished your sentence.

“What?” he asks. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, don’t be stupid,” he repeats, eyes narrowing at you in anger. “You’ve only been in a relationship with him for months-…”

“I’ve known him for years-…”

“And that still doesn’t justify you marrying him just because you feel like it,” he spits, your revelation far from making him happy like you thought it would. “Stop being stupid, Y/N. You’re not marrying Taehyung just because you’re in another one of your impulsive moods.”

Your mouth falls open at that, scoffing in disbelief because Yoongi isn’t letting up in the slightest with the way there’s no hint of his outburst just being a sick joke.

“I’m not being impulsive. I really do want to marry him!”

“Oh yeah? How’s married life going to work out for you when-…”

“I only told you because I wanted to let you know. I wasn’t asking you to weigh in, Yoongi,” you snap, crossing your arms in defense while Yoongi only steps towards you.

The thought of eloping with Taehyung crossed your mind once after a weird dream, and you thought nothing about it at first so you texted him and went right back to sleep. What you didn’t expect was that he didn’t hate the idea at all (in fact, he was even happy that you thought about it), and Taehyung’s confirmation for something unlike you, for something that resembled to settling and being comfortable, changed you completely.

“You don’t expect me to interfere when you tell me you’re going to make the biggest mistake of your life?” Yoongi huffs, his eyes widening over your seeming indifference. 

“Who the fuck are you to tell me that getting married to Taehyung would be the biggest mistake I’ll ever make?”

“I’m your closest friend! I know you better than you know yourself and-…”

“You don’t,” you retort. “Clearly, you don’t know me at all or even respect me when you think the worst of Taehyung when you barely even know him!”

“I could know Taehyung for a decade and still think the fucking worst of him!” Yoongi raises his voice, laughing humorlessly as he runs his hand through his hair. “I could know Taehyung or any other guy for a lifetime and still think that they won’t ever be good enough for you!”

The laugh that escapes you is offensive.

It’s as offensive as Yoongi making your graduation about him by crying to your sheets because Haein broke up with him, and it’s as offensive as you scoffing to his face when he said that having his job serves as his practice for a future with her.

“What, because you’re in love with me?” you spit, trying to trigger something in him just so he could leave you be, for good, because everything that’s he’s saying to now– with the defensiveness you’ve only heard from yourself whenever he rationalized trying to get back with his first love — takes you right back to your previous pining.

Yoongi’s only silent, trusting that you could read his mind, and you’ve never hated knowing him as much as you do than now.

“You’re telling me that you’re in love with me, right when I decided I was sick of loving you my whole life?” you whisper, the tears stinging from the corner of your eyes making your heart clench. You’ve been called too stubborn. Too calculating and too heartless, even by your own family, and for you to unfold in front of Yoongi this easily makes you wail. “Are you shitting me, Yoongi? Are you— are you out of your goddamn mind to tell me this?”

Yoongi looks down in shame, the truth of him being over his first love not relieving the weight on his shoulders like he foolishly expected, because everything he falls short when he sees you crying.

“I didn’t want to get back to Haein with something weighing so heavily on my chest,” he whispers. “I didn’t want to get back with her because you just ignoring me for a fucking week hurt more than any breakup I’ve had with her.” 

Yoongi, vividly, can remember how distraught he was. He can remember how he can’t recall a time wherein he didn’t have you to depend on, as if he didn’t ever outgrow the phase of him idolizing you and following you wherever you went.

As if he’s still the seventeen year old him asking to borrow your slippers for Haein, while deep down seeking your approval for her because he didn’t want to do anything without you beaming at him.

“I-I felt… I felt like I was losing my mind, Y/N.”

“Can you read my mind right now?” you ask, shakily exhaling as you look down on the floor.

“That’s a really stupid thing to bring up right now,” Yoongi breathlessly chuckles, letting his hair brush past his eyes because he’s a little terrified of looking how distraught, how disappointed, you are. “But no.”

“Do you not want to say it out loud?” he asks, making you laugh silently as you gathered the strength to sit next to him, yet not as close as you always did. “Whatever it is, it’s not like I’m going to give up now,” he mumbles, looking down on your hand that’s rested on the cushion, your pinky finger just centimeters away from his, yet he can’t move to hold you like he wants to.

You wanted Yoongi and he wants you, and there’s only so much points where you could intersect until you say what’s been lingering in your mind, just like every other apology the both of you have passed up.

“We need some time apart, Yoongi. We need space,” you mumble. “We need to figure it out on our own before we figure it out together because-…”

Yoongi finishes your thought for you, head tilted down and hand outstretched with the hope that comes with being a little too late for someone who’s waited a little too long.

“Because we’ve known each other our whole lives.”

Yoongi refuses to break even if he comprehends exactly what you’re saying, because there’s no point in it when he knows he’ll never be angry at you. You can defend him and you can hurt him all at once, yet he’ll never curse you, simply because there’s no point picking at wounds he’ll keep on licking anyway.

“Do we just-…” he shrugs lightly, pinky finger painfully close to yours until he makes the heavy move of lifting it, just enough to to cover yours. “Do we find our way back to each other? Is that it?”

“That’s the plan, hopefully,” you smile, sucking in a breath you never thought would be this heavy. “I’ll find you if you find me.”

“I’ll find you when you find me,” Yoongi corrects. “We’ll find our way back to each other.”

You resent comfort and Yoongi abhors change, but there’s only so much the both of you could take until you realize that the only thing constant in your lives is each other, no matter how many seasons pass you by.

For Yoongi, it’s you.

Despite everything, it’s still you.

( ♡ ) 

The year that you spend with Yoongi flitting every once in awhile like he’s only a friend, and not the man you’ve first loved, is a year you didn’t think you’d ever spend.

Despite you and Taehyung separating amicably, he still took with him the love that you sincerely invested. He wasn’t the first boyfriend you’ve ever had, and although you were no stranger to heartbreak, he still imprinted a large chunk of him onto you.

At one point in your life, you did want to marry him; and at several points in your life after him that you don’t even think of denying, you really thought it would be him if not for the life that you led.

You don’t resent Yoongi for loving you a little too late because there’s no point in it, as much as Taehyung doesn’t even hate you in the slightest for letting him let you go in pursuit of the change that the both of you badly needed.

Yoongi could never bring himself to hate you either, even if being apart from you gnawed at him from the inside. Making something out of himself had been his biggest plan outside of pursuing you from a distance, because as soon he tendered in his resignation letter to his employers and cried right in front of the children he looked after, Yoongi won’t ever lie and say that he wasn’t scared.

Yoongi resents change even if you’re someone who yearns for it, and even with the terror that wracks his bones of starting new without you being there for him as his safety net, Yoongi does it scared anyway.

He does it scared with one eye closed as he puts the degree he’s only learned to love because of you to work, developing an app for families to look for certified, trustworthy nannies.

He does it scared anyway with his heart barely into himself and fully into you when he shows up a full night early before your family’s thanksgiving party, donning his reserved suit as he clutches a new pair of house slippers, which again, like always and just like he is, is only for you.

For you, it’s Yoongi.

Yoongi doesn’t believe in connections.

He neither believes the power and the convenience of the supposed connections he has, not because he worries about the ethical parameters of pulling some strings (he literally could not care less if someone talks shit behind his back), but because Yoongi’s never found any real use for them.

His dad says that he has a friend who works as the head of security in the newly-opened outlet mall in the city, and unless Yoongi’s planning on shoplifting a pair of authentic, luxury cargo shorts (that’s in either a hideous color or has an outrageous factory defect like the zipper being stitched on backwards), he’s not really scrambling at the offer, if it even sounds like one to his dad, with his hands outstretched for the car keys.

Yoongi has also heard from his mom that she has a second cousin who’s a dean in this one university that’s hard to get into. Nevermind the fact that the department she’s heading has something to do with numeracy (and the other glaring fact that Yoongi has to whip out a calculator to make sure he knows what he’s doing with the numbers on the microwave) — his aversion towards even considering the offer of being directly enrolled stems from the fact that the said uni is literally hard to get into because the building’s two hundred years old and he doesn’t want to give himself the stress of having to talk to the walls.

It’s not to say exactly that Yoongi’s turning his back on the entirety of connections his family has and the opportunities they could offer. He’s not saying never to the chance of being able to enter a flagship frozen yogurt store three hours away from his house, thirty minutes early (he doesn’t even know for what reason) or shaking his head at the prospect of one day renting a comically large bounce house and rock wall bundle for a party free of charge.

It’s just that Yoongi has no will to exercise his connections, nor believe in them in the first place, because there’s not one that’s ever really benefitted him yet.

It’s to your understanding, however, that Yoongi’s your mom’s best friend’s son, and that fact alone makes you believe in the sheer beauty and providence of having connections.

The first time your mom’s best friend’s son, Min Yoongi, properly interacts with you— outside of seeing him in passing during compulsory family photos in reunions (where you had to take over for your mom multiple times in taking pictures because she just does not seem to ever grasp the concept of taking a photo without her thumb on the way) and video calls between your moms (where the two of you had no choice but to take over because they just kept making the mistake of calling the wrong people) — is at your family’s dinner table.

Yoongi thinks your family’s a hoot to be with, really, even with the way your dad’s dry sense of humor is rubbing off on his own and the way the wallpaper in their bathroom just keeps changing with every Pinterest board your mom could conjure. 

He doesn’t mind that much; he doesn’t mind the closeness nor the rapidly growing amounts of teasing, because although Yoongi’s always known that you and him basically grew up together without being around each other that much at all, he figures that it’s harmless.

It’s harmless for the both of you to know far too much about each other without having even been left together alone in a room, because he figures that it’s just what moms do. It’s harmless for your moms to keep telling the other random details about their lives and their children specifically, because while you know that Yoongi had once mistyped 40 seconds for 4 minutes in the microwave and almost gave their kitchen a very, very bad day, you don’t know if his eyelashes are short or how many piercings he has on each ear.

