my day begins and ends with you 𓆩♡𓆪 19

you don’t answer right away. your lips are trembling, and your breath comes out too fast, too uneven. when you finally lift your face, your eyes are swollen, rimmed red, and there’s that blankness in your stare that makes his heart squeeze. “i— i don’t know,” you start, your voice cracking. “i just— i feel like everyone’s doing something, you know? everyone’s moving somewhere, getting promotions, graduating, getting married, having babies— just… doing something with their lives—” you swallow hard, wiping your nose with the back of your hand, your words coming out in gasps, tangled and desperate, “—and i’m just here. i wake up, i exist, i try to pretend like i’m okay, but i’m not doing anything— i’m not going anywhere— i’m just— stuck— i’m—”

he reaches out, brushing the tears off your cheeks with his thumb, but you keep talking. the words are spilling faster now, your breath hitching, your chest rising too quickly, too harshly, the sentences colliding with each other like waves against rocks.

“—and i keep trying, i swear i keep trying, i plan things, i make lists, i tell myself i’ll start tomorrow, but tomorrow comes and i can’t do it, i can’t move, i can’t think, i can’t breathe, and then i see everyone else doing fine and i just— i just feel like— like maybe there’s something wrong with me, maybe i’m broken, maybe i’m just—” your breathing turns shallow, your hands tremble against your lap, and you can’t finish.

gojo moves instantly, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you against his chest. “hey, hey, hey,” he murmurs, his voice soft but steady, his hand stroking the back of your head, “breathe, baby, breathe for me, okay? slow down.” but you’re already spiraling. your chest heaves, your fingers clutch at his shirt, your lips quiver as your lungs refuse to cooperate. your heartbeat thunders so loudly that it feels like it’s echoing in your ears, and suddenly everything is too much— the sound, the light, even the warmth of his body pressed against yours.

“satoru—” you gasp out, voice trembling, eyes wide, “i— i can’t— i can’t breathe—”

he cups your face immediately, his touch grounding and firm. “hey, look at me,” he says, his voice shaking just slightly because god, he hates seeing you like this, “look at me, sweetheart. breathe with me, okay? in—” he inhales slowly, exaggeratedly, guiding you with his chest rising beneath your trembling hands. “—and out.” he exhales softly, his breath brushing your forehead. “again. in, baby. come on, with me.”

you try, but your breath stutters halfway, your throat closing in. “i— i can’t— it hurts—”

“i know, i know, shh, it’s okay,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours now, his voice barely above a hum, “you’re okay. i’m right here, yeah? nothing’s gonna happen to you. you’re safe. just keep looking at me.”

you’re shaking, your tears soaking into his shirt as your body trembles like it’s caught between fight and collapse. he rocks you gently, the rhythm of his movements slow and hypnotic. his hand slips under your chin, tilting your face up slightly. “that’s it, baby, you’re doing so good,” he murmurs, kissing your damp forehead, “just breathe, okay? nice and slow. you’re not alone. you’ll never be alone.”

his voice is steady now, a constant murmur of reassurance — nonsense, endearments, soft apologies you don’t even need to hear but he can’t stop saying. “i got you, angel. i got you. you’re my baby, remember? it’s okay to feel lost sometimes. it’s okay to not have everything figured out. you don’t have to do anything for me to love you. you could stay right here forever and i’d still be proud of you.”

your fingers clutch weakly at the front of his shirt, your breaths coming a little slower now. he feels it — the way your heartbeat starts to sync with his, the way your shoulders begin to relax, even as your tears keep falling. he doesn’t move, doesn’t let go, just keeps holding you, whispering against your temple like a prayer.

“you’re safe,” he keeps saying. “you’re not falling apart. you’re just tired. and that’s okay. you’ve been holding yourself together for so long, haven’t you?”

you nod weakly against him, a choked sound escaping your throat. “i’m— i’m trying— i swear i’m trying—”

“i know, baby,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “i see it. every day. even when you think you’re doing nothing, i see how hard you’re trying. how you get up. how you smile for me when you don’t feel like it. how you still care about everything even when you’re exhausted. that’s strength, you hear me? that’s not nothing.”

he cups your face again, brushing away the fresh tears. “you’re not behind. you’re not stuck. life’s not a race, angel. you’re just moving at your own pace, and that’s fine. the world’s loud and messy, and it makes you think you’re supposed to be running all the time, but you don’t have to. not with me.”

you take a shaky breath, the air still uneven but calmer now, your eyes closing as you rest your head against his chest. his heartbeat is steady under your ear, strong and grounding.

“just… breathe with me,” he murmurs again, his hand tracing lazy circles against your back. “nothing else matters right now, okay? just me and you. just this moment.”

you nod faintly, your voice small. “i hate this feeling.”

“i know, sweetheart.” his voice cracks a little, but he keeps smiling, because he knows you’ll look up and need to see it. “but you’ll get through it. we’ll get through it. i’m not going anywhere, okay?”

you mumble something against his chest, incoherent, but he understands. he always does. he pulls the blanket draped over the couch and wraps it around you both, tucking you closer until you’re almost on his lap. his hand never stops moving — rubbing your arm, tracing your spine, brushing stray hair from your face — until the trembling in your body finally starts to fade.

the minutes pass slowly. your breathing steadies, your eyes flutter half-closed, and he leans down to press a kiss against the crown of your head.

“hey,” he whispers, voice low and tender. “you’re my favorite person in the whole world, you know that?”

you hum faintly, tired and small.

“and i mean it,” he continues, his words spilling like warm honey, slow and deliberate. “you don’t need to build an empire or change the world to matter. you already matter. to me. to everyone who loves you. you’ve got a heart that feels too much and dreams that scare you and that’s beautiful, baby. don’t ever think you’re falling behind just because your path looks different.”

he lets out a quiet laugh, breathless, soft. “hell, if life’s a race, i’d rather walk with you anyway. holding your hand, annoying you every five seconds, buying you stupid little drinks you don’t even finish—”

you let out a faint chuckle through your exhaustion, and he beams instantly, proud of the tiny sound. “see? there’s that laugh i love.”

he tucks your face into his neck, letting you breathe him in — the faint smell of mint, the warmth of his skin, the weight of his arms around you. “you’re safe now, yeah?” he murmurs. “the world can wait. you don’t have to rush to catch up. you’ve already done enough. you’re enough.”

your voice is small, barely audible, but it trembles with truth. “you promise?”

he smiles, his thumb brushing your cheek, his other hand pressing gently against the back of your head. “i promise, baby. cross my heart.”

the night stretches quietly after that. he holds you until your breathing slows into something soft and even, until the weight on your chest loosens its grip, until the ache inside you quiets just enough for you to fall asleep against him. he doesn’t move, not even when his leg starts to go numb. he just stays there, tracing lazy patterns against your skin, whispering things you’re too tired to hear but he says anyway — because he knows that somewhere in your half-dreaming mind, they’ll still reach you.

“you’re not lost,” he murmurs, kissing your temple once more. “you’re just finding your way. and i’ll be here, always, to remind you how to breathe.”

GETO SUGURU

the evening is heavy and slow, the sky outside your window bleeding into a deep navy that refuses to settle into night. the city hums beneath it — distant cars, someone’s laughter echoing from another balcony, the faint thud of music from a club too far to see. and in the middle of it, there’s you, sitting on the cold marble floor of your penthouse bathroom, your back against the tub, knees pulled to your chest. your phone screen glows faintly beside you, its light flickering over your face as video after video plays — people your age smiling, laughing, holding diplomas, new houses, engagement rings, endless captions about finally making it.

the sound feels like static in your brain. everything feels too loud and too quiet at once. and by the time the front door opens, you don’t even flinch.

geto’s voice drifts down the hallway — that deep, lazy tone of his, humming something low, keys clinking against the counter, shoes kicked off carelessly. “baby?” he calls softly. “you home?”

no answer. just your soft, uneven breathing. he frowns, heading toward the sound of the running tap — not quite off, just dripping — until he reaches the bathroom door. when he pushes it open, the sight makes him still.

you, small against the white of the marble. eyes red, face blotchy, a look of something raw and broken stretching across your features. his chest tightens instantly. he doesn’t ask what’s wrong — not yet. instead, he drops to his knees in front of you, his suit pants brushing against the cold floor.

“hey,” he whispers, voice low enough to feel like a touch. “what’s going on, baby?”

you shake your head, but your lips are already trembling. “i don’t—” your breath catches, shoulders shaking, “—i don’t know. i just—” the words die in your throat, because how do you explain something that’s not a single moment but a slow drowning?

geto doesn’t press. he reaches out, brushing his thumb gently over the side of your face, tracing the path of a tear like he’s memorizing it. “come here,” he murmurs. you don’t move, and that’s fine — he shifts closer, wrapping an arm around you until your head finds his shoulder, until your shaking breath warms the fabric of his shirt.

“talk to me,” he says, softer now, his fingers slipping into your hair. “what’s making that pretty head of yours hurt like this?”

“everyone’s just…” your voice is shaky, fragmented, “…doing something. they’re— they’re moving forward, they’re achieving things, and i’m just—” your hands tremble as you gesture helplessly, “—i’m here. still here. like i’m not catching up to anyone, like i’m wasting everything, like i’m just standing still and everyone else is running.”

geto hums quietly, his chin resting atop your head. “running where, baby?”

you hesitate, blinking fast. “anywhere. just… somewhere. i don’t know. it’s like— it’s like everyone knows what they’re doing, and i’m just—”

“breathing,” he finishes for you. “existing. trying. surviving.”

“failing,” you whisper.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, and there’s something sharp in his expression now — not anger, but pain. “don’t say that,” he says quietly. “don’t ever say that.”

but you can’t stop. it’s spilling now, all the things you’ve swallowed for months. “it’s true, suguru— i wake up and i don’t even know what i’m doing anymore, i tell myself i’ll do better tomorrow but i never do, i— i can’t focus, i can’t start anything, i can’t finish anything, i can’t even—” your voice breaks, your breathing turning fast, shallow, uneven. “—everyone’s so far ahead of me, and i’m just— i’m just nothing.”

the moment the word nothing leaves your mouth, geto’s expression softens, something flickering behind his eyes. he cups your face gently, both hands this time, forcing you to look at him.

“hey, hey,” he says, firm but gentle, “don’t go there. look at me. breathe.”

you try, but your chest won’t cooperate. the air gets stuck halfway, your vision tilts, the edges of your world blur. “i— can’t—” you stammer, panic flaring in your voice.

his hands tighten, grounding you. “yes, you can. right here, baby. with me.” he takes your hand and places it over his chest, where his heart beats slow and steady. “feel that? match it.”

you try again — shaky inhale, broken exhale. your throat closes, tears blur your vision. “it hurts—”

“i know,” he whispers, voice almost trembling now. “i know it does. but you’re okay. you’re not alone in this. i’ve got you, yeah?”

he pulls you closer, until you’re sitting between his legs, your back pressed to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist. the rhythm of his heartbeat seeps into your skin. he tilts his head down, his lips brushing against your temple. “breathe with me, sweetheart. in… and out. slow. it’s alright if it’s messy. we can breathe messy together.”

you do — uneven, broken, but with him guiding you, you start to catch small pieces of air again.

he whispers into your hair, each word a balm. “you’re not supposed to have it all figured out, you know. the world makes it sound like there’s a finish line we’re all racing toward, but that’s bullshit. some of us walk slower. some of us stop to rest. that’s not failure, that’s living.”

your voice cracks. “but what if i never catch up?”

he sighs softly, the sound brushing your ear. “then i’ll slow down with you,” he says. “we’ll sit on the curb and watch the runners go by. i’ll buy us coffee, and we’ll talk about nothing, and we’ll make our own kind of life. i don’t care how long it takes. i just want to see you breathe without hurting.”

you squeeze your eyes shut, your chest shaking with the effort to calm down. your words come out hoarse, barely a whisper. “i don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

he hums, his voice low and steady. “you won’t. not forever. but even when you do, i’ll be here to hold the pieces until you can carry them again.”

your breathing finally slows, your heartbeat syncing to his. the air around you feels softer now, quieter, as though the city outside decided to hush itself.

he stays like that for a long time, one hand rubbing lazy circles on your arm, the other tucked under your chin. “you know what i think?” he murmurs eventually, his voice laced with something almost playful, almost heartbreaking. “i think you’re brave as hell. not because you’re okay, but because you let yourself feel like this and still stay. most people run from their feelings. you sit with them until they break you. that’s strength, baby.”

you swallow hard, your throat raw. “i don’t feel strong.”

“you don’t have to feel it for it to be true,” he replies simply.

he shifts slightly, resting his chin on your shoulder now, his lips brushing your neck. “you’re not falling behind, you’re just taking the scenic route. and knowing you, you’ll probably stop to take pictures, get distracted by some cat on the way, and end up making friends with it.”

you let out a small, shaky laugh, the sound muffled by his shirt. he smiles against your skin, relief washing over him. “there it is,” he murmurs, tightening his arms around you, “that sound’s worth more than any milestone.”

he stays quiet after that, just holding you, the rhythm of his breathing slow and deliberate. every now and then, he murmurs little things — half words, half prayers — “you’re safe now… you did good… i’m proud of you for being here…” until you finally start to melt against him.

when you’re quiet long enough, he presses a kiss to your shoulder and whispers, “let’s get off this cold floor before your pretty ass freezes, yeah?”

you nod weakly, letting him pull you up, his hands steady at your waist. he leads you out of the bathroom, still keeping you close, like he’s afraid you’ll drift away if he lets go for even a second. he settles you on the couch, wraps you in a blanket, and sits beside you, his arm immediately finding its way around your shoulders again.

he looks at you for a long moment before speaking, his voice quiet but sure. “listen. i don’t care how fast the world spins. i don’t care what anyone else is doing. we’ll move slow. we’ll build something gentle. you don’t need to chase anything when i’m right here.”

your head drops against his chest, and for the first time all night, you breathe without shaking.

he exhales softly, brushing his lips against your hair. “see?” he murmurs, half-smile tugging at his mouth. “you’re doing it. one breath at a time. that’s enough.”

and when you finally drift off, your fingers tangled in his shirt, he stays awake — tracing patterns on your hand, listening to the faint hum of the city, silently swearing to keep every dark thought away from you, even if it means catching them all himself.

NANAMI KENTO

the storm doesn’t announce itself this time. it’s quiet — the kind of silence that feels wrong, that hums against the skin. nanami finds you in the kitchen at half past ten, sitting on the marble counter beside an untouched cup of tea, your body folded in on itself, your eyes fixed on the steam curling into the air. he pauses in the doorway. the lights are too dim, and something about the way your fingers tremble when you set the cup down tells him everything before you even speak.

he doesn’t start with a question. instead, he crosses the room and sets his briefcase on the island, the sound neat, deliberate. his watch catches the light as he unbuttons his cuffs, rolls his sleeves up, slow. his way of saying he’s home. his way of saying i see you.

you don’t move. you don’t even blink when he approaches, but when he speaks, his voice is soft, precise — the way he always is when something fragile is in front of him. “you’ve been crying.” it isn’t a question.

you exhale through your nose, a half-laugh that collapses on itself. “everyone does that sometimes.”

he hums, steps closer until his hands are braced on either side of you on the counter, caging you gently. “not like this.”

you press your lips together, your voice breaking in a small rush. “i just— i feel like the world’s running ahead and i’m— i’m still here. like i keep waking up in the same day, in the same version of myself. everyone’s moving, accomplishing things, posting about their new jobs, their new lives, and i’m just…” you shrug, but it’s a brittle motion. “i don’t know. watching it happen.”

he doesn’t interrupt. nanami’s silence isn’t empty — it’s full, heavy, listening. he leans closer, forehead nearly brushing yours. “and that makes you feel?”