Now that Yoongi’s here though, right next to you at your family’s dinner table, because your parents are engaged in a heated debate about whether carrots are better eaten in their original or in their miniature form and you’re the only children here for this, you realize three things.

First, Yoongi’s lashes are long and dense that point downwards, and second, is that he has two piercings on each ear.

Third, is that you thank every auspicious thread in your life because Yoongi happens to be your mom’s best friend’s son, and you’ve never seen someone so charming and enigmatic up close. 

 "You could feed them to the dog so it's not as obvious," he leans down to whisper, eyes pointedly lingering at the way you’ve basically scooted all of your vegetables to the side.

"We don't have a dog," you mutter defeatedly, voice fading to a chuckle when you look up and realize that he’s too close; like he’s too familiar with you to the point that he doesn’t see any issue in having his face just inches away from you in attempt to be discreet, when really, it would take an earthquake and a half to even pull your parents out of their debate.

“You don't?" he tilts his head, scrunching his nose in confusion. "Why's there a collar and a leash in your coat rack then?"

"Because I thought buying them would pressure my parents into letting me adopt one.”

Yoongi chuckles softly, the amused smile that settles on his face making you blink once, twice, the weight of his lazy, comfortable expression almost distracting you from the way his hand moves to your plate.

"Here. That's my share," he nudges his head to your vegetables, chewing and swallowing the noticeable dent he had made on your plate without even flinching. “Rest is yours."

"But it tastes horrible," you frown. "You only want it because you're from a granola household," you murmur, the slip of your tongue making you purse your lips immediately. "No offense. Love your mom, by the way."

"What kind of example would I be if I don't force you to eat your veggies?" Yoongi rolls his eyes, resting his cheek on his palm with an almost bored (and slightly entertained, you hope) look to his face.

You should be grateful that he even considered helping you out, but it just doesn’t hit you yet. You don’t want to count your blessings immediately because Yoongi doesn’t look like he’s going to stop being gratuitous anytime soon.

Almost as if you don’t see him leaving your thread of connections within the future.

"Fine. Just one more spoonful,” he yields, mistaking the wistful, dazed, and slightly unhinged expression behind your eyes (you wonder if Yoongi knows about the sidewalk rule, or what side of the bed does he sleep on, and whether or not he’s the type to jump to your family plan or the other way around) for genuine distraught over him not helping you.

You can’t help but feel a little too fulfilled; a little too prideful of being connected to Yoongi, who’d clear the mountain of vegetables on your plate when your mom’s in a crazy, nutty health kick, even if you’ve never gotten the opportunity growing up to ask him what flavor of scented erasers he liked nibbling on or when his first kiss was.

You like Yoongi.

You like him and his ginger hair and the undercut that’s working really well for him, even more than your older sister’s best friend’s cousin who sells imported factory overruns of your favorite jeans (read: the Japanese selvedge denim that you’d never tell anyone where you got it from when they react to your pictures).

You like him and his habit of chewing on nothing when your conversation dwindles and you’re still racking your brain for tangents to continue it, even more than your uncle’s ex-wife’s (who always had you as her favorite) new husband’s food truck that sells your favorite baked potatoes.

You know you would like Yoongi, whether or not he’s your mom’s best friend’s son — it’s that simple.

It’s not so simple, however, when he lingers by the edge of the living room when he hears the telltale patter of your parents ramping up to say their goodbyes, right after decimating each other’s Letterboxd reviews. You didn’t want him to go just yet; you wanted to hear more of his stupid opinions and see his stupidly handsome face even longer.

"You know, it wouldn't be so bad if you just bring home a dog and then ask for permission later," he hums. ”It's not like they can do anything about it."

"And have me and the dog brought back to the shelter?"

"I can convince my mom to have your mom go easy on you," Yoongi shrugs.

"But she's a cat person and mom's just— she's a person, alright. She doesn't even want to have a pet fish."

"Who do you think made her a cat person?" Yoongi snorts, slightly struggling to put his coat on which makes you have the knee-jerk reaction of scrambling to help him, the sincerity (and almost rabid eagerness) of your hands making his eyes widen momentarily. ”I brought in a stray, then she made me sleep out in the porch for a night, but now? She literally cradles Miso to sleep."

It should just be another tidbit about Yoongi that you’re supposed to forget.

It should just be another seemingly insignificant nugget of information that would awe you, but never endear you to the point that you find yourself thinking about him and your red thread (one that you keep tugging on telepathically because although you exchanged numbers and socials, he’s not doing… anything) — something that wouldn’t keep you up at night.

Yoongi and his horrible, godforsaken influence don’t leave you at all.

Yoongi, your mom’s best friend’s son, and the stupid, detailed facts you know about him linger in your system like a red thread stands out on the pink linen runner in your family’s dining table.

You text Yoongi, late in the night, just once, with a picture of a comically large, skrunkly, and funky-looking dog on your lap, whom you could finally call your own.

her name’s veggie :]

Yoongi sends just one text back in the morning, attached with a picture of Miso sprawled out, sleeping on his shoulder with remnants of cardboard in her mouth. 

yippee!!!!!!!

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s your ear seeding guy’s roommate. 

Jin who’s not really a licensed auriculotherapist, but who’s your age and Just Happens to be fond of sticking little tiny beads on his ears and his clients (three including you and himself), doesn’t have an actual shop he could call his own yet.

To have one, it would mean he actually needs to get a certification for what he’s doing instead of practicing his self-taught degree from Reddit University, with his esteemed professors being his grandparents, his parents on a good day (when they’re not being undermined by their parents), and some person aliased Jay M. Rings on Etsy who not only sells him his equipment, but keeps answering his questions.

More importantly, Jin (whom you only knew of because he was sat next to you in the library and flicked your conch when he heard your stomach audibly grumble) would need to rent out a place that would bleed him dry, assuming nobody would pay the ideal 400% upcharge to your existing payment so he could keep the spot.

It doesn’t bother you at all that Jin keeps the ear beads next to the orange juice in his fridge. It doesn’t make your brows draw knowing that he forgets to ask you atleast 75% of the time what you were in for before he starts working. It doesn’t even perplex you when you hear Jin hum for two solid minutes right after you ask him what could possibly happen to you if said beads were to fall right into your ear canal.

The only singular time that Jin, your uncertified but family-trained auriculotherapist, actually makes you perk up into attention is when he leaves you momentarily in the living room of his shared dorm, muttering how you might see his roommate but you’ve got nothing to worry about because “he could be an ass sometimes, but he’s polite to strangers” — is that he’s never really told you that he lives with Yoongi.

Jin, bless his heart, who had no reason to ever assume that you know Yoongi in the first place, was right to leave you momentarily in the presence of his friend who’s just as confused to see you sitting on his stool in the counter.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he mutters, the supposed playful thrum of his voice sounding far too real towards the end.

Yoongi’s not even dressed for class or work by the looks of it. Instead, he looks every bit the other paying half of the dorm you’re in. From his ginger hair that’s toned down and a little longer than the last time you saw him (read: it’s much longer judging by his roots, but you can’t even think about that right now), all the way to how his sleep shirt features the silhouette of an actor for a superhero that’s long been cancelled before, you have no doubt that it’s your mom’s best friend’s son staring you down.

“Yoongi,” you smile, voice a little breathless despite having done nothing at all prior to seeing him in the flesh. “Why are you here?” you ask, the lump in your throat making it impossibly discreet that you’ve long connected the dots even before you could utter a response to him.

“I live here,” he snorts, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to make himself look a little more presentable (but not that he cares or anything). “Are you here… for me?”

You have no doubt that it’s your ear seeding guy’s roommate who’s making your brain fuzzy.

“I want to say so,” you chuckle, nibbling on your bottom lip. “But I don’t think you do ear seeding like your roommate does.”

“You know that Jin only has three patients right? Me, himself, and I don’t know who the third one is, but he told me that it’s his first client ever.”

“That would be me.”

“Oh,” Yoongi deadpans, narrowing his eyes. “You know he’s not certified, right?”

“I know,” you nod, trailing off as you look down at the floor to try and not to look like an utter fool in front of Yoongi who looks way too lax about your unexpected meeting. “And he doesn’t even charge that much for someone who can’t legally do this, but am I crazy?” you murmur, fading into a whisper as Yoongi stalks towards you on the counter, working around your figure as he fishes for the orange juice. “Am I crazy for feeling that Jin… makes it work?”

“I’ve been in denial about it for as long as I could, if that helps,” Yoongi whispers back, surprisingly not weirded out with the way your voice had dropped as he gives you your own glass wordlessly. “I pay him to do it, but I don’t want it to get into his head that he might actually be onto something.”

“Right? I think it’s a-…”

“What are we whispering about?” 

Jin comes out of nowhere and you practically jump out of your skin at his interruption, your ass just seconds away from dropping to the floor if not for the very glaring realization that Yoongi’s here; that your body’s split-second response could possibly dictate your entire future with Yoongi, and that your embarrassment would seal the horrid fate of both your threads.

“You guys know each other or something?”

“Sort of,” Yoongi answers for the both of you, looking at you with his eyes thinking out loud as he ignores Jin’s muttering of why he wasn’t poured a glass of orange juice. “Y/N’s my… mom’s best friend’s daughter.”

“Yeah,” you affirm, testing the words on your tongue. “And Yoongi’s… my friend?”

He only shrugs.

“That works too.”

It could and it would work for you, because the way Yoongi lingers around you as Jin works on your ears gives you a different type of constipation that not one cold, tiny bead could fix.

It should work for you, because you’ve never been this ecstatic over incidental connections in your lifetime; not when you learned that you can get 20% off your breakfast muffin orders from this famous joint in the city because your great-grandpa was the first cashier for it maybe a hundred years ago (you do not have a grasp on time past your parents’ ages), nor when you found out that the librarian is the stepmom of the kid you used to babysit and she’d let you bring home anything you want.