“like a ghost,” you whisper, the words small and sharp. “like i exist but don’t live. like i missed something important and now i can’t catch up.” your voice wavers, and you choke out, “it’s so stupid, i know—”

“don’t,” he says gently, his thumb tracing your jaw. “don’t discredit how you feel just because it makes you uncomfortable.”

but the words keep coming, too fast, tumbling over one another. “i just— i can’t stop thinking, i’m wasting time, i’m not enough, i don’t do enough, i’m not doing anything. and i keep making plans and lists and— nothing changes. nothing moves. i can’t— i can’t stop thinking—”

you hiccup, breath faltering, hands trembling as your heart starts pounding too fast, too loud. the rhythm becomes erratic, your lungs tightening, chest constricting like the air’s too thick. “i can’t breathe—”

he reacts instantly, catching your wrists before you can curl in on yourself, his voice a low anchor against the panic. “hey. look at me. look at me, darling.” his hands slide up to cup your face, firm but gentle, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. “slow down. there’s nothing chasing you. not right now.”

you shake your head, tears spilling faster. “it— it won’t stop—”

“then we’ll stop together,” he murmurs, and before you can say anything, he leans forward and presses his forehead to yours. “inhale with me.” he breathes in, deep and slow, guiding you through the rhythm. “good. now out.” his exhale is deliberate, audible, his body steady against your trembling one.

your breaths come uneven at first, then shorter, then deeper, until the air starts to obey you again. he doesn’t say much — just hums quietly under his breath, his hands tracing slow circles down your back.

when you finally manage a full breath without breaking, he tilts your chin up, studying your face. “better?”

you nod weakly, still trembling. “a little.”

he sighs — not with frustration, but with that quiet heartbreak only he could turn into something tender. “you know what’s cruel about this world?” he says after a pause. “it convinces you that life is only worth something if it’s loud. if people can see it, measure it, post it.”

you sniffle, trying to focus on his voice.

“but the truth is,” he continues, “most of living happens in the quiet. in making coffee in the same mug every morning. in showing up, even when no one notices. in surviving the days that make no sense. that isn’t failure.” he brushes a tear from your cheek. “that’s endurance.”

you look up at him, voice raw. “but i don’t feel like i’m doing anything that matters.”

his hand slips down, resting on your thigh, thumb drawing absent-minded circles. “you matter to me,” he says simply, without hesitation. “that’s not a consolation prize. it’s a truth.”

you blink, startled. “why do you always—”

“because someone has to say it,” he interrupts softly. “and i’ll keep saying it until you start believing it for yourself.”

you stare at him for a long moment, your throat aching, your body slowly unspooling from its panic. “you make it sound easy.”

“it isn’t,” he admits. “but it becomes easier when you have someone to remind you you’re still here.”

he takes your hand then, pressing it to his chest, against the steady pulse beneath his shirt. “this heartbeat? it’s the same rhythm you calm every night when you lie beside me. you think you’re stuck, but you move the world around you more than you realize.”

his words hang in the air, quiet but absolute.

you lean into him without thinking, your forehead against the curve of his shoulder. his hand finds the back of your neck, warm and steady, holding you there like you’re something precious he refuses to let slip.

after a long silence, he murmurs into your hair, “next time you feel like you’re falling behind, remember — i’m not running anywhere. i’ll wait for you at every red light, every crossroad, every quiet morning you need to gather yourself. we’ll walk home together, no matter how long it takes.”

you exhale shakily, your fingers curling into his shirt. “you make it sound like i’m worth waiting for.”

his lips brush the shell of your ear. “you are. and even if you weren’t, i’d wait anyway.”

the kettle hums faintly on the counter, long forgotten. he reaches past you to turn it off, but his hand lingers at your hip, grounding you. he doesn’t let go when you finally start to breathe normally again.

“come here,” he murmurs after a while, tugging you gently off the counter and into his chest. “let’s sit down before you faint on me.”

you end up in his lap on the couch, wrapped in his arms, your head resting against the hollow of his throat. the city lights spill through the glass walls — gold and soft, scattered like a reflection of something still possible.

he whispers against your temple, “the world will keep spinning. let it. we’ll move when it’s time.”

you nod faintly, eyes closing.

“for now,” he adds, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead, “you just breathe. that’s your only job tonight.”

and you do. because with his arms around you and his voice tracing quiet promises against your skin, breathing — for the first time that night — doesn’t hurt.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

the lights are off in the living room except for the faint amber spill from the aquarium in the corner, the water shifting slow and the fish gliding through like ghosts with nowhere to be. you sit on the floor against the couch, knees tucked in, head bent low. the house is silent except for the city outside—sirens somewhere far, a car door slamming, the rhythm of rain against the glass like a heartbeat that won’t sync with yours.

when the front door clicks, you don’t look up. you know it’s him. you hear the deep sigh as he steps inside, the dull thud of his shoes kicked off without care. he doesn’t call your name, doesn’t ask why the room feels heavier than it should—he just knows. toji’s always known.

he finds you there on the floor, his silhouette cutting through the dim. for a moment he just stands, watching you. then he moves closer, crouching until he’s level with you, resting an elbow on his knee. his voice comes low, unhurried, that half-raspy drawl he gets when he’s trying to keep it gentle.

“you planning on telling me why the air feels like it’s drowning?”

you huff out a small, shaky breath, not quite a laugh. “doesn’t matter.”

he leans back slightly, studying your face. “sure sounds like it does.”

your throat feels too tight. “it’s stupid.”

“then i’ll be stupid with you,” he says simply, dragging a hand through his dark hair. “so?”

you try to hold it back, but it tumbles out anyway, messy, fast, breaking apart halfway through. “i don’t know, i just— i feel like i’m stuck. everyone’s doing something, going somewhere, becoming someone. and i’m just— here. existing. trying. failing. i don’t even know what i’m doing anymore.”

he doesn’t rush to fix it. he leans closer, his forearm resting over his knee, eyes half-lidded but sharp, like he’s listening to every tremor in your voice.

“that’s what’s got you crying?” he asks quietly.

you nod, and then you shake your head, frustrated. “i know it sounds pathetic. i just— i keep thinking i should’ve been someone by now. i should’ve— done something. anything.”

“who told you that?”

you blink up at him, confused. “what?”

“that you’re supposed to be somewhere else by now.” he tilts his head, a small smirk tugging at his mouth but it’s soft, not mocking. “who told you there’s a clock on becoming?”

“no one— i mean— everyone, i guess,” you say, your words breaking again. “it’s everywhere. everyone’s moving and i’m—” your breath catches suddenly, your chest tightening, words turning into a tremor. “—i’m falling behind. i can’t—”

you stop, trying to breathe, but your lungs won’t listen. the air starts to splinter in your throat. your hands shake, your voice caught somewhere between a sob and a gasp.

“hey,” he says immediately, his tone changing—rough but steady, no space for panic. he reaches out, presses his hand against your chest, right where your heart’s thrashing. “breathe. right here. with me.”

you shake your head, tears spilling, words stuttering out between the gasps. “i— can’t— it’s—”

“hey.” his voice drops lower, gravel steady as a heartbeat. “you can. i’ve seen you do harder things than breathe.” his thumb rubs slow circles against your collarbone, grounding you. “in,” he says, quiet. “out.” he exaggerates the rhythm himself, deep inhale, long exhale, his body close enough that you feel the warmth of it. “good. again. don’t fight it, just— let it come through.”

you try, your breaths uneven, catching, breaking—but he doesn’t let go. his hand stays firm over your heart, his other coming up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing the base of your skull. “there you go,” he murmurs when your breathing finally starts to slow. “that’s it. don’t think. just breathe.”

you collapse against him before you even realize it, your forehead pressing into his chest. he wraps both arms around you immediately, one sliding around your shoulders, the other curling around your waist, pulling you close until you can feel his pulse under your cheek.

he stays quiet for a while, letting you tremble it out, the silence stretching warm between your breaths. when he finally speaks, it’s low, rough-edged, like he’s talking more to himself than to you.

“you know, i used to think like that too. thought life was some kind of ladder. every year, another rung up. never realized it’s just a hallway. some doors open, some don’t. sometimes you walk in circles.”

you sniffle, your voice small. “and what if i never find the right door?”

“then we build one,” he says simply. “kick a wall down if we have to.”

you let out a shaky laugh, muffled against his shirt. “that’s not how it works.”

he shrugs, lips brushing your hair. “works for me.”

there’s something about the way he says it—steady, unapologetic—that makes you start to believe him.

he leans back a little, enough to see your face. “look,” he says, tapping your forehead lightly with his finger. “this thing in here? you think too much. and this—” he taps your chest again, gentler this time, “—feels too much. it’s a nasty combination.”

you blink up at him. “what am i supposed to do then?”

“nothing,” he says without hesitation. “not tonight. tonight, you sit here, you let yourself be messy, and you let me hold you.”

you hesitate. “toji—”

“what?” he asks, tone soft but teasing. “you think i can’t handle you crying? baby, i’ve handled worse. i’ve handled myself.”

you breathe out, a half-sob half-laugh, and he grins faintly at the sound, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.

“see? better already,” he murmurs. “you keep chasing some version of yourself that doesn’t even exist yet. screw that. you’re not stuck, you’re just… pausing. catching your breath. the world won’t fall apart if you stop running for a while.”

you lean into his touch, your voice small. “what if i don’t start again?”

he smirks softly, presses a kiss to your temple. “then i’ll drag you, kicking and screaming. i’ll even carry you if i have to.”

you mumble into his chest, your words barely a whisper. “you’d do that?”

“baby,” he says, tightening his arms around you, “i’d carry the whole damn world if it meant you didn’t have to.”

you go quiet after that, just listening to the rain, the soft rumble of his chest under your ear. his hand traces the shape of your spine, slow and steady.

after a while, he speaks again, almost to himself. “you know what i like about you?”

you sniff, not answering.

“you feel everything too deeply. it’s messy. it’s real. this world’s full of people pretending not to care. i’ll take you like this over that any day.”

you stay pressed against him until your breathing evens out completely, the panic dissolving into something smaller, bearable.

when you finally look up, his expression is unreadable, but his thumb is still brushing lazy lines against your jaw, and his voice, when it comes, is nothing short of a vow.

“next time you think you’re falling behind,” he says quietly, “remember—i’m not ahead. i’m right here. i’ll wait, or i’ll walk, or i’ll sit on the floor with you all night if that’s what it takes.”

he leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth like a secret. “you don’t owe the world anything, sweetheart. it’s already lucky you exist.”

and when you finally let yourself cry again, it isn’t panic anymore. it’s release. it’s the quiet understanding that even if you never find the finish line, he’d stay right there—barefoot in the rainlight, holding you steady, whispering things no one else ever would, like it’s the easiest promise in the world.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

the apartment is quiet except for the faint buzz of the city outside, all neon and glass and hum — that low, distant electricity that never sleeps. the kind of silence that isn’t peaceful, just heavy. the kind that turns your own thoughts into noise. the curtains are drawn halfway, the skyline bleeding red and silver across the floor, and you’re sitting on it — knees pulled to your chest, wearing one of sukuna’s shirts, sleeves hanging too long, the air-conditioning too cold against your skin.

you don’t hear him at first — the dull click of the door, the soft scrape of keys tossed onto marble, the lazy thud of his boots against the hallway rug. you only look up when the room tilts faintly under the sound of his voice, deep, low, carrying that slight drag of annoyance that always sounds like affection when it’s aimed at you.

“why the hell are the lights off?”

he walks in, jacket half-off his shoulder, hair tousled from the rain, and stops when he sees you. for a man made of sharp edges, his stillness is the loudest thing in the room. he stares for a second — the crumpled sleeves, the red in your eyes, the tremor in your hands. something in his face changes.

“what’s this?” he asks, softer now, his tone dipping into that strange register he only uses when you look like this.

you open your mouth but nothing coherent comes out. your voice catches somewhere between apology and exhaustion. “i—” you swallow, throat tight. “i just… i don’t know. everyone’s doing something, moving somewhere. and i’m just—” you wave your hand weakly, voice breaking into a whisper, “—nothing.”

he doesn’t move closer. not yet. he leans against the counter, eyes on you, his silence heavy enough to make you squirm. then, finally, his voice cuts through it — low, deliberate.

“nothing, huh?”

you press your palms to your eyes, your breath stuttering. “i don’t mean— it’s just— it feels like i’m behind. like i’m wasting everything. like the world keeps spinning and i’m— stuck.”

he watches you for another moment before pushing off the counter and walking over, slow but deliberate. he crouches down in front of you, knees bent, forearms resting loosely on his thighs. he looks at you like he’s studying something fragile — not because he’s careful, but because he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.

“stuck,” he repeats. “that’s your grand theory of existence tonight?”

you frown, voice shaky. “don’t make fun of me.”

“i’m not,” he says easily. “just trying to figure out who you’re racing.”

you blink. “what?”

“you said you’re behind,” he says, tilting his head slightly, eyes sharp but not unkind. “behind who?”

you look down, unable to answer.

he exhales through his nose, slow, almost amused. “exactly. you don’t even know who the hell you’re losing to, and you’re crying about it.”

your lip trembles, and you hate that it does, but he notices. he always notices. he sighs quietly, the sound like thunder pressed into velvet, and reaches out to grab your wrist.

“come here.”

you hesitate, but he doesn’t give you time to refuse — just tugs you forward until you’re between his knees, his arms looping around your waist, your face pressed against his chest. the sudden warmth makes something inside you break. your breath catches, uneven, and you try to speak again, but your words tangle into sobs.

“hey, hey—” he mutters, voice rough now, hands tightening around you. “stop that. you’re making my shirt wet.”

you let out a small, shaky laugh that’s closer to a gasp, but he doesn’t move away. his chin rests against the top of your head. you can feel his heartbeat — slow, stubborn, real — against your cheek.

“it’s not funny,” you whisper.

“it is a little,” he says, his tone softer than his words. “you think the world’s running off somewhere without you. as if you could miss something meant for you.”

you pull back enough to look up at him, still crying. “and what if there’s nothing meant for me?”

his hand moves instantly, palm cupping your jaw, thumb brushing under your chin. “then i’ll carve something out for you myself,” he says simply. “don’t need the world’s permission for that.”

your breath hitches. “you can’t just—”

“i can do whatever the hell i want,” he cuts in. “and right now, i want you to stop trying to measure yourself against ghosts.”

you open your mouth to argue, but the words stumble out too fast, too jumbled — “but i can’t— i can’t stop thinking about it, about how i’m wasting time, how i’m not doing enough, how i’ll never—”

you don’t get to finish. your breathing skips, falters, your chest tightening, hands trembling as you try to steady yourself but the air won’t cooperate.

“shit,” he mutters immediately, his hands coming up to hold your face. “hey, hey, slow down.”

you shake your head, panicking. “i— can’t— it’s— it hurts—”

“look at me,” he says sharply, but not unkindly. “right here.” his thumb presses against your bottom lip until your gaze meets his. “good. now breathe.” he inhales, long and slow, exaggerated enough that you can hear it. “do it with me.”

you try, but your breaths come out shallow, breaking in the middle. “it’s not working—”

“then i’ll do it for you,” he mutters, pulling you forward until your forehead rests against his mouth. his breath brushes your skin as he inhales again, slow, deep, steady, the warmth of it grounding you. “feel that? match it.”

you mimic him, shakily, and he murmurs, “again,” his voice dropping even lower, almost like a growl now, but softer at the edges. “good. again.”

eventually your breathing evens out, and he relaxes his hold just enough to wipe the tears from your face with the back of his hand.

“you good?”

you nod weakly, voice small. “a little.”

“liar,” he says, but the corner of his mouth curves slightly. he presses a thumb against your chin again, tipping your face up. “you wanna know something?”

you hum, still trying to steady yourself.

“i don’t believe in all that crap people say about success,” he says, tone somewhere between disdain and tenderness. “life’s not a ladder. it’s a goddamn pit. everyone’s just climbing whatever side they can grab. some of us find a ledge and stay there. that’s not failure. that’s peace.”

you blink up at him. “you make it sound so simple.”

“it is simple,” he replies. “the rest of the world just likes making noise about it.”

he leans forward slightly, forehead brushing yours. “listen,” he says quietly, almost like a secret, “you don’t owe anything to the calendar. not the clock, not the crowd. you move when you’re ready. and if you never move at all, that’s fine. you can rot in gold beside me for all i care.”

you let out a weak laugh. “that’s your version of comfort?”

he smirks, thumb tracing the corner of your mouth. “you didn’t seem to mind.”

he shifts, pulling you closer until you’re practically sitting on his lap, your cheek pressed against his throat. his hands settle around you, possessive in their gentleness, his fingers resting on the curve of your back.

after a long stretch of silence, his voice returns — low, sincere this time. “you think you’re behind, but the truth is, you’re still standing. i’ve seen people quit halfway and call it peace. you? you keep showing up even when it hurts. that’s something.”

your eyes sting again, but you don’t cry this time.

“don’t compare yourself to noise,” he mutters, lips brushing your temple. “you’re not built for that. you’re the pause in the middle of the chaos. and i happen to like that quiet.”

he stays like that for a while — no more words, no pretense, just you breathing against him, the world outside flickering in the windows like it’s holding its breath too.

when he finally speaks again, it’s almost an afterthought.

“next time you think you’re falling behind,” he murmurs, “remember—time only moves when you do. so if you stop, the world stops with you. and i’ll be right here, waiting in the dark, until you decide to move again.”

and then he kisses your forehead — slow, deliberate, the kind of touch that feels like a promise disguised as a threat — before whispering, “now stop crying. it’s starting to make me feel something, and i can’t have that.”

but he doesn’t let go. not for a long, long while.

SHIU KONG

the sound of rain against the window was soft, lazy—almost mocking in how gentle it was compared to the storm inside your head. the penthouse was quiet, too quiet. no music, no hum of television, not even the faint city noise could find its way through the double-glazed glass. it was just you, cross-legged on the floor by the window, still wearing your silk pajamas, hair messy, face streaked with dried tears, staring blankly at nothing and everything at once.

you didn’t hear the elevator door slide open. didn’t hear the wet click of shoes against marble, or the sound of a coat being tossed carelessly on the couch. you only registered him when you felt the shift in the air, that subtle static that always came with shiu—too composed to call attention to himself, too perceptive not to notice when something was wrong.

“you didn’t answer the door,” he says, his tone mild, almost conversational. his steps are soft, measured. “i had to use the override code.”

you don’t look up. your voice is barely there when it comes out. “sorry.”

he doesn’t reply immediately. just slips his hands into his pockets, his tall frame casting a faint shadow over you. when he finally speaks again, it’s low, flat, the kind of quiet that hides a thousand different worries. “what happened.”

it isn’t a question; it’s a command dressed as one.

you swallow hard. your fingers twist in the fabric of your pants. “nothing. i’m just— tired.”

his jaw flexes. “tired looks different.”

you don’t answer, and that’s all it takes for him to kneel down beside you, slow and deliberate, one knee pressing against the carpet. the movement is elegant, careful—the kind of grace that only comes from someone who’s spent their life calculating the weight of every step.

he studies you for a second, his eyes tracing the faint redness around yours, the tremor in your hands. “you’ve been crying,” he murmurs.

“everyone cries sometimes,” you whisper.

“not you,” he says simply. “not like this.”

you try to hold it in—whatever it is—but your throat betrays you. “i just… feel like i’m not doing anything,” you say finally, voice breaking on the last word. “everyone’s moving forward, getting somewhere. and i’m just—here. doing nothing. being nothing.”

his expression doesn’t change, but his gaze sharpens slightly, as if the words have cut through something in him. he doesn’t speak for a moment; instead, he pulls his hand out of his pocket and places it gently under your chin, tilting your face up until you meet his eyes.

“don’t do that,” he says quietly.

you blink. “do what?”

“confuse stillness with failure.”

your breath catches. “it’s not confusion. it’s— it’s this feeling, like i’m falling behind, like everyone’s building something and i’m—” your voice shakes, hands clenching in your lap. “i can’t catch up. i can’t—”

you start talking faster, faster than your lungs can handle, the words tumbling over one another, your breaths shortening until they start breaking, fractured little gasps between half-sentences.

“—i keep planning things, i swear i do, but nothing changes, i wake up and it’s the same, i can’t do anything right, i can’t—”

“stop,” shiu says suddenly, sharp enough that you freeze. but there’s no anger in his tone. only precision. “look at me.”

you try to, but your vision is already blurring, your chest tightening painfully, panic rising like a tide you can’t fight. your hands tremble violently. “i can’t— i can’t breathe—”

he moves before you can fall apart completely. one smooth motion—he’s seated behind you, pulling you back against his chest, one arm wrapping around your torso, the other sliding under your jaw to keep your head upright.

“hey,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly low and grounding, the kind of tone that vibrates through bone. “slow down. you’re safe. i’ve got you.”

his palm spreads over your sternum, firm pressure anchoring your heartbeat. “breathe here,” he whispers against your ear. “with me.”

his breath is steady, calculated—he inhales, slow and deliberate, then exhales through his nose, a rhythm for you to follow. “in,” he says softly. “out. again.”

you try to match him, but it’s shaky, broken.

“good,” he murmurs. “again. don’t force it. just… follow the sound.”

his hand moves, tracing lazy circles against your ribs, the heat of his touch pulling you back to your body. your breathing evens out, slowly, painfully, until your lungs finally stop fighting. he stays like that, his chest rising and falling behind you, his voice a low hum against your hair.

after a long silence, he speaks again. “you know what your problem is?”

you sniffle, your voice small. “what?”

“you think the world’s a scoreboard.”

you blink, confused.

he continues, “you look around, see other people moving, and you start counting. how much they’ve done. how much you haven’t. it’s a sickness,” he says, tone flat but not cruel. “comparison. the most quiet kind of self-destruction.”

you swallow hard. “so what am i supposed to do?”

“nothing,” he says. “for once in your life, nothing.”

you frown weakly. “that sounds… stupid.”

he huffs a small laugh against your neck, but it’s soft, fond. “it does. but it’s the only thing that works.” his thumb brushes under your jaw again, a small grounding gesture. “you’re not meant to keep up with anyone. you’re meant to live. that’s all.”

you tilt your head slightly, your voice trembling. “what if i never figure out how?”

he hums thoughtfully. “then i’ll make sure you don’t forget you’re alive.”

you look down, your hands still shaking faintly in your lap. “you make it sound easy.”

“it’s not,” he says simply. “but you complicate it more than it needs to be.”

he shifts you slightly, so you’re sitting sideways across his lap now, his arm still around you, his fingers tracing slow lines down your spine.

“you don’t need to move mountains to prove you’re living,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “sometimes you just have to breathe through the hours and wait for the world to stop spinning so fast.”

your eyes close, exhaustion bleeding into your bones. “and if it doesn’t stop?”

his lips brush the side of your head. “then we build our own quiet.”

the words are simple, but they hit something deep. you stay silent for a while, your head pressed against his chest, his hand resting over your heartbeat. his thumb draws slow, steady circles over your wrist.

after a long stretch of silence, he adds, in that offhand way of his that makes every word sound like a promise, “you can fall apart here if you want. i’ve got enough hands to pick you back up.”

you let out a small, broken laugh. “you think you can handle that?”

“i’ve handled worse things than love,” he says, tone soft and final. “this one’s easy.”

he doesn’t speak again after that. doesn’t need to. he just holds you, lets you melt against him, the rain blurring the city lights into something soft and unrecognizable.

and when your breathing finally steadies, when your eyes flutter shut, he whispers against your skin—barely audible, like he’s saying it to the air rather than to you—

“you don’t have to chase anything. not while i’m here. not ever.”

his hand lingers at the back of your neck, his thumb resting on your pulse, as if to make sure it remembers how to keep going.

HIGURUMA HIROMI

the apartment was still except for the ticking of the clock on the far wall — that precise, unyielding rhythm that higuruma hated on nights like this. it made the silence louder, stretched it, made it echo. the kind of quiet that felt expensive and hollow, like the world outside the glass walls had disappeared.

he found you sitting on the floor by the bookshelf, your back to the wall, your knees pulled up, the soft spill of lamplight pooling over your bare feet. your phone was beside you, facedown, your breathing too shallow, too uneven to mistake for calm. he stopped in the doorway and watched you for a moment — the stillness of you, the way your shoulders trembled almost imperceptibly.

“you’re not asleep,” he said, voice low, even.

you didn’t look up. “you can hear that from the hallway now?”

he slipped off his blazer, set it neatly on the armchair, loosened his tie. “i can hear everything you don’t say.”

a laugh escaped you, small and cracked. “that’s creepy.”

“it’s accurate.”

he came closer, not fast, not cautious — just certain. there was always something deliberate about the way higuruma moved, like he refused to disturb the air more than necessary. he crouched down in front of you, forearms resting loosely on his knees, head tilted slightly as he studied your face.

“talk to me,” he said quietly. “what’s wrong?”

you shook your head, staring down at your hands. “it’s nothing.”

“nothing doesn’t make you sit on the floor at midnight.”

“maybe i just wanted to sit.”

his lips curved faintly, humorless. “you always choose the most uncomfortable way to suffer.”

you looked up at him then, eyes wet, voice trembling. “i just—” your throat closed around the words. “—i feel like i’m standing still and everyone else is sprinting. like i blinked and the world moved on without me.”

he didn’t respond. not right away. he leaned back slightly, one hand braced against the floor, and said, “what makes you think the world knows where it’s going?”

you frowned, frustrated. “that’s not—”

“it’s exactly that,” he interrupted softly. “you think everyone’s moving because they’re ahead of you. maybe they’re just lost in a different direction.”

your breath hitched. “then why does it hurt so much?”

he hummed quietly, gaze lowering to your trembling fingers. “because you think being still means being left behind.”

that was the breaking point — your chest heaved, your voice tripping over itself as you spoke faster and faster, panic crawling up your throat. “i can’t— i can’t stop thinking about it, i wake up and i feel like i’m wasting time, i keep making lists and plans and nothing happens, nothing changes— i try to work, to move, to do something but it’s— it’s like i’m trapped in glass and everything outside is moving without me, i can’t—”

you choke on the words, the air cutting off in your lungs, your heartbeat stuttering out of rhythm.

he’s on his knees in an instant, his hands cupping your face, voice sharp but controlled. “breathe.”

you shake your head, gasping. “i— can’t—”

“look at me.” his tone shifts — calm but commanding, like he’s in a courtroom and you’re the only witness that matters. “eyes on me.”

you do. barely. his eyes are steady, dark gold in the lamplight, and somehow that steadiness pulls you back from the edge.

“inhale,” he says. you try. it catches halfway. “again,” he repeats, slower this time. he mirrors it — breath in, breath out — his thumbs stroking your jaw, grounding you. “there. again.”

your breathing stutters, then evens out. the panic leaves in ragged fragments.

he exhales softly, his hands still framing your face. “good,” he murmurs. “stay here.”

you close your eyes, exhausted. “i’m sorry.”

he frowns faintly. “for what?”

“for falling apart again.”

his tone sharpens, quiet but firm. “don’t apologize for being human in front of me.”

your voice is small. “it feels pathetic.”

“pathetic is pretending it doesn’t happen,” he says simply. “this—” his thumb brushes a tear off your cheek “—is honesty. the world could use more of that.”

you let out a shaky laugh. “you always turn things into philosophy.”

“that’s because truth’s easier to digest when you dress it in words,” he says dryly. “but if you want plain language…” he leans closer, his forehead touching yours. “you’re allowed to feel lost. i’d be worried if you didn’t.”

your voice breaks again. “and what if i never find direction?”

“then stay lost with me for a while,” he says. “we’ll make it a home.”

you huff out a tearful laugh. “you make it sound easy.”

“it isn’t,” he says, brushing his thumb over your lower lip. “but it doesn’t have to be complicated either.”

the silence that follows is softer, warmer. he shifts, sits beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. you lean into him automatically. he loops an arm around you, drawing you closer until your head rests against his shoulder.

after a long moment, he speaks again, quieter now, as if confessing something to the night rather than to you.

“you know what terrifies me?” he says.

you tilt your head slightly. “what?”

“how much people rush toward things without ever stopping to ask if they even want them. titles. numbers. applause. they call it purpose, but it’s panic with good branding.”

you listen, your fingers tracing the edge of his sleeve.

“you don’t need to keep up,” he continues. “you need to breathe long enough to remember what it feels like to exist without measuring it.”

your voice is barely a whisper. “and if i forget again?”

“then i’ll remind you,” he says immediately, without hesitation.

you glance up at him. “how?”

he looks down at you, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “probably the same way i remind myself—by stubbornly refusing to give up on you.”

that breaks something soft inside you. your eyes sting again, but this time you let the tears fall, quiet, unhidden. he doesn’t wipe them away; he just pulls you closer, his chin resting on top of your head, his hand tracing idle circles against your back.

“you’re too hard on yourself,” he murmurs eventually. “you treat life like a trial and yourself as the defendant. you forget you’re also the jury. the one who gets to decide what’s enough.”

you laugh weakly through your tears. “that’s not how juries work.”

he hums, amused. “maybe not. but i never said i play fair.”

the clock ticks again — once, twice — softer now, less sharp somehow. you close your eyes, listening to it, the rhythm steadying against the quiet of his breathing.

after a long silence, he says, “you don’t have to do anything tonight. not think, not plan, not fix it. just let me hold you until the noise gets tired of itself.”

you nod, too tired to answer.

he tightens his arm around you, the motion subtle, protective. “the world can run without you for a while,” he whispers, his tone sinking into something almost tender. “it won’t collapse.”

you exhale slowly, your body unwinding against him.

“that’s it,” he murmurs. “stay.”

and when you finally fall asleep against him, head resting against his shoulder, the last thing you feel is the steady rise and fall of his chest — the quiet promise of a man who’s lived long enough to know that sometimes the only cure for chaos is stillness, and sometimes stillness is something worth sharing.