“Stop talking to Y/N, Yoongi,” Jin grumbles at some point, exhaling more pointedly than usual when he doesn’t get to stick the bead at the exact pressure point that he needed to. “Her ears are too warm right now.”

“No, they’re not,” you immediately retort, the sharp flit of your gaze to him making him mockingly curl his upper lip at you, rolling his eyes at your denial.

It must work for you, because even Jin, your ear seeding guy, could tell that whatever crush or admiration you have for Yoongi would be devastating — it’d be only endearing, if and only if, it was requited.

Yoongi texts you sometime in the evening, a few too many hours later after you left his apartment. You weren’t necessarily expecting for him to holler at you by the doorframe, asking you to give him a call to let him know you made it back safe; Yoongi didn’t require that of you, and it should be okay.

You’re only friends. 

You’re only a friend who unknowingly drank from his favorite, always-washed-and-dried mug, and he’s only a friend who had texted you at 8 in the evening with a picture of Miso on his mom’s lap 

one time i woke up with two less beads on my ear and i never questioned it

You’re only a friend who rapid-fire texts your dad for a picture of Veggie just to immediately reply to Yoongi, even if said image you receive is a live photo of her snoring with the flash going off on her snout.

there would be No Answers either :D

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s your little brother’s dentist’s godson. 

In an attempt at self-preservation (read: working a job wherein he doesn’t feel the need to brawl when faced with a customer with a phone whipped out), Yoongi finally relents to trying one of his connections over the break.

It’s fairly easy, really. He doesn’t have to spend his day looking down on other people’s mouths nor hold the suction for the dentist on duty or anything at all; Yoongi’s not exactly making bank, but all he has to do is be a pretty face in the reception area, schedule appointments here and there, type out a few Excel sheets, and his godmother swears that’s it.

You only wish those were the actual things in his job description, because as soon as you walk in through the double doors, you convince yourself through hell and back that Yoongi’s here for every other reason besides working his summer job.

You wait for the other shoe to drop, for him to telepathically communicate to you (without even making eye contact), that he’s been significantly older than you all this time and that he has a DMD degree and he’s only been humoring you during all your previous interactions, and all the aforementioned is a nudge to letting you down slowly.

You wait for it to hit you that perhaps it’s not really Yoongi-Yoongi whose side profile is facing you, but instead some random guy that has one of those faces, while your little brother waits for you to resume functioning again.

He’s dressed in scrubs, but Yoongi has one of those faces which you could tell have never worn scrubs before. It doesn’t look natural in his frame with the way he looks too foreign and polished in them, almost as if he’s never even stretched upward to pick up something from a cupboard or twisted his arms laterally to get rid of the aches in them. 

Yoongi looks like he doesn’t belong in the dentist’s office thirty minutes away from your childhood home, until he blurts out your name in equal confusion.

"Y/N?" he tilts his head, the unsure tone that coats his words making you snap into attention, walking towards him with a renewed purpose in your steps. “What are you... doing here?"

"I'm here to hold his hand," you answer as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, waving your occupied hand proudly (when just awhile ago you were complaining how clammy your brother’s hand was) with a hesitant smile. "What are you doing here?"

Yoongi’s lips part in astonishment, almost as if he didn’t count on you returning the question to him. He loosely points to the framed picture of the dentist behind him, the chuckle that leaves him making you nod eagerly even before the words could leave him, making it painfully obvious that you already connected the dots to some sort of degree, but you still want to hear him speak nonetheless.

"She's uh, she's my godmom and I'm putting in some hours.”

"Are you getting paid?" you blurt out, eyes later widening when it registers to you that your desperation to keep your conversation going knows no bounds as long as it involves Yoongi, making you swallow your own shame with a cough. “Sorry. I'm just a little nosy.”

Yoongi clears his throat at that, pursing his lips in genuine thought at the (valid) question. ”Uhm, not exactly, I think? I get handed money at the end of the day but really, it's not-..."

You wanted nothing more than to retract your question even before Yoongi could muster finishing his train of thought.

You wanted nothing more than the ground to swallow you whole when Yoongi can’t even finish answering your question, to which you already seemingly crossed a line with, because he’s preoccupied.

Yoongi’s not preoccupied with the way your brother’s started drifting away from you, even with his hand still clasped to yours, except this time he’s treading closer to the reception desk where he stands in, body language glaringly evident that if you were to even loosen your hold on him for a split second, he’ll hide behind Yoongi’s feet to avoid getting his routine cleaning.

He’s not distracted either with the way you keep blinking up at him as if you were communicating your admiration for him in Morse code, nor with the way your lips are still parted with the next awaiting conversation greaser if he were to stall.

Yoongi does stall, not because of you, but because of the woman that strolls into the clinic and past him, her manicured hand grazing past his midsection in the process.

"Hi, Yoongs.”

"Hey, Jisun,” Yoongi immediately replies with a sheepish smile, his hand buffering by his side to return the touch with a gentle pat as his eyes follow her, the flustered lump on his throat making him cough sharply.

Oh.

It’s not Yoongi who doesn’t belong here — it’s you.

"It's more for the experience, then? Not the pay?" you try to finish his thought for him, your voice on the verge of fading if not for the little drops of self-preservation in your throat that keep you standing upright.

Yoongi doesn’t look embarrassed over you seeing the interaction unfold, and he’s not uneasy either. He just looks sheepish… almost pitiful that you had to see something so unnervingly warm and intimate without even meaning to.

“That's one way to put it."

Without another word, you nod firmly and he takes that as his signal to actually do his job.

Without another glance, you do your job and hold your little brother’s hand throughout his appointment, steeling your nerves every time you hear the door to his room open because it would be pointless to look back. There’s no way it’s Yoongi finding an apt reason to linger near you, and there’s no way either for you to come back for conjuring such an expectation.

Yoongi rings you up with no discounts (he's not sure if he's even allowed to) yet he leans in just enough to ruffle your brother’s hair, gaze fixed on him before it flits to you briefly.

"Good job, buddy. Go pester your sister for some ice cream,” he hums, the almost-customary, dry-humored, and slightly playful goodbye rekindling a little bit of hope in you, enough to make you look up from your shoes without worrying if you have to see Yoongi’s midsection grazed by a hand that isn’t yours, again. ”Say hi to Veggie for me."

You nod tightly in obligation.

"I hope Miso's well."

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s sister is the amateur hairdresser who gave you a bad haircut for free in cosmetology school.

For the record, you weren’t searching up Yoongi’s family name and making up a family tree as you went in order to find ways to be closer to him. That wasn’t the case at all.

The only pressing situation you had last night on-hand was that your mind was plagued with the saying that hair apparently holds memories, and after a few barely-passing major exams here and there that hours of doom-scrolling and back-to-back partying couldn’t fix, and you decided then and there that you’d get a haircut first thing in the morning.

Your budget wasn’t that of a pressing issue (it’s no match to the marks on your university portal you could only blankly stare at), but it’s truly up there. You couldn’t afford to go to your usual salon, which although may not be the most expensive salon there is in the city (but they did serve iced drinks in-house so that atleast counts for something), would still set you back a few good meals throughout the next two weeks if you were to book an appointment.

You had no choice but to suck it up. You wanted change and you wanted it quick for a fraction of the usual cost, and that’s why you ended up in the cosmetology school just a few blocks away from your dorm. You only knew five minutes prior to walking there, thanks to a classmate, that they offer services for cheap and that most of the time they end up being actually really good, and you didn’t need to hear any more after that.

In hindsight, however, you should’ve stuck around to hear more.

You should’ve stuck around to hear that getting A+ (maybe even C-) treatment at a cosmetology school is basically entering the lottery, and that you shouldn’t have had a perk in your step walking to there because a higher power, whether it’s up in heaven or just a few blocks away, would mistake it for you being too confident in what you thought you deserved.

You didn’t think too much about the way the woman named Eunji, who happily sat you on her chair with a nervous smile and familiar eyes, kept glancing to the back of your head and to the reference picture on your phone.

You didn’t think too much when she engaged you in conversation and something about the way she laughed made you squint your eyes as you rack your brain on why she both looks and sounds familiar, nor the way your hair kept getting into your eyes as she blowdried you and how she made no move in moving it the last minute.

It’s a little bit funny that the one time you didn’t think too much is the exact moment when you should have, and the whole vignette stops being funny as soon as you turn your head sideways.

The whole bit goes sideways, just like your haircut, when Yoongi walks towards your hairdresser who’s not earned her actual license yet.

"Here you go, princess," he scoffs, handing her a cup of iced coffee. "Had the time of my life explaining your order to the barista in the drive-thru booth."

Yoongi takes off his sunglasses, ready to rip her a new one and detail how he had never been more embarrassed knowing the difference between the concepts (concepts, not actualities) of white chocolate and white mocha somehow, but he suddenly stills.

He knew there was someone sitting on his sister’s chair, and he wasn’t really bothered lecturing her in front of a stranger.

Except you’re not a stranger — you’re you, sat on Eunji’s chair, and you’ve physically never looked this unrecognizable to him.

"Y/N?" Yoongi mutters, unwilling to even wait for your acknowledgement before he snaps his heads towards his sister. “Why's she in your chair?"

"Being supportive," you answer clippedly, only looking at Yoongi’s reflection in the mirror instead of the very real, and very solid him beside you so you wouldn’t have to turn your head and see your haircut in a whole new sense. "Also saving my allowance and I needed to get a trim, so I-I figured... why not go to Eunji?"

Yoongi doesn’t want to beat a horse when it’s down.

He really, really doesn’t want to laugh at you, but with the way you’re blinking at him like you’re held at gunpoint (except the gun is his sister’s shears), he can’t help but put a hand over his mouth.

He’s not laughing, but he is smiling. Yoongi’s thoroughly amused and deeply pitiful for you all at the same time, and he doesn’t know how his smile figures into the scheme of your haircut just yet.

"I could think of a few reasons."