CHOSO KAMO

the first thing he notices is the smell. not something obvious like perfume or food, but that subtle, stale sweetness of air that hasn’t been moved in hours — a room where someone’s been sitting too still.

the clock in the corner blinks 2:17 a.m. choso stands there by the door for a second, still wearing his coat, hair damp from the rain. he doesn’t call your name. doesn’t make noise. he just watches. you’re sitting on the couch, cross-legged, the tv flickering faint blue light over your face — a documentary playing on mute. there’s a blanket on your lap, untouched, your fingers twisting it until it’s wrinkled beyond saving.

he exhales softly through his nose and moves closer, the sound of his boots quiet against the carpet. “you haven’t slept.”

you don’t look up. “couldn’t.”

he stands behind the couch, hands resting on the top edge. “how long have you been sitting here?”

you shrug. “since it got dark, maybe.”

“that was eight hours ago.”

“yeah.”

he studies you for another beat, then walks around to the front and sits on the coffee table across from you, close enough that your knees almost touch. the silence hums between you like a low note. he leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low.

“talk to me.”

you give him a weak, hollow laugh. “about what? how i’m losing to a clock?”

his brows furrow, faintly. “losing?”

“yeah,” you whisper, the word cracking. “i feel like everyone’s already—” you gesture vaguely toward the window, to the city lights spilling in, “—out there, building things, moving forward. and i’m just… stuck here. waiting for something that never happens.”

he doesn’t respond right away. instead, he looks down at your hands, still twisting the blanket. after a pause, he reaches out and stops them — his fingers closing over yours, firm, grounding.

“you’ve been waiting for the wrong thing,” he says quietly.

you blink up at him, confused. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“you think progress is a place,” he replies, voice slow, thoughtful. “a destination. it’s not. it’s breathing when you don’t want to. it’s eating when you’re not hungry. it’s surviving the boring days without tearing yourself apart.”

you stare at him. “that’s not enough.”

he meets your eyes, unflinching. “it’s everything.”

and somehow, that makes it worse. your throat tightens, the words spilling before you can catch them. “no, it’s not— i’m wasting time, i can feel it, i wake up and it’s already gone, i can’t—” your breath starts to come fast, shallow, your chest rising unevenly. “everyone’s getting somewhere, and i— i can’t move, i can’t breathe, i can’t—”

he’s up before you realize it, sliding onto the couch beside you in one fluid motion. his arm finds your waist instantly, pulling you into him until your side fits against his chest.

“hey,” he murmurs, voice deep but steady, “breathe.”

you shake your head, words dissolving into sobs. “i can’t—”

he turns your face toward him, his palm against your cheek, his thumb catching the tears before they fall too far. “look at me,” he says. it’s not a demand, it’s a tether. his eyes are steady, warm and dark in the half-light. “look right here.”

you do, barely.

“good,” he whispers. “now match me.”

he inhales slowly, long enough that you feel the rise of his chest against your arm, then exhales through his nose, the rhythm deliberate. “again,” he says. “don’t think. just copy me.”

you try — shaky, uneven, but you follow. his hand doesn’t leave your face. every time your breath catches, he murmurs something under it — quiet, half-words, almost a hum. “that’s it… there you go… you’re okay.”

when your breathing finally steadies, he leans back against the couch, pulling you fully into his lap. it’s instinctual, protective. you let him, too tired to fight it.

after a while, he speaks again, voice softer now, the edges worn down. “you know what I think?”

you sniffle. “what.”

“the world keeps lying to people like you,” he says. “it tells you there’s a finish line. that if you run fast enough, you’ll catch peace. but peace isn’t something you chase.” his hand slides up to your back, tracing lazy patterns there. “it’s something you drag into whatever mess you’re standing in.”

you breathe out a shaky laugh. “you make it sound like i have control.”

“you do.”

“i don’t.”

“you do,” he insists gently. “you decided to stay tonight. that’s control. you could’ve walked out, disappeared, but you didn’t.”

you sigh, burying your face against his shoulder. “you make it sound so small.”

he hums. “that’s because small things are what keep you alive.”

there’s a long pause. your fingers curl into his shirt, and he tightens his hold around you, chin resting on top of your head.

“you ever watch the sky before it rains?” he asks suddenly.

you blink against his chest. “what?”

“it holds everything until it can’t anymore,” he says. “then it breaks. and the breaking feeds everything below it. that’s not failure. that’s release.”

your throat aches. “so i’m supposed to be grateful for falling apart?”

“no,” he murmurs. “just don’t apologize for it.”

you let out a quiet, broken laugh. “you make it sound poetic.”

“it’s not poetry,” he says. “it’s weather.”

the city hums faintly outside, the rain picking up again, soft against the windows. he traces a thumb under your jaw, catching the last of your tears.

“stop comparing your pace to noise,” he says quietly. “you’re not a clock. you’re a tide. you move when it’s time.”

you don’t reply. your head lolls against his chest, exhaustion pulling you under. he keeps talking, though, his voice low, rhythmic — something to fill the quiet so you don’t have to.

“you’re allowed to rest,” he says, “even when nothing’s done. you’re allowed to breathe even when the air feels borrowed.”

when he’s sure you’ve drifted, he whispers one last thing, words meant for the dark more than for you.

“and if the world doesn’t wait for you,” he says softly, “i will.”

You rolled your eyes, holding the intercom button for your headset and mumbling a half arsed apology to the old man.

The mundanity of sticking yellow labels on stale sandwiches wasn’t much of a reprise, but better now than later, trying to juggle the task with managing the till after 5pm.

A static ridden Espresso by Sabrina Carpenter fizzled out from the rattled speakers for the third time that day. You made a mental note to switch the radio station when your manager next stepped out for his smoke break.

Mid-way through peeling off a rogue yellow sticker from your finger a faint cigarette smell entered your bubble. Eyes widening, you hurriedly stood up, expecting to see your pot-bellied manager about to besmirch you for something new. “I’ve just finished up here, I’ll go sort th─”

In that moment, you were thankful that it wasn’t your manager. In hindsight, you wished it was.

It was a customer; a broad-shouldered, muscular, 6’2 mountain of a man who had to have been at least twice your age. With a half present expression on his face, he’d fixed you with a largely irritated stare, green eyes half closed and devoid of any warmth.

“Oh, sorry.” You laughed a little too loudly. “I thought you were my manager, I-”

“Yeah. You mind serving me, missy?” He cocked his toward the counter, scarred lip twitching as he spoke.

Your eyes darted down, finally noticing the myriad of items he was sporting. “Um, yeah, yeah. Of course. Sorry, I was just preoccupied with…”

You wavered off at the end of your sentence, noticing that he hadn’t even registered your words and was already lumbering over to the counter. With a swallow to help alleviate your dry throat, you scurried after him.

The adverts for the radio finally ended, and a fuzzy recreation of Escapism by Raye filled the low ambience of the store. The beeps from the register were uncharacteristically louder than usual as you scanned his items, accompanying the mortified thumping of your heart from your encounter. Occasionally, you would push something across the scanner and his long, impatient fingers brushed against yours. Very unintentionally too you would add. While each touch had you frantically glancing up at him to share in some meaningless exchange of words, he seemed otherwise unaffected or completely oblivious.

“Some Marlboro Golds too.” He grunted, unceremoniously dumping the last pack of minced meat in the bag.

You nodded, turning away to grab a pack off the shelf. “Anything else?”

“Nah.”

“Thirty-two ninety then, please.” You shifted your weight between feet, holding back winces at the pain from being stood for hours. An attempt was certainly made in being discrete while observing the man digging around in his back pocket for a wallet. He had a mop of black hair, crudely cut in a way to clearly just keep it out of his face. It seemed to work for him though, adding to his overall scruffy, rugged appearance. Ogling his figure was a bit more of a challenge with the tattered brown-green jacket he wore, but your eyes honed in on the skin that exposed itself while he reached for his money. Tanned, with the hint of a v-line poking out from his stained jeans. Even when he pulled out a few notes, the money looked like the Monopoly equivalent in his grip, dwarfed by long fingers that could singlehandedly wrap around your arm.

You hurriedly averted your gaze as you noticed him fixing you with deadpan eyes, the ghost of a smirk on his lips as he caught you staring him down.

Rummaging around in the cash drawer for his change relieved some of the stuffy air around your face, and you quickly sent him off with a general thank you and please come again before he sauntered out of the door.

You grimaced, feeling a pathetic wave of embarrassment and self-pity at the god-awful interaction. Looking at the time provided no reprieve either; your eye twitched at the mocking blink of the clock on your screen ─ four hours left till the end of your shift.

Waking up for work at the ass crack of dawn was never easy. Not to mention, you were still supposed to be asleep. It was only last night that your boss had texted you, pleading for you to cover for the other girl that worked with you. Apparently, she had tonsillitis and needed to visit the doctor’s for a prescription. You were initially tempted to rat her out, remembering very clearly how she giggled to you during handover that she was spending the night at some boy’s house the next town over. A small spike of bitterness, pathetic since she was one of the only acquaintances you had. Everyone else had moved on with their lives. Who were you to decline, especially when you quite literally needed the money. You’d reluctantly agreed.

The next morning continued to be a struggle, largely since the shower suddenly decided to run ice cold. You ran out gasping and heaving with temperature shock, beginning to regret your decision. It didn’t help that you were already late. Before the change in plans you were already halfway through smoking a joint and binge watching some garbage on Netflix, a terrible mix for an early start. At least the shower’s frozen onslaught managed to beat the remainders of sleep out of you. The remaining fifteen minutes in your apartment was spent barraging your incompetent landlord with calls in an attempt to get your water working, but to no avail.

Still, all things considered you managed to get into work only ten minutes late, apologising profusely to your less than pleased manager and speeding through opening up in an attempt to compensate.

A couple hours later you were stood mindlessly at the till, scratching away some of the grime with a loose penny when a customer walked in. Your heart seemed to stop for a moment when you recognised the man you served yesterday. He didn’t even notice you, releasing an exaggerated yawn as he disappeared behind the bread stand.

You fixed your posture in anticipation, applied a quick layer of lip gloss and completed a couple smell checks just as he approached. It was unfortunate that the uniform you threw on that morning had been sat in a suspicious pile in your room; your fleece jacket sported an odd-looking stain that you vaguely remember brushing off multiple times already that week.

The man dropped a fifteen carton of eggs on the counter, hardly sparing you a second glance as he reached into his pocket again.

For some unknown reason you felt a spike of confidence that morning, deciding fuck it after you’d already had a considerably shitty start to your day.

“Forget these yesterday?” You asked nervously.

You wanted to slap yourself when the return customer paused for a beat, studying your face. “Huh?”

Well.

In his defence, Toji Fushiguro was far too preoccupied with the scratch cards he saw behind the till. It took him a few seconds before recognition settled in and your face became familiar.

“Oh. Yeah. Woke up and had no breakfast.” He offered, internally hoping you’d just leave him alone. He never enjoyed talking much to service workers, it was all the same rubbish that they spewed in hopes of getting a measly promotion. Some small kernel in the far depths of his mind felt a little bad at your crestfallen expression though, so he decided to entertain you that day.

You beamed, gently putting the eggs in a carrier bag as you chatted. “Well that makes two of us. I didn’t get a chance this morning after my shower decided to give up on me.”

Toji held eye contact with you, doing his best to pretend he remotely gave a shit.

Where were those fucking coins?

You babbled on, rambling about your “deadbeat” landlord that you seemed to hold some disdain for. Your words went in one ear and out the other as he dug around in his pocket; a futile attempt at scrounging up the very change you gave him yesterday. Eventually he gave up.

“Yeah, shitty way to start the day.” He muttered, patting his pockets absentmindedly.

“Forget your wallet?” You asked, round eyes watching him through your lashes. For someone who had just been complaining you appeared a little eager that morning. His ego concluded that you were just enjoying his unintentional lingering too much, a fact that made the cogs start turning in his head.

“Must’ve left it at home.” He paused for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly as he wondered how to approach the situation. “Hate to ask you this kid, but d’ya think you could help me out this time?”

He noticed you shift a little, eyes drifting over to the door to the back of the shop, presumably where your boss was. “I mean, we’re not supposed to, but…”

Toji’s usual blunt tactics needed a little refinement, apparently. “Ah.”

He faintly recalled you mentioned something about your shower. “What if I can do somethin’ for you? I’ll come look at your broke shower.”

Your face lit up. “You’re a plumber?”

He shrugged and grunted unconcernedly, fixing you with a calculating look. “Yeah, somethin’ like that. Used to help out my old man when he was around.”

Your expression changed, and you started picking at your fingers. “Oh. Sorry…”

Toji snorted. “Don’t be daft. Don’t mind helping out if y’need me to.”

You took a final glance over to the back of the shop before sighing defeatedly. “Alright, I’ll cover you.”

Easy win.

“Thanks kid.”

Toji watched thoughtfully as you dug around your purse for loose change, wondering if he could afford to be stupid here.

“Hey. D’ya mind throwing in a couple a’those scratch cards?”

After exchanging numbers with the man - Toji as he informed you, he let you know he’d come over later that evening. You watched his retreating form disappear into the morning fog, nervously chewing the inside of your cheek.

For a somewhat jarring start to the day you felt quite satisfied with yourself, hitting two birds with one stone. Most importantly, your water was getting fixed. You tried not to linger too much on the fact that this man, someone you barely knew and who you had no business getting involved with, was coming to your flat.

In fact, the longer you thought about it the more of a bad decision it became. And no, not because he was near old enough to be your father, not even because the stench of instability hung around him like those Marlboro Golds. It was you, you and your crippling insecurity that made you want to look the other way. For Christ’s sakes, he didn’t even recognise you and it had only been a day. As you rummaged around the till in hopes of looking busy, you couldn’t help asking yourself what you actually thought was going to happen.

You were young, a very average looking girl in a world full of people that he could do whatever with at a wave of his hand. Sure, maybe you had a nice pair of tits, but that didn’t solve the problem. Texting him to not bother would be a split second decision that you knew would ultimately be in your favour.

Later, you were closing up shop when you found your mind still on the matter. Conceivably, you were reading into it too much. It was clear that in his eyes he was just doing you a favour, all because he didn’t have enough money on him to pay for a few eggs apparently. Even as you walked home you fancied that the universe was swaying you. It was freezing outside, trees swaying in the chill breeze and ground crunching beneath your boots.

No one was around that night. The day had been endless, pulling a double shift after a groggy start had you retreating even further into yourself. The walk home reminded you of how lonely you were. Your whole life had been strings of disappointment, you seemed to move through people’s lives like a ghost, not leaving a significant mark despite how badly you wanted to. Maybe this was a chance, something you could turn into a memorable experience.

An hour or so later you were frantically cleaning your living room, cursing yourself for your lack of organisation. You weren’t messy per se, just neglectful. Your jacket was in a crumpled heap on the floor and the side table had an array of your papers, grinder and weed dustings from the night before. The shower you endured had been a quick ordeal in its current state, but you were very aware of the sate of your leg hair and gritted your teeth against the pain.

After the frenzied clean you settled on your sofa, twiddling your thumbs as you blinked down at your phone, your empty chat with Toji staring right back at you.

20:19, the time read.

You wondered if he was already on his way, and if texting him would just piss him off. He didn’t seem too eager at coming to help, but he was the one who offered anyway.

Five minutes later, you gave in to the anticipation.

────────────

New message recipient: toji

---

You: hey, you still coming?

────────────

Toji was mid-piss when his phone buzzed.

He scratched his back lazily while peering over to the bathroom counter, doing his best to ensure his stream remained on target. From the distance he couldn’t make out what the message said, but it was sent over from an unsaved number.

Maybe it’s that prick with my money, he wondered to himself.

A quick shake later, he tucked himself away and grabbed his phone to open the notification.

────────────

Conversation with: 123-456-789      

---

123-456-789: hey, you still coming?

────────────

The message was a bit ominous. He had no clue who was expecting him on a Friday, especially at this time of the night. Toji racked his brain, trying to remember if he saved that woman he fucked last week’s number, but no, he recalls he didn’t. She had a tinny voice that made him wince every time she spoke, never mind how she sounded in bed. Never wanted to see her again. He huffed, adjusting his shorts as he retreated into his kitchen.

Then who was it? He spent a couple more seconds deliberating before concluding that he didn’t care if he was being rude. Clearly this person wasn’t important if he hadn’t even bothered saving the number.

────────────

Conversation with: 123-456-789      

---

123-456-789: hey, you still coming?

You: whos this

────────────

A couple seconds later Toji’s phone pinged again. His thumb swiped against cracks on the screen as he pulled the chat open again.

────────────

Conversation with: 123-456-789      

---

123-456-789: hey, you still coming?

You: whos this

123-456-789: ouch lol

123-456-789: the girl whose shower you so generously offered to fix

────────────

Oh shit. He’d forgotten about that, assuming you’d think he was just trying to sweeten you up. Then again, maybe you asking to exchange phone numbers was a clear enough sign. Toji grumbled, lying back on his cracked leather two-seater and kicking his slides off. The TV blared in the background, a telecoms advert flickering across the screen as he waited for the race results. His attention was divided, intermittently wondering if he could ignore you and hope you just forgot about it. No, it technically wasn’t a favour because he had no business offering you one; he owed you after you covered the cost for his eggs.

“Fuckssake.”

If only he’d remembered the damn eggs the first time.

As immensely unappealing leaving his flat in this weather was, Toji knew he’d better go and follow through. He wasn’t sure if you’d grass him to your manager, and they were just eggs, but he’d had enough aggravating encounters with the man to know that showing his face after not paying would cause another problem he didn’t need. The store was close enough to not want to miss out on the convenience.

────────────

Conversation with: 123-456-789      

---

123-456-789: hey, you still coming?

You: whos this

123-456-789: ouch lol

123-456-789: the girl whose shower you so generously offered to fix

You: ah shit my fault kid

You: yeah course, got caught up in stuff but i’ll be there in 20

────────────

An hour later he rocked up to your address. He almost didn’t change his clothes, but one step out of his front door immediately changed his mind. Even now as he waited for you to let him in he debated turning around and leaving. Just his luck though, a couple seconds later the door swung open and your smaller form appeared in the entranceway.

“Hey,” you smiled breathlessly.

“Hey.” Toji began, half lidded eyes taking you in. Now, few things could catch Toji off guard, but your appearance struck him by surprise. You were clad in the tiniest tank top known to man, the shorts that hung low on your hips following suit. One of your straps was falling off your shoulder, the black bra you wore underneath peeking over the low neckline. It wasn’t doing a great job however, as one of your nipples was half exposed over the cup. “Uh…”

You had been ripped from an impromptu nap when the buzzer for your flat door went off, sucking in a sharp breath as you sat up. Apparently you’d fallen asleep while waiting for your faux plumber to arrive, the hours of standing catching up to you. You rushed to your feet, hurrying over to the intercom to let him in. Toji’s “twenty minutes” had turned into just over an hour; even the hair you so meticulously arranged was now tired. You haphazardly tamed it with your hands as you reached the door, internally praying that you hadn’t drooled all over your chin as you pulled it open.

“Hey.”

Toji greeted you back in a gruff baritone, deep green eyes looking almost black in the darkness. He was clad in the same worn jacket, one hand curled around his toolbox handle. “Uh…”

He almost hesitated for a moment before pointing to your chest. “Your…”

“What…?” You trailed off, looking down at yourself to see your entire left breast almost out on display. “Oh shit…”

The older man’s lip twitched at your mortification, eyes burning into the top of your head as you quickly tucked yourself back in. “I’m already here, missy. Didn’t need to do any more convincin’.”

You couldn’t find the confidence to respond, cheeks burning as you stepped aside to let him in. Your plans to appear casual had manifested a little too literally.

“Let’s see the damage, then.” He continued, brushing past you to enter your flat.

You tried to push your embarrassment to the side as you cleared your throat. “Sorry for the mess. I haven’t had time to clean recently.”

A lie.

“S’aright.”

“Um, the bathroom’s just at the end of the hallway.” You pointed to the ajar door.

“You not hot in here?” He grimaced, setting his tools down to unzip his jacket.

You’d also left the heating on, it seems. A mistake that you normally never made, or could afford at that point in time. “Fucks’ sake. Yeah, a little. Let me turn the heating off. I’ll take your jacket.”

Toji dipped his chin in thanks, passing it off to you and shuffling towards your broken shower. His broad shoulders and impressive height seemed to shrink your flat; lumbering form almost completely taking up the cramped walkway. You couldn’t help but stare as he disappeared into the bathroom, heart thumping at the sight of his briefs above his sweats’ waistband.

You swiftly followed after him after dumping his jacket on your sofa. “Thanks again for helping me out. I really appreciate it.”

“All good.” He responded, kicking his boots off as he squeezed himself into the tight space. With anyone else you’d have made them take their shoes off at the front door, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care that day.

Besides, in your well lit bathroom you finally had a chance to get a better look at him. His arms were truly huge, muscles rippling as he began screwing off the shower head. Even through his black t-shirt, your eyes latched onto the bulges and dips of his back, eyes growing dry from staring.

“Any chance I can swipe a beer off you, kid?” He asked suddenly, turning his head to peer at you over his shoulder.

“Oh, uh… yeah, no problem.” You jumped at the rumble of his voice, mind far too muddled to notice his eyes follow you leave the room.

In the kitchen, you pulled open the fridge to grab a bottle from the six-pack you picked up. Beer wasn’t something you’d ever consider drinking yourself, of course. Just a lingering idea that you’d had on your way home, hospitality for your guest. As you cracked it open you began wondering if Toji already had kids, a thought that arguably should’ve crossed your mind long before. He was a good-looking man, which in itself was an understatement. You’d already found yourself growing wet a few times, just imagining what he’d be like in bed. And not just that either. Even the unplanned nap you’d had was clouded with dreams of him fucking you on multiple surfaces in your apartment.

You pinched your thigh on the way back to the bathroom, trying not to let your mind wander back to that place. As desperate as you were, you didn’t want to fall into one of those fantasies while he was still close. “Here you g- uh…”

When you returned, he was shirtless. The black tee draped over his shoulder as he fiddled with more parts in the shower head. The back you’d been drooling over before was on full display, a tanned expanse of skin and littered with scars. Your gaze keenly followed a single bead of sweat on its journey down his spine, watching it accelerate as it followed the curve all the way down to his sweats. Said sweats he was sporting hung even lower on his hips than before, the slight curve of his butt now above the hem.

You cleared your throat awkwardly, trying to make your presence known. “Hm. Got you that beer.”

Toji turned from what he was doing to look at you, pupils a pinprick under the bathroom light. “Oh. Thanks.”

You held your breath as he approached you, eyes widening at the sight of his chest. His pectorals glistened with a thin sheen of sweat, muscles involuntary tensing as he stepped towards you. The overhead lighting flickered as it cast shadows on his stomach, highlighting the faint definition of his abs. He was so big, stopping only a few inches in front of you as he took the bottle from your grip. Time seemed to come to a halt as those green eyes of his stayed fixed on yours, unmoving and watching you intensely as he necked the damn thing. Stubble flecked his jaw and jugular, Adam’s apple jumping with every gulp he took.

It was all so comical, you thought. From some conscious part of your mind you felt your face burning up as he stared, unblinking.

“Sorry. I got hot.” Toji remarked, handing you the empty bottle.

“No worries!” You squeaked, snatching the bottle from him and hightailing it out of there. For your own sanity you decided to leave him to it. There was no point lingering if your own body was set on disobeying and making you appear a dunce.

You settled on the sofa with a bottle of wine and flicked on Rick and Morty, mentally agreeing with the man.

It really was too hot in there.

A couple hours later Toji emerged from your bathroom, still shirtless. “Your cartridge needed changing. Should be good for now.”

You hopped up from the couch, catching yourself with a little difficulty. Your head was spinning after a little too much alcohol. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

The man waved you off, crouching down to pull his boots back on.

“Let me get you a water? Before you go?” You quipped, tilting your head to the side slightly.

“Yeah, sure.” Toji followed you into the kitchen, leaning back on the counter as you hummed a tune, waiting for the tap to run cold.

“You said you used to help your dad out with this stuff,” you began slowly. “Is that what you do now?”

“Nah. I’m not a plumber,” Toji grunted, pulling out his phone after a vibration. “Just do it for the extra cash.”

“Ah.” Your mind had already gone blank as you tried to think of a way to continue the dry conversation. “I thought you hated me, you know.”

That got his attention, and he looked up with a confused expression. “Huh?”

Your cheeks warmed again. “Because of the shop? You thought I was ignoring you.”

He snorted. “You’re overthinking, kid. I was just in a hurry.”

Yes, you were overthinking. You were also a little drunk, and intended to make good use of your liquid courage. You filled up a glass with the running tap and handed it over to him. “My boss was just mad at me. I think he hates me, y’know.”

Toji was silent, watching you play with your shorts as he guzzled down the water.

“I don’t know why. I pull the most shifts at that shitty place, too,” you added. You couldn’t help but cringe, noticing how it sounded like you hoped to impress him with your apparent good nature. You shrugged. “He’s a dick anyway.”

“Why d’you stay there then?” He muttered.

You laughed lowly. “I have to. There’s not much else in this shithole that pays enough.”

“Well,” he said. “Can’t blame you for that. You’re still young though. You have time to leave.”

You giggled, leaning back against the fridge and crossing your ankles.

“What’s funny?” He asked, eyes narrowing at your coy expression.

“Nothing…” you grinned. “Are you calling yourself old?”

He ignored your question. There was a heavy beat of silence as Toji analysed you, steely eyes judging your composure. “Y’been drinking.”

“Just a little.”

“How old are you anyway? Nineteen?”

“Close. M’twenty.” You paused for a second. “And I’m not drunk either. Just tipsy,”

Toji snorted. “Not even legal yet.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. “Why d’you care? I’m old enough.”

The double entendre of your words hung in the air, and you felt your core start fluttering against your shorts. The way Toji stared at you made you shiver, his dark lashes casting a shadow on his cheekbones. In all honesty, you had no idea what you were doing. You were drunk and horny, barely able to contain yourself in the close company of your kitchen. You felt your nipples stiffen, so much so that they poked through your tank top after you discarded your bra a while ago. It was almost a given that he’d noticed, too. He could probably see your rapidly rising chest, puffed out a little as your arms pressed behind you into the fridge. You rocked on your feet a little, breath quickening.

“Mm.” he hummed, eyes flicking up and down your figure. “Mind if I smoke?”

“No.”

Yes.

Another issue that you discarded in the moment. Even when you smoked, you would retreat to the balcony outside your front door.

However you shook your head this time, bottom lip catching beneath your teeth as you watched him reach for a cigarette from his pocket. The lighter cast a golden hue across his face as he cupped the end of the stick and you watched with dilated pupils as he inhaled the nicotine.

It was silent for a few moments, the ambient humming of your fridge behind you melting in with the hammering of your chest. You waited patiently, the wine giving you courage to keep the eye contact with the older man as long as he did. In that moment, you both know you’d do anything for his approval. You were certain that’s why he kept you waiting, unspoken words carried away with the smoke of his Marboloro Golds. He finally spoke.

“C’mere.”

You obeyed, hands still clasped behind your back as you stepped towards him. Feet silent as they padded across the cold kitchen floor, eyes saying all the words that needed to be said.

“Closer.”

Again, you obeyed. Close enough for his heady scent to add to the wine dizzying you. A deep, masculine scent, accompanied by the fading fragrance of his cologne. From this distance you could see the mole under his eye and the faint crow’s feet he developed over time.

Toji exhaled a puff of grey air above your head, tapping away the ash from his cigarette on the kitchen counter. “You’re a stupid girl, y’know.”

Your heavy lids fluttered at his words and you shrugged. “Shoot me.”

He huffed and extended one hand, resting it on your shoulder and pushing you down with a slight force.

You silently complied, lowering yourself to your knees and opening your mouth slightly. Releasing your hands from behind you, you reached up to rest them on his v-line, gently rubbing his skin as you pressed your mouth against the print in his sweats. He was already half-hard, cock growing in those briefs you’d been eyeing earlier. Your clit brushed against your panties; you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol in your substance or just your neediness, but you felt like your skin was on fire. The few encounters you’d had with other men had never felt as heavy as this.

You dragged your tongue along his clothed length, holding a breath at how big he was. He wasn’t even all the way there yet. With unbreaking eye contact you sucked on his tip through the fabric, thighs pressing at the small sound that rumbled in his throat. You didn’t want to tease him any longer, feeling his patience wearing thin at your ministrations. Gently, you curled your fingers under his waistband, pulling them down just far enough for his dick to spring up. At the sight of it you couldn’t hold back the sound that bubbled from your lips. He was long and thick, slightly darker than the further expanses of his skin. His tip was a dark pink colour, a bead of pre oozing from his slit. His balls hung low, cropped dark hair tickling your knuckles.

You curled one trembling hand around him, giving him a languid stroke as you directed his tip to your tongue. Toji was warm, considerably so in the lingering heat of your flat, and you relished in the salty, musky taste he left behind on your taste buds.

He grunted as you sucked him further into your mouth, increasing pressure for him as you formed a vacuum with your mouth. Drool began slipping from the corners of your mouth as you desperately tried to fit more of him in. One of his hands reached from the counter to wrap around the back of your head, his palm almost covering the entirety of your scalp. It shouldn’t have shocked you when he began pushing, forcing his cock deeper into your throat. He ignored your small gags as he began fucking your throat, and you hope he didn’t notice you throw up a little in your mouth. Thankfully, you managed to swallow it like a champ before making a mess.

It was a little disgusting in all honesty, but you squeezed your eyes shut against the pain and discomfort, desperate to please him. Despite the discomfort, your pussy was leaking in almost a steady stream, creating a little puddle in your panties. You were desperate for friction and shamefully used a free hand to try and discreetly rub your clit.

“Mphf─!” You keened, tears pricking in the corners of your eyes as you caught sight of Toji again. His lower lip was caught between his teeth, slightly pale from how hard he chewed it. A vein thrummed on the side of his neck in pleasure, and his gaze was fixed on the joining of your mouth and his cock. The wet noises with each push of your head filled the air, even louder than his heavy breathing and your shuffles.

You didn’t know how long it went on for, growing wetter with every schlick, schlick, schlick that reached your ears. “Fuck,” he grunted, finally pulling you off so you could catch a breath. You sucked air in, gasping as you watched him through damp lashes. You knew you looked a mess; mascara running, lips swollen from the constant rubbing and drool decorating your chin. You hurriedly pulled your hand from your panties, ashamed of how impatient you were. Not that it had done much either, with the pain of his ministrations and lack of air you could barely focus.