"What do you think?" Eunji cuts in, asking with a nerve-wracking grin on her face with her hands clasped together, the watery gaze she has set on you tugging at your heartstrings in a much different way than when she had tugged at your ends.

"I love it," you answer breathlessly, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes as you try to ignore how much length has been cut off and how the layers she gave you are more of an emotional, haircut-related crashout kind. “Oh my god, I love it so, so, so bad."

Eunji breathes a deep sigh of relief at that, her shoulder sagging before she picks herself up and gives you a hug from behind, dashing off to get her camera from her locker instead of her supervisor.

You love the Min family.

You love their warmth and their constant presence, no matter how incidental or fixed.

You’re trying to love the existing skills of their third-born, however, but you can’t tell if your love is that unconditional for a family that’s always treated you like their own.

"Do you need a hat?" Yoongi asks, his upper lip tucked in between his teeth as he continues to stand behind you. "You look like you need a hat."

"N-no. I really, really..." you hesitate, your exhale far too slow for someone who’s genuine, but far too stable for someone who’s pretending to keep it together. "...love the change."

Yoongi gets a full-body shudder.

"I don't," he quips. "I don't think anyone but Eunji would love it."

"Yoongi.”

It’s simple. 

It’s just a simple utterance of his name and yet Yoongi stops cold in his tracks. He reels back the emotion that’s clear on his face, and he lets go of the money he has crumpled in his fists inside his pockets for you to get another haircut at a salon you actually want to go to, because he doesn’t want you to mistake his genuine pity for you as patronization.

You’re on the verge of crying, but Yoongi doesn't wipe your tears. Instead, he just hovers; he’s still there, whether you like it or not, and he could only hope that his striking resemblance to his sister doesn’t further set you off.

"You need a hat," he quietly murmurs, removing his cap from his head and putting it on yours seamlessly. "You don't have to give it back.”

Yoongi leaves it at that, watching you walk out with gas as soon as Eunji finishes taking photos of your hair, before turning his attention to his sister. Her coffee order isn’t the biggest issue they have for the day, instead, it’s her shitty hairdressing skills and how you’re far too kind.

It’s close to midnight, right after you reschedule your ear seeding appointment with Jin for another day because you couldn’t bear seeing anyone with your fuckass haircut (he unfortunately doesn’t know any pressure points that would make your hair grow back longer, and he did research on that after being suspiciously silent when you sent him a picture of your hair), when Yoongi texts you.

He doesn’t talk about The Incident. He doesn’t apologize and go on a rant about how he could’ve reacted better awhile ago.

He just sends a picture of his cat sleeping snugly in a Dutch oven that he got from a blind box and drove to another city for.

sometimes miso throws up orange fur she is white btw

You reply not a minute later before locking your phone.

good night miso

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s your best friend’s best friend other than you.

You’re not one to gatekeep. In fact, you’re the number one hater for every creator who washes up in your feed and suggests for you to go manually type up and search a link or press another button to know the follow-up to the already lengthy, chatty video you already watched.

You know you’re not privy to most things; you’re not even privy to anything at all.

It’s not a conundrum with a tight space for it to be debated upon; it’s just the truth. 

The very idea of everyone in the world being connected to each other within six degrees of separation was shaky in itself. If you were asked to, you can’t exactly place the most far-fetched celebrity in the media and trace back the six or less people that would serve as the bridge for you to be acquainted to them. 

You believe, both in a pipe dream and the innate hope you harbor, that you can be connected to said celebrity or anyone just as significant (maybe even notorious), yet it’s the semantics of trying to pinpoint your exact link that you can’t be bothered to do so in your free time. You’re in no rush to discern how many degrees separated you are from the mayor of the city, and you’re not jumping at the opportunity to know how many handshakes away you are from the executive producer of your favorite show.

You believe in fortuity. You believe in the hope that contingency promises and how ridiculous your current chances could be. You believe in select customs when they serve you and you put your hands together to ward off what don’t. You take what resonates with you, even if your belief in tomorrow comes from a long line of whatever came before you that you don’t fully believe in or if it spawns from the clench of your chest that you get when you see something scribbled in a brick wall and you decide that it’ll forever echo in your mind.

You’re not privy to the general admiration you have for Yoongi, nor are you privy to all the connections you have with him.

You believe in fortuity and you believe in Yoongi, but the two aren’t always synonymous.

"Yoongi?" you ask, the slip of his name from your mouth appearing out of habit rather than actual disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

He looks like he belongs here. He belongs here as much as you do and as much as you’ve never questioned the specifics, he looks you up and down with a discreetness that doesn’t belong in a party as big as this.

Yoongi makes Jimin’s party feel small to you. He zeroes in on you with a gaze that you can’t begin to dissect because a grunt slips past his lips before you could even explain what you were doing in the same space as him, again.

"What are you doing here?" he purses his lips, exhaling sharply. "Y/N, it's great to see a familiar face and all, but please don't stand so close to me," Yoongi grunts through his teeth as if your proximity to him physically pierces through his clothes and sears his skin. "I'm seeing this new girl and she gets a little bit-..."

"Hey."

Before you could even try to recover from the recoil of stepping away from Yoongi immediately so he could entertain her, before you could even try to nurse the harshness of his words and his gaze that penetrated your belief in him — Yoongi gives you a further light nudge in panic before backtracking, his arm now across your shoulders.

"She's my cousin, baby," Yoongi breathlessly greets, the belated addition of your name never falling to your ears because you choose not to know her; because you’re rendered frozen anyway when you realize that Yoongi introduces you as someone far more personal to him, yet someone even more distant to anyone who could see you. “Say hi, Y/N."

You can’t even be introduced as his friend.

At the back of your mind, you doubt if being introduced as one would even make a difference because the woman before you doesn’t seem the least bit interested nor intimidated at however Yoongi introduces you as.

You weren’t competition to her, nor did it feel like you were viable opposition to practically anyone in Yoongi’s life.

"Hi," you nod curtly, the clench of your jaw doing little to ease the migraine that blooms from the back of your head.

"Pleasure to meet a family member of my boyfriend, finally. He won't take me home for some reason," she jokes, her outstretched hand being taken by yours that’s gone cold, making her raise a brow, yet she takes it in stride anyway.

Anything for Yoongi’s supposed family, it seems.

"What was Yoongi like growing up?"

"Oh. Yeah, we didn't see each other that much growing up," you swallow, the shallowness of your tone making Yoongi’s casual arm around your shoulders falter, the slyness of his gaze on you curving into something unidentifiable. “Every time I see him, I still... learn something new."

Your voice tapers off, and both Yoongi and his girlfriend let you be. She only pushes for a little right after, when Yoongi’s hand is back snug to her waist and her head is pressed to his chest, yet you can’t bring yourself to add to the conversation she so badly wants.

She should know that she has no reason to impress you. She should know that she doesn’t have any reason to be afraid of letting you down, because neither does Yoongi.

Jimin, yours and Yoongi’s best friend, claps. 

“I’m back! Got in this long-ass line and-..." he trails off, looking between you and Yoongi and his girlfriend. “Oh? You've met each other then. Great!"

Her eyes only narrow in confusion for a split second, but she lets it be.

Yoongi lets it go, right after he sends a few glances your way and realizes that Jimin’s talking to you animatedly.

You only let go of it when you get home from the party far too early than anyone could account you for.

The grasp you have on fortuity is barely firm, just barely getting by, so much so that you don’t even look at your phone when it vibrates on your nightstand.

jimin’s asking where you are

The grasp you have on Yoongi is barely solid, only enough to hold onto thread instead of cloth, that you don’t reply to his text when you see it in the morning, nor bring up the very fact that it was Jimin himself who hailed a ride for you.

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s a familiar stranger to you. 

He’s basically a crow to you, and to him, you remain to be the pesky, overeager, and insanely optimistic human who wants to domesticate him.

He’s a highly-intelligent, unforgetting, vindictive creature. He knows patterns when he sees them but never flukes, not because he thinks he’s too good for them, but because it felt impossible.

To you, the world had never felt smaller when Yoongi first sat next to you at the dining table.

To Yoongi, the world had never felt bigger since he’s first crossed paths with you. It wasn’t the dining table for him. It wasn’t every other interaction that came after — it was everything before.

As soon as his eyes lay on you from across the floor of the reception hall, the warmth that spreads across your chest is everything but welcome. It stings and it burns and it leaves marks in its wake because it’s Yoongi and it’s you and there’s no other explanation.

There’s no other plausible, full-bodied explanation for the way Yoongi hates familiarity, other than the fact that it’s from you.

There’s no salve for his lack of need for you either.

“Are you a fucking stalker?” 

“W-what? No!” you stammer, eyebrows drawn together as you try to level with him. “This is pure coincidence. I wasn’t even trying to— all the times before either, I swear! I never intended to bump into you.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, the scoff that leaves his lips only adding to the uncomfortable warmth that burns your fingertips.

“Say that you’re right. That every interaction, every meeting, every discreet instance of you shooting your shot at me, which by the way is not discreet at all, is just pure coincidence— do you think I’m happy about it?”

You want to correct him.

You want to point out every thread between you that’s there yet you never pulled on. You want to write his name on a piece of blank paper and map out with yarn all the degrees you’re separated from him, and yet you don’t. You can’t focus on anything with regards to proving yourself right and him wrong when all you can zero in on is the little amount of self-preservation you have left.

“But you don’t hate me, Yoongi,” you murmur, shaking your head earnestly. “You said it yourself. Y-you said it’s nice to see me and-…”

“I said that in the past but I don’t mean it now! Yes, you’re familiar, and that benefits me when I get put into situations and all I happen to know is you,” he snaps, throwing his head back. “I don’t mean it now. It’s not very nice to see you when everyone, including the girl I actually like, just assumes that we’re together because you kept looking at me!”

“B-but I don’t-…. I-I don’t do so well in new-…” the words die in your throat, the gentle yet firm tug he has on your wrist making you freeze in its inescapable warmth. It should be familiar. Yoongi should be familiar, but he feels everything besides that. “But you’re the only one I know.”

“Here. I’ll introduce you to someone and then you can hang onto him.”

Yoongi wordlessly takes you across the hall, delivering you like you’re some misplaced package that ended up on his porch. He doesn’t even look back at you despite his hand being wrapped around your wrist, whereas all you can do is burn holes at the back of his head with your gaze, ignoring the curious onlooking to your predicament as you swallow the lump in your throat.

“Hey, Jungkook,” Yoongi makes his presence known as soon as he sees the familiar mop of hair within his eyeline, his holler effectively taking said guy’s attention.

“Oh, hey-…”

Yoongi, without sparing a second glance to you, nudges you gently to him.

“This is Y/N. Someone I know. Can you watch over her for a second?”

Jungkook, the guy you’ve known for a total of two seconds, hesitantly receives you with a pat to your arm, letting his hand linger there as the both of you look at the back of Yoongi’s retreating figure.

“…okay?”

Just two seconds ago, Jungkook was in a heated one-on-one with his friend Hoseok if it was ethical for one to let their hypothetical girlfriend’s hypothetical close friend sit in the front seat, if said hypothetical girlfriend was drunk and wanted to lay in the backseat (Jungkook’s on team not let close friend sit shotgun) — now, he’s in a silent one-on-one with you.

It’s silent, of course, until you sniffle.

“Oh my god, are you alright?” Jungkook panickedly asks, fishing out a handkerchief from his pocket. “Do the tears have to do something with how weird Yoongi was two seconds ago?”

“Yeah.”

“I figured,” Jungkook, someone you’ve known for less than five minutes, rubs comforting circles on your back.

You don’t mind.

“I’m sorry. I drank from this awhile ago but I swear I didn’t spit on it or anything,” he frowns, his hand outstretched invitingly enough for you to interpret it as friendly, but distant enough for you to have the chance to be wary. “Or do you hate drinking from a stranger’s water bottle that’s already open?”

“It hasn’t happened before, but I don’t think I’ll hate-hate it,” you mumble through broken sniffles, turning your head briefly, partly to wipe away your tears, but mostly to not look like a complete idiot. “Also, you’re not a stranger.”

“Right! I’m Jungkook again, by the way. I don’t think Yoongi even said my name properly because of how fast he was dying to get out of here,” Jungkook laughs, the sincerity flowing out of him being easy. Uncomplicated.

You drift to your default silence, nursing your cries to yourself while trying not to make a sound, but it’s proven difficult when you see two large hands underneath your downturned head: one holding the water bottle, and the other cupped underneath it.

Jungkook thinks your questioning gaze is directed to the way his hands are positioned instead of his default kindness for you, and just maybe everyone else he’s ever encountered.

“Because your hands are shaking.”

He lifts the bottle to your lips, being extra careful in tilting it and having his hand tuck right under your chin to ensure that not a single speck of water would drop to the elegant dress you’re wearing (that you’ve only borrowed, unlike his assumption that you just have the number lying around).

Jungkook sheepishly excuses himself right after you tap him on the forearm to let you know you’ve had your fill, the snort that leaves his lips almost disturbing his methodical pouring of the remaining water to the bottle cap.

“Sorry. I’m a little bit thirsty myself.”

“You could just drink from your own bottle,” you find yourself genuinely laughing the first time into the night, shrugging playfully. “Just a thought.”

“But I don’t want you to think I’m a weirdo for drinking from my bottle deliberately after you drank from it,” Jungkook frowns.

“Of course,” you nod eagerly, gesturing to the live image of a man as structured as him taking tiny little sips from an even tinier bottle cap. “This isn’t any weirder at all.”

“Thank you, pretty girl,” Jungkook bows in the most regal way he could, the grin that graces his face easing the weight that Yoongi had left on your chest. “Not bad for a first impression, hm?”

.

.

.

Yoongi has a habit of mumbling.

Jimin has a habit of eavesdropping, especially when it’s Yoongi mumbling angrily to himself.

“Well that’s fucking weird.”

“What?” Jimin clarifies, furrowing his brows at the annoyance that’s plastered clearly on his friend’s face.

Yoongi doesn’t explain. He just barks at him, arms crossed on his chest as he exhales slowly.

“Go bring Y/N a bottle of water. Don’t tell her it’s from me.”

“A please would be nice,” Jimin mutters. “And no? Give it to her yourself.”

“She’s your best friend.”

“She’s your friend too.”

“She’s not,” Yoongi corrects him, the adjustment falling short because Jimin doesn’t even flinch at the attempt.

It’s pure, utter bullshit. It’s a propaganda that he won’t fall for and it’s a movement that even Yoongi himself isn’t truly invested in.

“She’s not?” Jimin echoes. “The girl who hates driving in the dark and in the rain, who drove you to the airport in spite of all that because my car was in the shop last week, is not your friend?”

Yoongi’s breath hitches at the reminder. 

His heart buckles at the way he didn’t even know you were scared until now, because you only talked to him that day like normal. Like nothing bothered you.

Like warm, as always.

Like you.

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s not intentionally seeking punishment.

Frankly speaking, he doesn’t even know exactly what’s he’s asking from you. He doesn’t know if there’s a word for the hollow, all-consuming guilt that’s planted in his chest and grows roots in the pit of his stomach and blooms in the back of his skull.

If Yoongi were to hear his own words repeated back to him, with even just a fraction of the amount of vitriol and misplaced frustration, he would’ve called it then and there. He would’ve hurt himself and ran for the hills right after to recuperate because there’s no amount of distance that would ever stop the echoes of his own tirade.

You weren’t Yoongi, however, and he’s never hated that fact more.

It’s beyond good, maybe even immaculate that you weren’t him, because you were far too better. Far too warm and too good, because even though Yoongi doesn’t seek punishment from his own hands, you wouldn’t deal him the same deck of cards if he were to explicitly ask you.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. You didn’t— fuck — you didn’t deserve that at all and I’ve never been more stupid,” he apologized through the bedroom door of your childhood home. It was his parents’ monthly catch-up with your own and although the invite wasn’t really open for everyone (not one child from either families came with whenever it was this time of the month), Yoongi jumped at the opportunity to come over. You were still warm, although not for him, but not one second passed wherein you took out your anger for him to his parents who didn’t know any better.

“I didn’t mean any of it. I-I was angry, and I was frustrated, and I didn’t know how to juggle everything — but I’m not making excuses! I’m being honest, and the truth was that I was an asshole and I took it out on you,” Yoongi had apologized to you in his dorm when it was time for your session with Jin. You didn’t work your way around him to change your routines; you stayed rooted and despite being overwhelmed with guilt and the need to make himself better, it’s Yoongi who bended backwards by not fleeing at all. You didn’t take it out on Jin, and you didn’t even take it out on the apparently lucky succulent that Yoongi had slipped to your hands during one of your sessions.

“You can push me away. Please. Y-you can cuss me out and everything, and I know I’m asking for forgiveness and you can keep saying no, but I-I’m not doing this to absolve myself, y’know? I just don’t want you to have my… my own words linger in your mind,” Yoongi pleaded to you during your little brother’s return appointment at the dentist. It wasn’t even summer. He’s not even working for his godmother anymore, and yet Yoongi still came into the date he booked your sibling for. You didn’t give him attitude; you didn’t take it out on him in public.

What Yoongi seeks from you is indiscernable. It’s neither penance or punishment. It’s not forgiveness or absolution.

The only absolute thing that Yoongi knows he wants from you, even if it’s within his lowly means and that equates to being beneath you, is something akin to familiarity.

It hurts to see you there but not for him. It aches to see you everywhere and digest that the only times your gaze would land on him is when he makes himself painfully known for your anger and frustration to snag on, anything, really, just to be reminded that you know him enough— even if it’s just barely to get by — to be annoyed over.

You’re everywhere and Yoongi doesn’t complain, even if every single bone in his body is just yearning for the warmth that he took for granted when your shoulders would touch and your knees would brush and your eyes would meet. 

Yoongi’s being burnt alive from your frigid avoidance towards him, even if you’re practically everywhere he goes, but he doesn’t flee.

He’s not avoiding you. He’s taking the hurt and he keeps taking it, because although it’s not punishment enough, it’s close enough to warmth.

It’s close enough to familiarity, even as he pulls desperately at all the threads that bind the two of you close but never together — because it had only been him who had delayed the latter from happening.

“I’m not making excuses. I-I’m being honest and it’s ugly in hindsight, but it’s the truth,” Yoongi whispers, gnawing on his bottom lip as he stands outside of your dorm with no buffer this time; no other connection, no other degree of separation. “I-I wanted to be connected to you in every single way without— w-without anyone else bridging the way for me.”

“That’s stupid,” you mutter.

“I.. know. God, Y/N. You don’t know how much I think of you and all these stupid, fucking ways I want to be your guy for everything,” Yoongi throws his head back, running a hand through his face as he tries to regain his footing. “I-I want to be the guy who fills up your wiper fluid and double checks if you’re being ripped off at the shop because you’re too pretty. It’s stupid, and I know that, but I thought you’d have the tendency to be like your mom a-and be infatuated with wallpapers one day, and I want to be the guy who talks you down from sticking them to the granite your apartment came with-…”

“You sound like an idiot, Yoongi.”

“It’s idiotic. It’s so, so stupid. I want to be your bootleg designer sunglasses guy. I-I want to know how to cut your cuticles and touch up your layers. God, I even have handwritten notes on how I could be the most annoying, present being in your life and-…”

You slap Yoongi very, very lightly.

It’s practically just a tap on his cheek that wouldn’t even be enough to spook a bug off your arm, but it’s you. It’s you and your touch and your warmth and Yoongi literally jolts with electricity, the words stopping right at the tip of his tongue as you stare him down.

“That’s stupid, Yoongi.”