“Take off your top.” He instructed, one hand stroking his reddening cock. You staggered to your feet, face wincing from the pain in your knees, but obliged.

You peeled your tank top off, throwing it off to the side as he pulled you back in. Toji cupped your breast in one hand, tweaking your nipple as he lowered his mouth to the side of your neck. You squeaked in pleasure, the pressure from his lips cutting off some of your circulation and making you light-headed. His leaking tip trailed pre all over your stomach, fist brushing your stomach with every stroke of his cock. It was driving you insane. “Fuck, Toji…”

He grunted in response, pinching your nipple hard.

“Need you t─! F’me.” You panted, reaching around and dragging your nails down his back.

You didn’t need to say it again. He released your neck and pulled away, breathing deeply as his eyes darted up and down your face.

This time, he didn’t bother giving you any instructions. He slunk his arm around your waist and pushed you behind him, slotting himself behind you. You felt one of his hot palms grip the back on your neck, pushing you down onto the counter until your breasts were squashed against your chest. “Just like that, good girl.”

His other hand grabbed your shorts, using a little too much force to rip your shorts and panties down. Your face burned as he sneered at you, “There’s a fucking puddle here, kid. Didn’t know you were this desperate.”

“Sh-shut up,” you half mumbled, half whispered as he chuckled at your embarrassment. “You─ ah!”

He cut you off with his fingers, using two of them to smear your arousal over your pussy lips. Not that he needed to, anyway. It was already spreading all over your ass with his proximity. “Uh huh.”

You couldn’t even find it within yourself to argue, breath snatched away from the feeling of his fingers filling you up. With each stroke of his fingers you considered telling him it had been a while since you’d last been with anyone. Only two of them were already snatching your breath away, pleasure fading in and out between each gasp of air you made. The thought of taking his dick had you admittedly foaming at the mouth, but also left a deposit of fear in your barely present mind.

Toji’s cock pressed against your ass, and you could feel it throbbing with arousal with every thrust of his fingers. He hissed at the feeling of it stroking your ass, momentarily abandoning your core to grab a handful of your behind. “Should boycott that shop f’hiding you under that uniform.”

Your pussy twitched at his words and you loosed a breathy moan.

His touch abandoned you, until you felt the pressure of his tip swiping against your entrance. Shit, he felt bigger than you remembered. “Please…” you garbled, fingers clinging onto the worktop in desperation.

The hand on your neck squeezed a little harder, cutting off some of your oxygen and creating a delicious rush to your head. A beat, and he suddenly pushed himself all the way in. Your eyes widened from the shock, a silent yelp ripping from your throat. The pain was so intense you couldn’t help holding back tears, feeling every twitch as your walls stretched to accommodate him.

Toji gave you all of three seconds to adjust to him before he started slowly thrusting. With each rut of his hips the pain slowly ebbed, making way for raw pleasure. You mewled against the counter, lids cracked open a fraction as you relished in the feeling. “F-fuck…”

The tingling in your clit spread to your belly, and you gnawed your lip. He started moving faster, hips slapping your ass with increasing force until he was fucking into you so hard. The veins decorating his cock stroked your walls and added to the overwhelming pleasure you felt. At his deepest, his tip massaged some far part of your walls that had never been touched before, and you whined helplessly into the table. The scent of sex mixed in with the lingering stench of his cigarette, burying itself so deep in your mind in such a way that you could never forget. Toji’s bear hands both moved to your hips, digging into them with such fervour that you know would leave bruises behind.

“Pussy’s so fucking tight,” he hissed, leaning further over you until you felt his abs press against your back. “Fuck.”

Plap! Plap! Plap! Reverberated around the walls of your kitchen, driving you closer and closer to a point of minimal consciousness. It was almost a mantra in your mind as your voice pitched higher. “Daddy, shit…” You didn’t quite realise what you said until you felt him slow down to a halt. Your position felt too vulnerable. Prickles of embarrassed heat washed over you, pushing you to gather yourself and glance up at him.

Toji looked surprised for a moment; you saw it flash across his face as he observed you. Apologising profusely seemed the worst possible decision but you didn’t know what else to do to fix the situation. It was probably best you didn’t even get a chance to speak. He cupped his hands under your thighs, lifting you up to set you on the counter with such little effort. The myriad of thoughts in your head were cut short by the feeling of him fucking into you harder than before, turning your lapse in security into a rush of pleasure. “Ohhhh…”

“Should’ve known,” he grunted in between thrusts. “Desperate, filthy fuckin’ girl.”

He was being mean, so mean, and the conscious part of you curled in on itself at his words. You felt like you’d messed up, ruined the moment even, but he showed no significant change in his demeanour. It took little effort to choke that small part of you, and you reached up to dig your nails into his back as his skin slapped against yours. The stickiness of your arousal and his pre smeared a nasty mess around where you joined.

Your peak inched closer and closer, and you whimpered at the felling of your nipples brushing against his chest.

“Breathe, damnnit.”

Embarrassingly enough those words sent you over the edge, and your nails dragged across his shoulders as you squealed. Toji followed not too long after, pulling out and stroking himself to completion with a groan, all over your pussy. Your chest heaved as your orgasm faded and sanity slowly trickled back, a few beads of sweat running down your back. The sight of Toji turning away to grab some kitchen towel for you made you blush, and you mumbled a thank you as you wiped away the mess he left on your skin.

Before you could offer him a bed for the night you spotted him pulling his clothes back on, back turned to you in a way that felt like ice dropping in your stomach. He didn’t even hesitate. Didn’t ask if you wanted anything, showed no intention to have even a curt conversation after essentially fucking your brains out. The idea of still being naked when he turned was nauseating, so you quickly followed suit and dressed yourself. You couldn’t help yourself, croaky voice making you cringe. “You’re not gonna… stay?”

“Sorry kid, I can’t. Got something I need to be up for tomorrow,” he answered soullessly. “I’ll text you though, yeah?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” You swallowed in an attempt to fix your dry throat, shooting him a small smile as he nodded your way.

Without another word, he grabbed his jacket from your sofa, picked up his toolbox and walked through the front door, taking all your warmth and essence right with him. The words stupid girl made a reappearance, echoing through your mind like a chant.

The door slamming shut hit you with such a force, almost akin to a slap. The air that rushed in for the brief moment the door was open brought in such a coldness, that lingering darkness that normally hung around you accompanying it. You were alone again. Remnants of cum still dripped from your skin, and a brief glance to the side told you there was a significant puddle of it left on the counter. The silence was so severe it made you tremble. If it wasn’t for the empty glass, beer bottle and cigarette ash scattered across the counter, it was as if no one else had ever been there.

It was no mystery to you that the melancholy you had grown accustomed to was a persistent depression that had hung around for a while. You’d had enough encounters with shitty people for it to feel familiar to you, but this, this was something harsher. Life continued as usual. Brushing teeth, fixing your hair, swiping on some patchy drug store makeup and commuting to work. A different kind of hollowness followed you, though. Everything felt empty, even your very own kitchen felt off. So much so that you avoided going in there as much as possible. You weren’t sure why you felt the way you did, but a few days deliberating over it brought clarity.

For some reason, you’d had hope with Toji. There was no reason to, you knew that much. But still, it was there. In your anticipation for his visit, you’d fancied there were several signs from the universe telling you here, it’s him. This is the one. You’d been stupid. Stupid girl. He didn’t even have a clue how right he was.

It was a joke that you still hadn’t learned your lesson, though.

The first week, you stared at your phone day in and day out, waiting for a call, a text, even the infuriating sign of a typing… bubble that never came.

The second week you grew restless, spiralling into a jumble of new insecurities and lamentations.

The third week had you giving up hope, trying your best to forget it ever happened but failing miserably with each passing day.

By the time a month had come around, you’d texted him again, some feeble joke about how your sink looked like it was on the way out. You half expected him to leave you on delivered, picturing him fucking some other woman that he managed to pull with minimal effort. But he replied, and quite quickly at that. He’d raised your hopes again, only for the second encounter to be a complete imitation of the first. At least you knew the sex was good. You knew close to nothing about him, but each time he came over or you visited you opened up a little more. Weeks and countless escapades later, a strange relationship between you had formed, and he knew more about you than anyone else. Not that he showed much concern. You knew it was only a matter of time before even this “partnership” fizzled out.

Your encounters with Toji had given you something to look forward to and get up for, with each of his absences you were desperate to get the feeling back again. No amount of smoking could numb you enough to bring you down to earth; even self-medicating before work left you with that emptiness. Your dealer showed a little concern, although it was laughably fleeting. You’d mentioned you were having a rough time and he’d tried to pass you a small pouch with white powder, giving you some spiel about how he was growing his market. Apparently, you were lucky to be the first customer he reached out to, but you had no interest in his horse meds and had walked away.

Maybe you were being dramatic about the situation. You’d seen enough signs, and each time you chose to ignore them.

A few months later you were just finishing handover with your colleague, the same one that had lumped you with a double shift all that time ago. You were halfway out the door when you remembered you’d run out of bread, and turned on your heel with a grumble to go and pick some up. The door beeped as you were busy scanning the shelves, and you didn’t think much of it until you heard an agonisingly familiar baritone.

“Just a pack of Marlboro Golds.”

With the way that your heart jumped, someone could assume your interactions were pleasant. A quick peek around the corner had your stomach drop, your nails digging into your palms at the sight of your coworker fluttering her lashes at him. You held no malice in your heart for her; even if she had known what you had going on, you weren’t close enough for her to owe you any loyalty. What did irk you, however, was the sound of a low chuckle from Toji, ever the charmer apparently, and his shameless flirting with her. She wasn’t much older than you and a gorgeous woman at that, but you couldn’t help the feeling of envy that washed over you. All this time had passed and you were still fawning over him like a child experiencing their first crush.

“Have a nice day!”

“I will, kid. Take care of yourself.”

You wanted to throw up. It took him a disgustingly long amount of time to show even a sliver of warmth that he’d just shown her. On one too many occasions he’d made some obnoxious joke about how you’d practically thrown yourself at him. Watching that interaction made you wonder what was so different between you and your coworker. She was always telling you about her escapades with men, how they seemed to fall at her feet with a simple smile. You giggled along with her when she told those stories but now? It wasn’t so funny anymore. Suddenly the idea of going up to that counter made you feel sick, so you rushed out of the store before either of them could notice you were there.

You didn’t even eat bread that much anyway.

Later that evening, you’d almost finished another whole bottle of wine. Whatever rubbish you’d been previously watching had ended, and Netflix had flipped over to some show you had no interest in. More importantly, your phone was blinking at you very enticingly from the armrest of the couch. A very poor decision dangling right in front of you, accelerated by what, a need to prove yourself? Show him you’re better? You swallowed nervously. It didn’t feel as if it get any worse. What harm was one more time?

────────────

Conversation with: toji   

---

toji: come let me in

────────────

The last message mocked you from the chat, gathering dust beneath relentless promotional offers from Domino’s and the like. You twiddled your thumbs, giving it one last thought before deciding you hated yourself apparently.

────────────

Conversation with: toji   

---

toji: come let me in

You: you up?

────────────

There.

You tossed your phone to the side, dragging restless fingers through your hair as you tried to forget about it. Making up countless reasons as to why he wouldn’t even bother responding passed the time until your phone buzzed. With the eagerness of a child at Christmas you grabbed the discarded phone and swiped open the conversation.

────────────

Conversation with: toji   

---

toji: come let me in

You: you up?

toji: need company?

────────────

Your heart skipped a beat.

Toji was surprised to still be hearing from you in all honesty. In fact, after he forgot to message you that first time, he was sure he’d never speak to you again. He’d initially thought your head was screwed on properly, but after you’d slept together several times he came to realise a few of those screws were loose. That daddy kink you had was something mean. You were a nice girl, meant well but had a few chips on your shoulder like so many other women he knew did. At first he almost didn’t respond. Girls like you tended to get attached, and you had, ultimately. It was a crude choice of words but who was he to not make use of that connection? The sex was good. Probably some of the best that he had. Besides, that small kernel in him that entertained your first conversation pitied you a little, maybe even felt some warped kind of affection. He was no saint, he knew you were too fragile, but he paid it no mind. For the time being, he’d still text you back.

────────────

Conversation with: 123-456-789      

---

123-456-789: you up?

You: need company?

────────────

He really should save your number, he thought to himself with a bored scratch to his abdomen, riding his shirt up and sneezing. Fuck, it was dusty in his flat. Toji sniffed. If you still wanted to meet up though, who was he to say no?

The thick summer air was like a furnace, almost suffocating Toji as he waited for you to open the door. He leaned against the adjacent wall lazily, arms crossed in impatience. It was if you liked to make him wait longer each time he visited; if he did the same you’d insist on giving him an earful before mellowing out again. As he waited he scratched his neck, mind wandering as he recalled a time you stayed over. You got off on making him seem a piece of shit with your words, honestly. You’d insisted on him giving you breakfast before he thought of doing anything to you, whatever the fuck that meant. Whenever he was buried inside your cunt you didn’t have anything nearly as smart to say. In fact, that same day you’d argued for about a half hour before he had you bent over his couch and mindlessly babbling his name.  

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

You stepped to the side, finally letting him in and closing the door gently behind you. Normally at this point you'd start rambling about an aggravating customer at work, or start questioning him about his day. This time however, you gave him a once over and sniffed. There was an apparent disdain on your face.

Toji observed you for a moment, squinting as he noticed that you seemed, off. “What’s wrong with you?”

You rolled your eyes, turning on a heel and flouncing into the kitchen.

He followed after you. “You ignoring me now?”

Still, you didn’t respond, grabbing yourself from water from the tap and gulping it down in front of him. You didn’t even offer him some, knowing you had him out there for five minutes, the cheek. Toji felt his eye twitch and you stared him down, slamming your glass down on the counter and continuing your petty silence strike. Getting mad was the reaction you wanted to get out of him however, so he bit his tongue and bristled as he waited.

Eventually, you spoke. “Saw you talking to my coworker today.”

He groaned, speaking through a clenched jaw. “Yes. I went to get my cigs. Sorry I didn’t run that by you first, missy.”

You frowned, crossing your arms over your chest in indignation. “Don’t be a dick, Toji,” you hissed. “Why do you have to flirt with her? When I work there too?”

He sighed. “I wasn’t flirting with her. God forbid a man shows a little friendliness.” He straightened up from your counter, deciding to grab himself a glass of water since you decided to be a shitty host.

“Friendly?” You scoffed. “You wouldn’t know friendly if it slapped you across the fucking face, you prick. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Apparently today you were set on driving him up the wall, as you snapped, “Hello? I didn’t say you could drink my water.”

He ignored you, giving you the same flat stare you’d released him from only moments ago as he filled a cup. “I can’t be fucked for this right now, princess.”

Maybe he asked for it then. He knew you hated it when he called you that. He only did it when he was pissed, mocking you instead of using it as a term of endearment. Still, it caught him off guard when you stomped over to him, snatching the full glass away from his hand and throwing it in his face.

Toji closed his eyes momentarily, using a free hand to flick the sodden strands of hair out of his face. The feeling of his soaked tank top sticking to his chest cranked his irritation up to the max, and he peeled the shirt away from him as slowly as he could manage. When he opened his eyes again, you'd frozen, trembling in fury. The anger that flashed in your glare was palpable, but within that was a short-lived glint of regret.

Oh, you were pissed.

But now so was he.

Twenty minutes later you hovered above him on your bed, naked form enveloped by a thin sheen of sweat. Your tits glistened in the moonlight that shone through the window, littered with bruises that he left earlier. For a brief moment, a thought fleeted through his head. Something about you looking smaller than you did before. But it passed, swept away as you whimpered softly, writhing as he lowered you onto his cock and mouth slightly open as you sucked in a breath. It was at times like this, when all his sense disappeared that you seemed the most enticing.

“Please,” you begged, nails digging into his chest just the way he liked. “M’sorry for being mean. I need it.”

“Every time,” he growled, revelling in your frustration as he stopped you from moving. “The same shit every time with you. How many times do I have to tell you to quit acting like a brat?”

“M’sorry, m’sorry!” You whined, desperately grinding your hips. “I won’t do it again.”

Toji snorted. “Now you’re just fuckin’ lying.”

He relented anyway, pulling you down at long last and fucking up into you with increased fervour. Your hips slapped into his with each thrust, the wetness that gathered there amplifying the sound. You whimpered softly, mind going into whatever place it did every time he had you like this. Submissive, eager to please and wet.

He flipped you over not long after, gripping your headboard and digging his fingers into your hips. He knew you hated this position, not because it didn’t feel good but because your neighbours always gave you shit for it. Right now, he didn’t care though. You’d pissed him off again and he couldn’t give less of a shit if you wanted to be mad. It’s what got you in this position in the first place.

“No…! Ohhhh─” your words were cut off by a whiny moan, hands clasping his shoulders for any stability as he fucked into you, headboard slamming against the wall. “Daddy wait─”

He grunted, that part of him that loved it withering in pleasure. “You’re a piece of fucking work, y’know that?”

You didn’t even hear him, too busy watching the way he fucked you to respond. “Close, close…”

His breath quickened as he teetered towards his peak, pulling your legs up over his shoulder for a deeper angle. “Does that feel good? D’you even deserve this after all that shit?”

You shook your head no, tears building up in your eyes as the pleasure licked at your spine. You arched up into him with a gasp, eyes clouded as you squealed. “Cummingcummingcumming…!”

He released a small groan as he finished alongside you, burying his cock deep inside your pussy as he spilled into you. “Fuck…”

Something had changed the past few times you’d met up, and the idea of sleeping in your bed wasn’t so aversive to Toji anymore. He lay to the left of you, arm hanging off the side as he snored gently. The digital clock to the side of you read 05:14, hours after the both of you had finished but you still couldn’t sleep. His presence was supposed to being you comfort, and it did, but it would never stop feeling wrong. You couldn’t shake how he’d made you feel, an intense belonging that always seemed overshadowed by dread. You kept wondering when he’d leave you. Admittedly, it was your fault entirely that you were in this predicament in the first place. First time aside, you’d kickstarted this mess of a “relationship” yourself. Toji never promised you anything, and though he denied it you knew he was seeing other women, doing fuck knows what with them. The conversation you overheard today was just the tip of the iceberg. The only thing you could even hold over him was lack of honesty. With everything else, you knew what you were getting into. You were already miserable from the start, the smart decision would’ve been to forget his entire existence, but you willingly latched onto your fleeting encounters.

A sigh passed your lips, and you closed your eyes to finally try and get some rest before a buzz sounded. You checked your phone but the screen remained asleep. Oh.

Did you dare? What good would checking his phone do, considering what you already knew and had seen with your own eyes, multiple times. Alas, that niggling feeling in your mind got the better of you and you slipped from under the covers, tiptoeing around that carpeted spot in the middle of your floor that creaked with pressure. Upon reaching his side of the bed you gently lifted his phone to your face, tapping the screen to bring it to life.

────────────

Notification from: 987-654-321

Got back from the clinic this morning, it’s gone. Fuck you.

────────────

Your heart stopped. You knew, you knew, but still, here you were. You couldn’t help but drop the phone in shock, tears burning your eyes for the nth time as you cupped your mouth helplessly.

Unfortunately, your lack of care had consequences; Toji turned over groggily, scratching his eyes and peering up you with an incredulous expression. “Why are you up…?”

He spotted the phone on the floor, pausing for a second. “Y’checking my phone now?” He didn’t even sound like he cared.

“Whoever you knocked up has got rid of it, by the way.” You choked, sniffing back tears. “In case you even gave a shit.” Being in the same room as him felt suffocating, so you fled to the living room, throwing on a rogue t-shirt on the way.

“Oh, shit. Kid, wait─”

You didn’t wait, ignoring his demands as you made your way to the front door. On your way out you grabbed a loose cigarette and lighter from the side table, throat wobbling as you slammed the door behind you. Tears clouded your vision, catching in your chest you until you couldn’t breathe.

It was still warm outside, considerably so. The sun had begun peeking over the horizon and you weren’t even wearing any panties. The dried remains of your earlier activities flaked away from your thighs but you couldn’t even find it within you to care. A gentle breeze blew across your face, carrying hopeless tears as you inhaled the thick air from your cigarette. And not because you knew it was over, either. Your previous actions had shown you that weren’t capable of completely cutting him out of your life; you needed him. He provided you no comfort, no affection other than handing you a towel or discarded t-shirt after a quick fuck. But without him, you withered away into nothing, weak and aimlessly living your life until it became unbearable. The stench of the rapidly diminishing Marlboro Gold filled the air, worsening your sobs until they were being torn from your belly.

No, you couldn’t get rid of him. From the hollow, miserable life that you’d built yourself, he was the only escape.

tags: @heeknow @athalia-amor @r0es @1sabxl @weremoreghoststhanpeople85

His hands are tightly clasped around a medium-sized bouquet, a pink bow ribbon tying everything together. Minghao doesn’t know the first thing about flowers, just knows that carnations are your favourites. Even though there’s a slight chill in the air, Minghao is dressed nicely; short-sleeved polo rolled up to show his arms. He thought he might as well make a decent effort: after all, he’s seeing you for the first time in a year.

Soulmates used to be a concept foreign to Minghao, so foreign when his friend Jun often blabbed on about finding his ‘one true love’ - he could only scoff. Then he thought about what love meant to him. Watching all his friends fall in and out of it faster than he could blink, love didn’t mean much. Yes, he had been ‘in love’ but it had never consumed him, never broken him apart to the point he questioned his purpose of living.

Until you whispered those three words into his ear (it was early morning and you were tangled in his sheets, the linen covering your bare upper body, your eyes were barely opened but your smile was so bright, your fingertips and kisses painted his neck like a canvas. He had never seen such an angelic sight) and it all finally clicked. If this was what love felt like, then he had loved you since he first saw you.

Being in love meant loving you. To him, now love can only mean you.

Honestly, Minghao wasn’t expecting a response from you. It was three am when he sent the voicemail and after so long with no contact, you had probably moved on and found someone else. Living your life without thinking about him, is a privilege Minghao could only wish for. You were in his dreams, in his walls, staring at him in his bathroom mirror.

Although he did miss you terribly, a part of him sent a message because he wanted closure. He wanted to know you didn’t want him anymore. Maybe with your deafening silence, he could move on - live a life with you (an empty promise to himself, like a single coin in a fountain). But you didn’t.

A week after that night, Minghao received a text from your number.

It was early afternoon and Minghao was only half occupied with the tasks of the day, his head everywhere but the present. After sending that voicemail, he couldn’t seem to focus. A string of ‘what ifs’ kept constantly replaying in his head like a strip of film. At a point, he even contemplated throwing away your slippers. But as he saw them by the heater neatly lined next up to his - something deep from within him forced his whole body to stop. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t. Throwing away your slippers would mean giving up on you. Quitting had not got Minghao very far in life.

A notification popped up when he was scrolling mindlessly that day - he was about to swipe up. But when he saw your contact name (it’s ‘sweetheart’, he hasn’t changed it since the day he told you he loved you, the contact name even outliving your relationship), his phone almost dropped out of his hand and onto his face.

Sweetheart: How much did you drink?

Minghao’s breath hitched in his throat. The last thing he wanted was for you to feel like you were a drunken mistake. That he wouldn’t have said what he said without the removed inhibitions from several bottles of wine. He meant every single word he said

Minghao: I’ve never been more sober in my life.

His fingers paused at his keyboard, wanting to say so much more. He wanted to tell you once again how he couldn’t live without you, how you were even more important to him than the oxygen that fills his lungs. But he settled with simple formalities instead.

Minghao: How are you?

Sweetheart: Stop pretending that you care.

Minghao could feel his entire heart shatter in his chest, had you not listened to the voicemail or even worse did you not believe him? Did you not believe his love for you? Again, you were slipping away from him right in front of his eyes, he couldn’t let you go.

Minghao: Everything I said in that voicemail was true. I care about you more than I care for myself.

Sweetheart: Meet me in the park at 2pm and prove it then.

That’s how Minghao finds himself in his local park. Coincidentally, where you both had your first date (now several years ago, he placed a pink carnation behind your ear and when he looked into your eyes, he knew you were going to be different from the others). His heart is threatening to fall out of his chest with the way it’s beating so fast. What is he supposed to say to you? What apology on earth can he give you to make up for his past actions?

The past is in the past but Minghao needs you in his future.

As if you were the grand prize in this game we call life, Minghao is a debtor using up his final pennies. He can’t afford to lose you. The universe doesn’t grant second chances easily and Minghao wasn’t a fool to let you go again.

Your relationship was the furthest thing from perfect, but your flaws matched each other in a way Minghao could never fully grasp. End pieces in a jigsaw, rose quartz and serenity in an evening sky, the rays of the sun and the glow of the moon. You were far from perfect but you were more than close enough for Minghao. He was obsessed with you and still is.

He hears the light patter of feet against the cobbled pavement. The sound gets louder and louder until it stops. Minghao looks up from his fiddling fingers, expecting it to be some dog walker whose pet doesn’t understand the concept of personal space. But then he feels a familiar tap on his shoulder, there’s only one person in this world whose touch is as light as a feather.

When he sees you, his whole world ceases to exist. It is only you that remains. For a year he wanted, craved for this moment. You were his messiah, all he wanted to do was worship you until his throat was hoarse and lips parched. He was thirsty, oh so thirsty. Only you could save him, only you could fix him. He quickly stands up to look at you. He thinks if you touch him his legs would give in and he would fall to the floor. Your presence is overwhelming, you’re taking over his sensing and clouding his thoughts.

All of his words are caught in the base of his throat, there is so much he wants to tell you - but as he tries to speak only silence escapes from his parted pink lips.

You look slightly different, something Minghao couldn’t quite put his finger on. In front of him, you are a paradigm of blues, yellows and reds: the centrepiece in an art gallery, Micheal Angelo’s greatest creation.

“These are for me?” You ask cautiously, breaking the seemingly infinite silence.

You were so surprised to hear from him after you had assumed he had fallen out of love with you months ago. You want to make sure, that you haven’t gone mad, that the love of your life is really standing in front of you.

“Of course they are,” He hands you the flowers and watches your face light up when you realise that he remembered.

“You remembered…” You say smiling, looking down and twirling the pink stain ribbon between your fingers. ‘Of course’ Minghao thinks - of course, he’d never forget. He wants to reply but he’s too captivated with your beauty to think straight.

Still lost in thought, you continue, “Where did all the time go… Back then we were so young, so naive, so… So…” You struggle to find the right words to say.

“So stupid.” Minghao’s words are breathless as you meet his ever-so-loving gaze. For the whole of your relationship, Minghao had never been the one to open up to faults - you as well. The feeling of being so naked and vulnerable is foreign to him. But he relishes in the freedom of the truth, his pride no longer holding him down in chains.

He thinks he loves you more than anyone in human history has loved before.

“I meant everything, I said in that voicemail. You were right ‘We shouldn’t have ended like this’, yet I let it happen. I made you doubt my love but to protect my pride, I just stood there, saying nothing. I thought you grew fed up with our relationship, that I wasn't what you wanted. But then I realised you were pushing me away to protect yourself, just like I did.” Minghao pauses getting slightly emotional.

“Nothing I say or do will ever be enough, I can’t turn back time I know that.

But I never stopped loving you.”

And before he can comprehend, you’re in his arms, head against his chest - your home (his heart). You drop the flowers in your right hand and Minghao circles himself around you, engulfing you in his embrace. You don’t say anything, yet a thousand words fall from your parted lips as you stare into his pools of brown (the same pools you could spread hours, days drowning in, as if fresh air didn’t exist). You smell exactly like he remembered, a mix of woods and flora. You feel like a cup of warm tea after a tiresome day, the silver lining he always looks towards. Minghao thinks there’s nothing in the world as beautiful as you.

“I should’ve never let you go…” The words tumbling out of his lips are a waterfall of emotion. Waves of relief rush over him as he feels himself around you. This is where he is supposed to be. Suddenly, everything in his life is going to be okay.

“I should have never tried to push you away in the first place ” Your hands reach up to stroke the back of his hair and he melts into your touch like butter.

This is where he belongs.

Minghao places a small kiss on the mole you have on your collarbone and it’s almost like the past year didn’t happen (you’re on a date in the city, you’re wearing his favourite dress which shows your shoulders and no matter how hard he tries, Minghao can’t keep his hands off you, pecking and nibbling at the soft skin, even if he didn’t say it much, he was enamoured with you). Minghao doesn’t notice the lingering eyes of passers-by, he even fails to realise the passage of time.

Sadly the world can’t stop for him, no matter how much it feels like it does.

With a loud honk from a car speeding down the other side of the road resonating through his eardrums, Minghao is brought back to reality. Suddenly the light weight in the back of his jeans pocket feels all too heavy and he starts to panic, pushing you away gently. You pout, feeling like you have the wrong idea and Minghao’s expression is immediately sympathetic.

“No baby, don’t worry you did nothing wrong.” He coos in a tone that had almost become foreign to him.

Never, has he used this tone with any of his hookups, even when they begged to be called sweet names, he couldn’t (looking back on this Minghao feels guilty, but those people weren’t you, they couldn’t ever be you). He’s surprised at how easily those words drift off his tongue after so long. He guesses everything just comes easier with you.

“Remember how I said, we’ll listen to your favourite jazz album while drunk on wine.” He scratches his neck bashfully as you look up to him with wide eyes.

“I may or may not have booked us two tickets to their live show in the area, I just wanted to do something again to show that I care. I know it wouldn’t make up for-"

You silence him with a kiss, and Minghao forgets where he is, what he had just said, the colour of the sky and the feeling of the ground below his feet. hell if you didn't whisper ‘It’s okay Minghao' against his lips, he would have forgotten his own name.

For Minghao, it’s you. It has always been you and it will continue to be you. Maybe until the day he dies, he thinks. But knowing himself, he would probably find a way to love you in the afterlife as well.

You drag Minghao by his arm into his dimly lit flat, lips still perfectly intertwined together like a lock and key. If your kisses are knife wounds, Minghao wouldn’t mind bleeding to death. He can taste the tart fermented grapes on your tongue. The feeling of his bare skin against yours is more intoxicating than the bottle of wine you shared. You mewl pitifully into his mouth, clutching his clothes like a beggar desperate for cash. The sight of you begging for him was probably on par with the sex itself.