“I know. It’s so stupid,” he shakily affirms, cheeks impossibly warm at your touch. At your proximity, even if your chest is far from touching his own and even if your hand that was on his cheek is now back on your side. “It’s stupid that I kept pulling down the collar of my shirt when I first sent you that picture of Miso, a-and how I’m a grown man but hid behind my literal cat every time I felt that it was getting too real and I-I couldn’t keep up.” 

Yoongi didn’t always believe in connections, and you have no doubt about it.

You have no doubt about Yoongi’s stupidly honest and sincere outpouring either.

“Stupidest thing I know,” you affirm with a whisper, nodding your head tightly.

Yoongi didn’t always believe in fortuity. 

He didn’t believe in yearning and contingency until it dawned into his thick, stubborn skull that what— who — he wanted most is you.

The damage is done, though. The things he said echo in your head now, and you mull over them. It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t. You know you are good at your job. You have been at it for so long. What happened today wasn’t your screw up. But hearing all those words hurt. And they made you angry. You are fuming. He apologized when he learned his mistake, so there’s really nothing you can do except stew in your mess of anger and hurt.

Well, that’s not entirely true. There’s something you can do.

You wiggle your phone out of your pocket despite the tight fit of the train, trying to type with one thumb.

[me]: u home?

It takes only two or three minutes for your phone to ping with a reply.

[choi seungcheol]: yea. you coming?

You send a short ‘yes’ back, switching the screen off. You try to justify in your head that you need this, but god, it just feels like another loss. You are breaking your longest streak yet. Three weeks Seungcheol free. But you are pent up. You are angry and frustrated and feel like you are at a dead-end job. You need this. You need him.

He is wearing an oversized sweatshirt and pants when he answers the door, and his hair is disheveled, slightly damp, indicating he just showered. You love the smell of his shampoo. And god, he looks so good. So unbelievably good that you push in through the doorway, not even bothering to close it before you’re smashing your lips hard against his.

He hums and grips your waist immediately to steady both of you. You hear the door click closed behind you, but you don’t care. He smells like flowers and aftershave, and it’s so familiar. You push your tongue into his mouth, and you can feel his chest rise and fall as he chuckles.

“Slow down, baby.” His voice is muffled. Your heart stutters at the pet name. “What happened to saying hello?”

“Not today.” You mumble into his mouth, bunching his sweatshirt up so you can run your hands over his bare torso. He tenses under the touch and moans a bit, fingertips digging into your sides before his hands are reaching forward, undoing the buttons on your blouse.

“Missed me that much?” He teases, pulling off your lips with one last, wet smooch before he is burying his face into your neck, kissing and biting the skin there. You close your eyes, relishing in the feeling. You want to reply that you did, you missed him and his touch and the way he overwhelmed your every sense until you forgot all your problems. But you don’t.

Instead, you focus on pushing his sweatshirt up more, so he has no choice but to reach back and tug it off. Your eyes trace the porcelain skin, fingertips following the path of your hungry gaze. He opens your blouse, finally, pushing it off your shoulders. His hands trace over the newly exposed skin and you feel goosebumps rise on it. He digs his fingers into the small of your back so he can pull you back with him, both of you shuffling between hungry kisses until he’s laying you on his couch, your legs spreading automatically to make room for his hips.

“You’re so tense.” He comments, running his hands over your thighs, pushing your tight, pencil skirt up until it’s gathering at the apex. “Work been that bad?”

Your answer is somewhere between a hum and a moan as Seungcheol’s fingertips prod over your already soaked panties. He doesn’t comment on them, and maybe it’s because you can also feel how painfully hard he is. Maybe he missed you just as much, though you doubt it. He pushes the soiled cloth to the side before sliding between the wet mess in your slit, and your head drops back with a sigh.

He pulls off your neck to look down at you, and it’s the first time your eyes meet his since you stepped foot into his apartment. He thumbs over your clit and you whine, bucking your hips up.

“No games.” You gasp out. “Need you. Now.”

“It’s been three weeks.” He comments. “I need to prep you.”

You shake your head, wrapping your legs around his waist so you can tug him forward. His erection digs hard into the meat of your thigh, and he hisses.

“Need to feel it.”

You can see his lips tick up in a smirk, and he grinds into you one more time. “You sure?”

You’re already nodding. “Yes.”

So he does exactly that. It’s the best thing about Seungcheol. He knows you so well. That’s expected, considering you were with him for nearly four years. He knew every nook and cranny, every crevice of your body, even more than you knew it. That’s why you had come here, and not gone home to settle with your own fingers inside you. This is exactly what you needed to feel, his weight holding you down as he pounds you into the cushion of his couch. It sinks so much under and around you that you feel like you will become one with it, crying and moaning at the feeling of him so deep, the drag of his cock over your walls burning so deliciously. This was Seungcheol’s biggest talent: he knew how to fuck you to the point of oblivion.

“You just can’t resist.” He goads you, the sound of skin slapping so obscenely loud that you are almost sure the neighbors can hear it. “Your greedy little pussy can’t live without my cock.”

You sob when he hooks his hands under your knees and pushes them into your chest, bending you in half and holding you down so hard that you can only take short, labored breaths. Your head spins, adding to your pleasure. You clench desperately around him, and in your breathless state, you can barely say anything.

“Seung-” You can’t get it out, not when he hits your most sensitive spot just right, just so that stars burst in your vision. You can feel the tears run down the sides of your face and disappear into your hairline. Seungcheol bites his lips as he watches you descend further into depravity.

“Good little slut.” He grits out. His voice is octaves lower, a clear indicator that he is as gone as you feel. His hair sticks to his forehead, his breath is ragged and grip bruising, but there’s still so much control in his thrusts, so much purpose in the way his cock drives into you, rough but deliberate, making sure he fills you to the brim with every single slap of his skin against you.

You don’t have the time or enough brain power in you to warn him before you are seizing up and cumming hard around him, wailing and back arching, twitching and jerking so hard that he has to push down on you even more, keeping you in place. His cock doesn’t slip out no matter how desperately you squeeze around him, and he moans at the feeling.

“You’ve been really pent up, haven’t you, princess?” He asks, and you can see his smirk despite your teary, blurred vision, just now clearing as your high dissipates.

“Yes.” You manage to whimper out, blinking up at him. “Missed your cock so much. Needed to be fucked so bad.”

He curses at your words, speeding up again, sloppier this time. You catch the flush high on his cheeks, the thin rim of brown in his eyes around his dilated pupils. His lips are a deep pink because of how hard he has been biting them, sweat rolling down his face by now. The tips of his ears are an angry red, and his breaths are staggered. He needs one last push, and you’re about to give it to him.

“Fill me up, Cheol.” You coo, batting your wet eyelashes at him. “I know you want to. You miss cumming in me, right? So do it.”

“Fuck.” His eyes squeeze shut and he buries his head into your neck, thrusting a few more times before his entire body shudders, grinding hard and sinking himself into you up to the base. You feel your insides warm as he shoots ropes of white into you, and you deliberately clench around him. He curses softly into your skin, sighing as his body relaxes.

You lay there for a bit, trying to catch your breaths, before Seungcheol finally gets up. You groan when his weight leaves you, feeling stiff and sore. You straighten your legs as you watch him get up, reaching for his clothes.

“I’m gonna have to shower again.” He comments, stretching a bit. “Eat something before you leave, okay?”

With that, he trudges to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Seconds later, the shower starts running. You sigh, closing your eyes briefly as the familiar, painful squeezing around your heart appears. Three weeks. You made it three weeks without this feeling. And now it is back.

You feel numb as you gather your clothes and put them on, shaking your hair out. It’s still sweaty at the roots but you ignore it, slipping your heels on before you slip through the door, closing it gently behind you.

Walk of shame.

You can’t blame Seungcheol for leaving you on the couch like that. You can’t call him a jerk for treating you badly. This behavior is a result of a long time of anger, resentment, fights and tears. Seungcheol and you had been together for four years. You had moved in together, you had discussed marriage, you had even looked at rings and told him what kind you would like.

But the last year of it….

You began working more after a new boss was hired by the company. Your direct supervisor, and the most hellish person alive. Office hours became a formality on paper, because you no longer left at 5. Sometimes, you wouldn’t be home until 8 or 9. Seungcheol would wait. He would always wait. He would wait until dinner was cold and nearly inedible. He would wait until he could no longer hold his head up, falling asleep sprawled over the counter. He would jerk awake when he heard the keys jiggling in the door, and the second you walked in, you knew a fight was brewing.

On your end, you were getting constantly chewed out by a boss who hated you for some reason, was never satisfied with your work, and had no problem humiliating you in front of the entire team. HR was useless, despite many employees complaining. You would come home with the emotional capacity of a peanut, because every ounce of life was sucked out of you before you even set foot through the door.

“I can’t do this today, Cheol.” You would say, toeing off your shoes at the door, barely inside the house, but Seungcheol blocks your path.

“You said that yesterday. And the day before.” His voice is pleading. “I’m tired, Y/N.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at that, and you felt anger, unwarranted, misplaced anger, bubble up inside you.

“You’re tired? You? And what do you think I’ve been doing all day? Just having a drink beside the pool?”

It’s harsh. It’s cutting words. It’s meant to hurt. Because you were hurt the whole day, and you wanted to do some hurting as well. It was just Seungcheol’s bad luck that he was on the receiving end. That’s how it always went.

“You can quit.” He had gritted out one evening when you were lying in bed. He whispered it into the pitch black of the night, hoping the dark meant that you would actually consider his proposition. “You don’t have to do this job. No one is forcing you. I’ll take care of you. You can just quit.”

And you could. Technically, you could. But you were up for a promotion, a job title you had been working towards since college. It was so close, you could feel it on your fingertips.

“Just hang in there for me, Cheol.” You had whispered back. “Just a few more months. I’m so close. Please.”

Silence. And then one whispered sentence.

“I don’t think I can.”

If you had to pinpoint the exact moment you two fell apart, you would point to that night. Laying there, next to him, not touching but close enough to feel the heat of his body, you knew your relationship wouldn’t survive.

The breakup was anticlimactic. By the time you two got there, a weak acceptance had already settled on you like a blanket. You moved out, claiming he deserved to have the space, and you got a place closer to work. The same work that caused all this.

You’re sure god started punishing you the second you set foot outside that apartment. You’re certain of it. Your boss remained a jerk, and that promotion? Still in the works, apparently. You heard promises from the regional manager all the time. They were moving personnel around, they were looking over the finances again, they were consulting corporate. It was always something.

One month after you moved out, you showed up at Seungcheol’s door, battered from your constant battle at work, and in need of no one but him.

You still don’t know why Seungcheol agreed to this…… arrangement. Why he was so willing to respond every time you called or texted, letting you walk into the same apartment you two had built together, fucking you into oblivion on the couch, or on the floor, or against the wall. Never the bed you shared with him. Never.

Your own little apartment in comparison feels like a hollow cage as you enter it and drop your bag on the floor. You sigh at how barebones it is. Nothing on the walls, nothing on the tables. You love decorating. Everything in your and Seungcheol’s apartment, you had carefully picked yourself. You had color themes for every room, and Seungcheol had indulged you, saying the space was all yours to do whatever you wanted with it. You look around now, and you never would guess in a million years that you would live in a place like this.

You miss him.

Not just the sex. Him. You miss his laugh, choppy and high pitched, the perfect sound to your ears. You miss his bear hugs and his silly jokes. You miss how he pouted and whined when you wouldn’t give him enough attention. In hindsight, you should’ve known. People like Seungcheol demand to be loved wholly and truly. And you had suffocated this relationship by taking away the one thing you should’ve given him the most. Attention.

You regret it every day. You want to go back, grovel if you must. Beg and plead for him to take you back. But you can’t. Not after seeing the way Seungcheol discards you after sex. He has checked out completely. You know this. You can never have him the way you once did. The way you want so badly.

That Seungcheol is no longer alive. No matter how badly you want to resuscitate him. And you want to. So badly. This…. thing. Whatever it is. You can’t do it anymore.

The only thing that numbs the sting in your heart is alcohol. It’s very easy to find you at a local bar on a Friday evening, drowning your sorrows under the weight and burn of whiskey while you blabber on to your friend about how much you miss your ex-boyfriend. Which is what you are doing when the next weekend rolls around. To Soonyoung’s credit, he always listens. He never tells you to shut up, or move on, because it’s not easy to move on from someone you love so much, someone you are still actively hooking up with.

What you say today though, has him sitting up straight in the booth, eyes widening as he gapes at you.

“You’re serious?”

You nod, swirling your glass. “I am.”

“Do you have another offer?”

“Nope.”

That makes concern flash across his face. “Savings?”

“A little.”

“Are you sure you’ve thought about this?”

You laugh a little bitterly. “I want him back, Soonyoung. I can’t even begin to try unless I’m away from this job.”

“But your promotion…..”

“I don’t care. I lost the best thing in my life for this damn job.”

Soonyoung is silent for a second, sipping his drink. “Why now all of a sudden? After eight months?”

You don’t think you can answer him. Unlike when your relationship fell apart, you can’t pinpoint the exact moment you wanted to make it come back together again. It’s a feeling that has lingered since the day you left that apartment, and it had never gone away. It had just taken very long for you to give in to it. To put your ego aside for the love of your life.

You give him a bitter smile. “I always wanted to. I was just too much of a coward to act on it.”

…………………………….

Weekday nights are quiet in Seungcheol’s apartment. They didn’t used to be, but they are now.

Up until eight months ago, weekday nights were standard times when he fought with you. It almost always ended with you crying and him leaving the apartment to cool down. Nowadays, he spends the time whipping up an easy meal, sinking down on the couch and eating it while it is still hot, sometimes straight out of the pan, while watching whatever auto garbage plays on the TV screen.

A deep, fucked up part of him almost misses the fights.

He knows it’s not actually the fights he misses. It’s really you. He misses seeing you walk in the door, even when you had bags under your eyes darkening day by day, even when your shoulders sagged. Because at least you were there. No matter how draining your job was, at least you always made your way back home to him.

He glances at his phone screen, still blank, and lets his mind wander. Last time, you hadn’t contacted him for three weeks in between your rendezvous. How long will the drought last this time? Three weeks apart from you had nearly killed him. This time, only one week in, he could already feel his fingers tingle with the yearning of feeling your skin.

He wonders, for the millionth time, if he should have just held on when you asked him to. But he felt like a war wounded soldier at the time, bruised and broken, and he really didn’t have it in him to spend even one more night screaming across the room. He is still human.

But he is a weak human. He is weak when it comes to you, so he lets you enter his life over and over, just to touch you, to feel you, to make you tremble for him, to inhale all your sighs and feel your breath become one with his. The one aspect of your life that he still had any say over. He got to dictate your pleasure, he got to control what made you fall apart at the seams. And he still has it, the ability to make you moan, to reduce you into a mess with his lips, his fingers, his cock.

He feels himself twitch and holds back a groan. How long will the drought be this time?

When the doorbell rings, Seungcheol nearly jumps out of his skin. He curses and turns the volume of the TV down, walking to the kitchen to place his now empty pan in the sink. The doorbell sounds again and he rolls his eyes. Patience really isn’t a virtue anymore.

You are the last person he expects to be at his door. He freezes at the sight of you. Your hair looks tumbled, blown away from your face. Your chest heaves from exertion, you’re sweaty, and your breaths come hard and fast. Seungcheol’s eyebrows furrow.

“Did you run here?”

You nod, trying to take deeper breaths to calm down. Immediately, his eyes fly down to your office heels and he curses, grabbing your arm to tug you in.

“You ran in heels?” He wonders how badly your feet are bruised. How far had you run?

You don’t toe off your shoes when you step inside. You don’t pull him closer, or mouth at his neck, or paw at his clothes. You don't look horny at all, which has become a staple for whenever you show up here. Seungcheol is confused.

“I quit my job.”

He stares at you, eyes wide, unblinking. You shift on your feet, and he can see you hold back a wince, but he remains unmoving. Something bitter rises in him, like bile in his throat.

“Why?”

“I-” You struggle with your words. “I want to try. With us.”

He can feel his hands clenching into fists, and there’s anger in him. Months, almost a year, of anger. And a familiar hurt that is almost exclusive to you by now.

“Please leave.”

He knows his words shock you, with the way your mouth opens and closes. “Seungcheol-”

“Get out.”

Your tears, springing fresh into your eyes, almost have him faltering. He almost gives in, almost wraps his arms around you to kiss them away, to comfort you in his embrace after so long of being starved. But his anger stops him. His resentment grips his heart like a vice, and he stays frozen in place as you shuffle back. Your tears don’t roll down your cheeks. Instead, you blink them away, and there is tired resignation in your expression. It makes him hesitate again.

“You’re right to do this.” You say, hand on the doorknob. “But I will still try. I will still try, Seungcheol. No matter what it takes. You might be stubborn, but you know I’m worse. I lost you once, I’m not letting you slip away again. I will move mountains if I have to.”

You leave, the door shutting softly behind you, and Seungcheol is left reeling under the weight of it all. Reeling, doubtful, but with the slightest twinges of hope curling in his chest.

…………………………

“I cannot believe you told her to get out.”

Seungcheol heaves as he lifts the weight into place, turning to glare at Mingyu when he’s done. “What did you want me to do? Forgive her for all of it?”

“No, but you should’ve agreed with her to try.”

Seungcheol gestures to his friend to help him, and Mingyu silently complies. The gym is relatively empty, since it’s early hours. The morning members had finished up, and he knows the next rush will come in the afternoon after people clock out of their jobs. This is the ideal time to move some things around or back into their places.

“I can’t put myself through all of that again.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes. “But you two can fuck every couple of weeks. Got it.”

Seungcheol ignores the sarcasm in his friend's voice, focusing on the task at hand. He knows Mingyu means well. He is one of Seungcheol’s closest friends. Seungcheol would trust Mingyu with his life. That’s why he was happy to open a gym with him. Mingyu was as great a business partner as he was a friend.

“I just don’t know how serious she is about trying.” Seungcheol continues. “How do I know it won’t go back to how it was before?”

“She quit her job, though.”

Seungcheol sighs. “I just can’t, man. She broke me.”

Mingyu’s face finally softens, and he nods. If anyone can sympathize with him, he knows it’s Mingyu. The man had been there to see Seungcheol fall apart, and had picked up the pieces afterward. Mingyu’s eyes wander past Seungcheol to look over his shoulder, and he winces.

“You’re gonna hate me for this, then.”

Seungcheol frowns in confusion before turning around to follow his line of sight, freezing when he sees you standing there. He eyes the familiar bag on your shoulder, and the large thermos in your left hand. You give him a sheepish smile.

“Hi.”

Seungcheol doesn’t walk closer to where you’re standing, staring at you from the distance, feet glued to the ground. “Why are you here?”

You shift a bit, and he knows you too well to know you feel a little embarrassed. “Mingyu said you forgot some stuff at home so I came to drop it off. And I brought you sustenance.”

You shake the thermos.

Seungcheol turns to glare at Mingyu, who has the decency to look regretful, before turning back to you.

“I don’t need it.” He lies.

He does, actually. His workout belt, shoes, and some account papers are in there. He had assumed the bag was in his trunk and didn’t bother to check this morning. He only realised when he got here that he didn’t have them. He had intended to go home and grab them sometime around lunch. Turns out, Mingyu is a snitch who likes involving himself in Seungcheol’s business, and you conveniently still have a key to his apartment.

“I’m just gonna leave it at reception.” You say, unfazed by his harsh words. He doesn’t know how you can stand them, but you have always been very strong willed. He loved that side of you when you were together. Unfortunately, that was also something that contributed to you two falling apart.

“Nice seeing you again, Gyu.”

Mingyu smiles and waves at you as you leave, and Seungcheol sighs loudly once you’re gone. He levels Mingyu with a death stare, and the man just scoffs.

“Just let her do this, man. Let her try, at least.”

Seungcheol doesn’t reply, focusing on what he was doing before you interrupted him. But his thoughts are all over the place now, plagued by the hope in your eyes when he had looked at you.

……………………….

You know Seungcheol is a bit taken aback by you. But this is a normal reaction considering you are everywhere suddenly.

You know it’s strange, you trying to woo him. Showing up at his gym, texting him ‘good morning’ and ‘good night’. But this isn’t completely out of the ordinary either. Earlier in your relationship, when you two were still in your honeymoon phase, you spoiled Seungcheol just as much as he spoiled you. He loves physical affection and attention. He is a princess at heart, the baby of his family, and you loved giving him more love than he knew what to do with.

Your favorite activity by a long shot would be to lay on the couch, him on top of you, head on your chest and arms tight around your waist, torso framed by your legs. You would run your hands through his hair and he would hum, lightly dozing in your embrace as you read a book, warm and cozy under him. Seungcheol liked the little things, like remembering his exact coffee order, and making his favorite breakfast for the weekends. He liked when you thought of him while shopping, buying him a baseball cap, or a nice t-shirt with a graphic he might appreciate. When his headphones stopped working, you lent him yours without hesitation until he found a good model to upgrade to. You were the master of organization, and you would know even better than him where he kept all his things. You had once gifted him a glass display case for all his prized watches. To this day, it sat on his dressing table.

He doted on you as much as you doted on him, unashamed even in your circle of mutual friends. Jeonghan, Seungcheol’s long term best friend, always teased you two for the PDA, but you know there was no one who rooted for you two the way Jeonghan did. So now, in your time of need, you knew Jeonghan was the best person to go to.

You haven’t seen Jeonghan since the breakup, even though you were close before. You know, deep inside, he is angry with you. Soonyoung had told you as much. Your mutual friend circle was big, but tight knit. You have retained all your friendships, except Jeonghan. You were too scared to text him, and he never reached out. Until two days ago, when you texted him and asked if you could talk. He had replied, to your great surprise and relief, asking you to call him when you clocked out of work. When you told him you weren’t at work, he called you immediately.

“So you finally quit.” He muses over the speaker. “We will thank the heavens then. That job was killing you.”

You sigh, staring up at your bedroom ceiling. You have put your phone on speaker and placed it on the pillow next to you. It almost feels like Jeonghan is there. It reminds you of before. Just like with Seungcheol, Jeonghan became your closest confidant very quickly.

“I wish you had said that to me before all this.”

He hummed. “You didn’t listen to Seungcheol. What would make you listen to me?”

You feel it again, that pang of regret. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not the one who needs an apology, angel.”

You shake your head even though he can’t see you. “Apologising won’t do shit. Seungcheol is an action guy. I need to prove to him that I’m in this for the long run.”

“That, you are right about. Smart girl.”

You crack a smile. “So, can you help me?”

Another hum, this one more contemplative. You can hear shuffling on his end.

“I’m hosting a dinner at my place this weekend. Nothing fancy, just the usual gang and barbecue.”

You perk up in interest. “Everyone will be there?”

“They sure will. We all miss you, you know? It’s not the same without you and Cheol slobbering all over each other in front of our food.”

You laugh, for the first time in a while, remembering all the times Jihoon had put his fork down to chastise the two of you for ruining dinner. Your heart squeezes again, and you sigh.

“Well, there will be no slobbering this time.”

You can hear Jeonghan scoff. “I wouldn’t be so sure. That man can’t resist you even if he physically restrains himself.”

You smile and feel your face flush, but it falters immediately.

“I miss him, Hannie.”

Jeonghan is quiet for a few seconds. “I know he is being a hardass right now, but trust me angel, he misses you too.”

When you finally hang up the phone, you feel lonelier than you have in months. A hollow feeling, in the very depths of your chest, making your breath catch. You hear Seungcheol’s laugh in your head, and tears gather quickly in your eyes before streaming down your face. You can’t help it, you open your phone to text him.

[me]: goodnight my cheolie. i’ll wait for you

He doesn’t reply.

…………………………….

“Hey- I saw that! Put it back.” Seungkwan has the cutest pout on his face, and you can’t help but bat your eyelashes at him innocently, hoping he buys the act. You know he won’t. Unfortunately, when you’ve tried to trick people enough times during card games, they become immune to your charms.

“Don’t play coy.” Seungkwan swipes your desired card and places it at the bottom of the deck. “That may work on Seungcheol, but not on me.”

Soonyoung, who is gathered around the table with you, Seungkwan and Chan, snorts at the comment. On the couch at the other side of the room, Seungcheol glares at Seungkwan but doesn’t say anything. He has been uncharacteristically silent throughout dinner, even now when everyone is playing games or doing karaoke. Seungcheol loves karaoke, you know this. But you also know that a part of him doesn’t want you here.

He had been shocked when Jeonghan opened the door and you were standing on the other side, holding a large dish of beef sliders. Mingyu loves them, and it was what you brought to every hangout when you and Seungcheol were still together. The boys had ransacked the dish like a pack of wolves, thanking you and the gods that you were back. Seungcheol hadn’t said anything, but he had eaten one as well. Small victories.

This is why you keep pushing, keep coming around, keep texting him. Seungcheol hasn’t stopped you once, hasn’t told you to back off or go away. He hasn’t blocked your number, he hasn’t banned you from the gym. In fact, the receptionist would always greet you warmly, saying she had missed you. Had he said, even once, that he seriously wanted you out of his life, you would've respected his wishes and backed off. Even now, at Jeonghan’s barbecue, Seungcheol didn’t say a word in complaint. Granted, he didn’t say a word period, but he didn’t tell you to fuck off either, and that gave you a small kindling of hope that maybe, just maybe, he would forgive you one day.

“Okay, I’m out.” You announce to a chorus of groans and boos from the people at the table, standing up to walk to the kitchen. You’re thirsty, and beer isn’t doing it anymore. You need a fresh, cold glass of water. You don’t realise someone has followed you until you turn around and nearly scream at the sight of Seungcheol behind you. You jerk back and grip your chest tightly.

“Jeez.” You laugh breathlessly. “You scared me.”

He doesn’t reply, putting ice into a glass and getting water for himself too. You raise an eyebrow.

“You aren’t drinking?”

He shakes his head. “I had one. I have to drive home.”

You hum, watching his back move under his button up shirt. He looks good. Considering he is almost always in gym clothes, it’s nice to see him dressed up a bit. You voice this thought, and he jerks his head in a stiff nod, leaving with his glass. You sigh. It hurts your heart when he barely responds, almost like he’s talking to a flimsy fog lingering in the room and not an actual person.

Back in the living room, the smell of smoked meat has started drifting in from the half open sliding glass door that leads into the patio. It seems like Mingyu has begun serving the first batch, and Seungcheol has started grilling the next batch while Mingyu serves. You wait for the crowd of your friends to thin out from around the large man, taking a seat on the couch and watching Seungcheol grill instead. The smoke has already made a thin sheen of sweat build up on the sides of his face and down his neck. The gold chain he loves so much, a gift from you on your fourth anniversary, gleams against his pale skin. Some minutes pass before he looks up, and his eyes meet yours through the glass. You give him a smile.

You can see, even from the distance, how the tips of his ears turn pink, and you bite your lip to tamp down your amusement. He is usually such a confident man, but his ability to get shy under attention is still so cute.

You’re so in love with him, it makes you a little crazy.

Jeonghan offers you some pork neck off his plate but you shake your head, finally standing up to grab a plate. When you step onto the patio, you go to peer at the tray in Mingyu’s hand for what’s left.

“Wait.” Seungcheol pipes up. “Get a fresh piece.”

That’s the most words he has said to you all evening. It catches you off guard, but you beeline to him anyway, a feeling bubbling in your chest that you haven’t felt in years. Like the times when Seungcheol was only just a crush, and the littlest interaction with him would kick your heart into overdrive. That kind of exciting, puppy love.

You watch him grill for a bit, patiently waiting, just happy to be so close to him. Seungcheol is laser focused on the meat. You can smell his cologne, and you relax into it. You miss him, even just the feeling of him close to you, which you never had to live without, considering you two were still hooking up even after you left. Finally, he gestures for the plate, and you hold it forward so he can drop some sizzling pieces on it.

“It looks great.” You compliment, biting down on the ‘so do you’ that you would usually add, making him grin and give you a wink. The tiniest of habits and quirks that you two had formed over the years. There’s so much you miss, so much you have lost.

“You haven’t eaten yet, have you?” You stab the meat with a fork, and Seungcheol shakes his head.

“I’m almost done.” He mumbles.

“Here.” You hold the fork out on instinct, and you are reminded of how you would feed him while he cooked for his friends. You falter a bit when you realise what you’ve done, and you almost pull your hand back, but Seungcheol leans forward to bite the meat off your fork, throwing his head back to take it into his mouth. Both of you freeze for a second, and you see realization cross his face.

“Sorry.” You let out a laugh. “Force of habit.”

He shakes his head, and you can pinpoint the exact moment his eyes soften as he looks at you. “It’s okay.”

It’s okay. Your heart soars, and hesitantly, you stab another piece of meat, blowing on it and then holding it out. Seungcheol eats it.

“Eat it yourself too.” He mumbles, flipping the pieces on the grill and you nod, biting into your first piece. You hum when it nearly melts in your mouth.

“Good?” Seungcheol sounds amused.

“You already know it’s great.” You counter, playfully rolling your eyes. “Don’t fish for compliments.”

He laughs. An honest to god, deep belly laugh. You can’t help but close your eyes, unable to take the weight of the sound, basking in how it reverberates in your very nerves, settling a dull, thrumming anxiety that has resided in you since the moment you two broke up. It feels like finally untangling an overwhelming amount of wires. A feeling of accomplishment.