The night wasn’t supposed to end like this. Minghao had planned it out perfectly: you were supposed to visit a jazz show featuring your favourite ensemble, then you’d have dinner at a place he’d been meaning to take you for months, then maybe after a glass of red (or two) a taxi would drop you off at your complex where he would kiss you on the check and tell you to sleep well.

You both barely made it to step two.

Minghao pulls you flush against his chest breaking the kiss for air - you don’t seem to care as you turn your attention to his neck. In the morning, Minghao expects to see dots of red-purple bruises lined across the pale skin of his neck like patches of watercolour. The night wasn’t supposed to end like this, but Minghao doesn’t have the strength in him to tell you to stop.

“I wanted to be a gentleman.” He manages to whisper out, his eyes squeezing shut as you move your hands and kisses downwards, “I don’t want you just for your body, you know.”

“I know. I just missed you so much it was driving me crazy.” You say and drag him by the collar. You’re not looking where you’re going, but Minghao trusts you know his place better than you know your own.

Before he can respond, he feels you jerk slightly, almost tripping over your feet. He looks down to watch what caused it and he feels his face light up like a pink neon sign downtown.

“You still have my slippers here.” You say, not like you’re inquiring, but more like a statement. The smile on your face is miles wide when you look up at him. Minghao knows exactly what you’re thinking and because of it, he’s the happiest man who has ever lived.

“I didn’t have the heart to get rid of them, I never wanted to let you go in the first place."

He chuckled at your response and pulled you in a little closer against him, holding you against his bare chest as he continued to trace patterns into your skin with his fingers. “Don’t think about that princess. You’ll deal with all that later. Just relax for now. Let me take care of you.” He said, his voice low and soothing. You hummed happily as you felt his touch across your skin. "Thank you for the great birthday present." You giggled and bit your lip.

He chuckled at your comment, and he gave your shoulder a kiss. "Consider it just the start." He mumbled into your neck. "If you think last night was a good birthday present, you haven't seen anything yet. We're just getting started." Roy nipped at your neck. "I gotta go home though." You pouted and stretched. Letting out a squeal as you did so, popping a few joints as you stretched. He chuckled at your pout, finding it incredibly difficult not to just pull you back down into the bed and keep you with him. He watched you stretch, and he could see your body arch as you let out a squeal. He had to keep himself from grabbing your hips right then and there. He watched as you stretched your legs and arms, before giving in and commenting, "You're killin' me, girl."

"Yeah?" You giggled, "How so?"

"Just look at you." He groaned, his eyes raking over your body as you continued to stretch. "You're making it incredibly difficult for me to not just pull you back down and keep you in bed with me all day." You smiled at his words. "I gotta go home, Roy. You have to pick up Lian soon." You reminded him and smiled up at him. He groaned again, knowing you were right. He had to pick his daughter up at some point.

He grumbled in response, reluctantly agreeing and rolling out of bed, "Fine. You win this time." He stood up from the bed and began getting dressed, while occasionally sending lustful glances your way as you stayed on the bed. You sat up with him and searched for clothes you could wear. He couldn’t help but chuckle as he watched you sit up and look around for clothes. The way you looked, the fact that you were naked and is his bed; he wanted to take you again right then and there. He pulled on a pair of jeans, along with the shirt he had on the day before. Looking back over to you, he raised an eyebrow. "Looking for something?" He teased as he watched you look around. "Clothes." You sighed.

He chuckled again at your answer, and he stepped closer to the bed with a smirk on his face. "You don't need clothes when you're with me." He teased, his eyes roaming over your still-naked body while his smirk continued to grow. "Uh huh, sure. I'm just gonna strut around naked. I'll walk in the manor, 'Hey Dad!' full on butt ass naked." You snorted and rolled your eyes. He chuckled at your snarky response and rolled his eyes.

"Maybe I should keep you here, all naked and in my bed, with no clothes whatsoever." He smirked and leaned down, towering over you as his hands reached for your hips. "Oh? You're gonna keep me prisoner?" You flirted with him. He grinned down at you, his hands gripping your hips a bit tighter. "You're damn right." He said, his voice low and grumbling as he leaned down even closer to you. "You're not leaving this bed until I say so."

"That's just too bad." You teased, "I'm not yours to boss around, Archie." You giggled.

He tightened his grip on your hips and pushed you back down onto the bed, crawling over you and leaning his body down so that it was flush with yours, pinning you down to the bed.He brought his face down close to yours, and his nose was practically touching yours while his body pressed against you. "Archie?" He asked, his tone slightly annoyed. "I’ll show you who your boss is."

"Mhmmm, my little Archie." You giggled, "You're not the boss of me." You snickered.

He grumbled at you again, annoyed at you calling him Archie. He brought his face closer, his lips hovering right over yours. He could feel your breath against his lips, and he wanted to take that mouth so badly. However, he also wanted to do something else. He smirked, and he leaned over to your ear. “Keep it up, and you won’t be sitting comfortably for a while.”

"Yeah? What's my favourite little toy gonna do?" You teasingly asked him. You grabbed his arms and rolled him over so you were on top of him. "I'm gonna get dressed, Baby boy." You teasingly poked his nose as you got off of him. He grumbled again as you rolled him over and got on top of him. He did not like being called a toy, not even a little.

He looked up at you as you got off of him and started getting dressed. He sat up on the bed and continued to watch you, his eyes roving over your body while he leaned back on his hands. He let out an annoyed huff, his temper flared slightly at you still not obeying him and doing what he said. He clenched his jaw, trying to control himself.

You looked back at him and laughed, "Ohhhh." You faked sympathy, "Is my little boy angry?" You pouted theatrically, and then smiled at him. He grumbled at your little show, feeling himself getting more annoyed at you.

He gritted his teeth, his fists clenching as he heard you call him “little boy.”

He stood up from the bed, his feet thudding on the floor as he took a step towards you. "I swear to God." He grumbled, his eyes fixed on you, “If you don’t stop calling me that…” There was virtually no pause before you immediately chimed in. "What?" You chuckled. You opened your mouth and ran your tongue over your top teeth and bit your lip. "You know I'm only teasing you. You are several years older than me and you're definitely not a little boy." You giggled and walked away, flipping your hair. You walked into the living room and grabbed your shoes before walking over to the couch.

He grumbled again, feeling himself getting more and more irritated with you. The way you were acting and the things you were saying were starting to really get under his skin. He followed you out into the living room and watched as you sashayed over to the couch, your hair flicking as you turned. He clenched his jaw, his temper flaring even more as you continued to tease him. He took a few deep, steady breaths, trying to control his temper and keep himself calm. You tried to remain calm as you put on your shoes. Trying to not get a rise of Roy even more. He noticed the way you were trying to remain calm, trying not to goad him on even more.

He clenched his jaw tightly, feeling his blood pressure rising as he watched you put on your shoes. He wanted you to stop teasing him, but you seemed determined to keep pushing his buttons. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles turning white as he tried to keep himself under control. "You really are determined to make me lose my temper, aren’t you?" He grumbled.

"Huh?" You played dumb, and looked up at him. "I don't know what you're talking about?" You tilted your head to the side and tried to look confused. He took another steadying breath, feeling his temper rising even more at your continued denial. He couldn't believe you were still trying to play dumb, still trying to act like you weren't purposefully trying to push his buttons. "Don't play dumb, princess." He snapped. "You know damn well what you're doing." Without missing a beat you chimed to him, "Care to tell me?" You smiled and looked at him.

He grunted loudly in annoyance, feeling like he was about to explode. He stepped closer to you, his body almost towering over you, his eyes locked onto yours. "You're flirting with me, teasing me, taunting me, all to try and get a reaction out of me." He grumbled, his voice low and firm. You stared at him admiring the veins popping on his forehead and protruding on his neck. How angry and annoyed he got with you, you giggled softly. "Am I now?" You tilted your head and looked up at him. "Yes, you are." He snapped, his eyes never leaving yours. "You keep calling me 'Archie,' you keep poking and prodding at me, you keep teasing me, just to get under my skin." You bit your lip and looked down at the ground, "Well if you don't like it then we don't have to do this again." You shrugged and got off of the couch.

He felt a pang of annoyance and frustration at your nonchalant shrug, feeling like you didn’t care about how your teasing was effecting him. "That’s it?" He asked, his voice gruff. "You’re just going to shrug it off and leave?" You smiled at him, "Well you do have to drive me home." You looked down at his feet and tilted your head, "Lazy Bones, you still haven't put on your shoes." You playfully said. He grumbled again and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He looked down at his feet, realizing that he was still standing there in just his socks. He let out an annoyed huff, feeling even more frustrated now. "Yeah, yeah." He muttered. “I’m getting my shoes. He walked over to the door and quickly pulled on his boots. You grabbed your purse off of his coffee table and giggled, "Are you a grumpy gus now?" He grunted, feeling his irritation growing even more as you giggled and teased him. He opened the door and gestured for you to go through it. "I’m a grumpy gus because of you, babe." he grumbled, “I swear, you are really pushing your luck.”

"I'm not gonna change anytime soon." You playfully reminded him, and walked out his apartment door. He followed you out of the door, closing and locking it behind him. "I know you’re not." He muttered, "You’re just too damn stubborn for that." You slightly smiled, "It's just who I am." You flatly replied. He grunted, feeling a pang of frustration at your blunt response. "Yeah, I know it’s who you are." He replied gruffly, "That’s what makes it so damn annoying." You looked down at the ground and chuckled before raising your head to look at Roy. "Then why have all of these feelings for me huh, Roy?" You asked him and watched him walk down the hallway. He came to a sudden stop as you asked him that question.

He had not been expecting you to confront him about his feelings so directly, but he should have known better. You were never one to shy away from uncomfortable topics. He stood still for a few moments, trying to decide how to respond. He could deny it, but he knew you would see right through that. He could avoid the question entirely, but you would just badger him about it. You watched him as he calculated his thoughts in his head. Smiling from ear to ear as you watched him. He let out an annoyed huff, realizing that he was trapped. There was no way he could deny it or avoid it. You knew him too well. He took a deep breath, feeling his heart start to race. "You really want a damn honest answer from me?" He asked.

"I do..." You trailed off, and looked at him in the eyes, "I also just want to tease you relentlessly." You admitted. "One of my favourite joys in life." You teased and walked past him through his apartment complex's hallway. "C'mon. Let's go, you have a busy morning." You smiled. He groaned as he watched you strut past him. "You're a damn pain in the ass, you know that?" He muttered, following after you. "Yep." You replied, popping the p.

The two of you were in his car sitting in silence. You smiled over at him and sighed. You loved him. Maybe not completely and irrevocably, but one thing was sure; and that was that you loved Roy Harper. Whether it be a crush, or madly in love with him, there was never a moment where you doubted your feelings towards him. He could feel your eyes on him as he drove, and he tried to focus on the road ahead, but he couldn't shake the feeling of your gaze.

He glanced over at you for a moment, taking in your smile, feeling his chest flutter at the sight. He silently grumbled to himself, feeling torn between his desire for you and his desire to deny his feelings. It was becoming increasingly harder to avoid the topic. The silence in the car was deafening as they drove, and Roy couldn't help but feel more and more tense with each passing moment.

He could feel the weight of unsaid words and unanswered questions hanging in the air between them. Roy gripped the steering wheel tightly, trying to find the words to break the silence, but they refused to come to him. You sat in silence with your tongue in your cheek, gliding across your teeth as you smiled at Roy. You could tell he was trying to find the words in his head, trying to break the silence. You figured you should cut him some slack. "Are we dropping me off and then you pick up Lian? Or are we all going out and getting breakfast together?" You curiously asked him.

Lian.

The mention of his daughter immediately snapped him out of his thoughts. He felt a pang of guilt, realizing that he'd been so consumed by you, he had momentarily forgotten about his duty as a father. He took a deep breath and refocused on the road, pushing away his inner turmoil. "I'm picking up Lian first," he replied. "Then we'll head to breakfast."

"She'll be surprised to see me." You smiled. The last time you saw Lian she was 4. You remember the first time you found out about Lian, how shocking it was to you that the love of your pathetic teenage life was a single dad. You were remembering everything that happened around then... Roy and Lian, Dick going off to Blüdhaven, Tim coming in to the picture... Jason. You immediately felt your heart hurt. Thinking about what happened to your brother was enough to make you start tearing up, it didn't help that you learned how to fake cry. Helps with being a Wayne and wanting to get out of Galas. You were always so sensitive and fake crying made it even harder to control your emotions.

He glanced over at you for a moment, noticing the change in your expression. He could sense that something was bothering you, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "You alright, princess?" He asked gruffly, his voice betraying a hint of concern. "Yeah." You spoke flatly. Not wanting to think about Jason. He raised an eyebrow at your response, feeling a pang of doubt. He knew you well enough to know that you were covering up your true feelings. "You sure?" He asked, his voice softer this time. "You know you can tell me if something's wrong, right?"

"Just thought about everything that has happened." You sighed, and paused. You started to get shaky and teary-eyed. "Thought about Jason." Roy felt a pang of sadness as you mentioned Jason. He knew that the memory of his death still pained you deeply. "Yeah, I know how you feel." He said gruffly, his voice heavy with emotion. "It's not easy losing someone you care about."

"At least he's back. 'He got died and got better'." You smiled widely and gave Roy a thumbs up. You loved mimicking Jason and his ridiculous comments. You knew Jason was just trying to cover up his emotions. Roy chuckled slightly, feeling a pang of amusement at your imitation of Jason. He could hear the pain in your voice, despite your attempt at humor. "Yeah, he did." He agreed, his voice still gruff. "Lucky bastard."

The two of you picked up Lian and you two took her out to eat at her favourite diner. Lian made several comments about your appearance and how she missed you. On the way home Lian commented about how you're wearing her dad's clothes and how you have bruises on your neck. If the two of you were together, and whatnot.

"Kids do say the darnest things," Roy embarrassingly replied.

When he pulled up to the manor you hesitated to get out of his car. You looked behind at Lian and smiled at her. "Bye squeaker." You teased. You looked at Roy and instantly blushed.

Lian let out a little giggle, rolling her eyes at your nickname. "Bye bye" she replied in her high pitched voice. Roy couldn't help but chuckle at the exchange as he watched the two of you interact. He saw the blush on your cheeks as you looked at him, and he felt his own heart flutter. He cleared his throat, trying to speak nonchalantly. "I'll see you later." Roy shrugged. "Is that it for a goodbye?" You teased. He raised an eyebrow at your teasing tone, feeling a hint of irritation at your playful attitude.

"What else do you want?" he asked gruffly, crossing his arms across his chest. You giggled and leaned closer to him. "One for the road?" You bit your lip and stared into his eyes. He felt a jolt of electricity shoot through his body as you leaned closer to him, feeling the heat of your breath against his skin. "Just kiss me, Roy." You rolled your eyes.

He cupped your chin gently in his hand, tilting your head up towards him. He leaned in closer, his lips barely brushing against yours. "You're a damn tease, you know that?" Roy whispered, before capturing your lips in a searing kiss. "Gross." A high pitched disgusted voice came from the backseat. He quickly pulled away from you, feeling a mix of annoyance and embarrassment as he heard Lian's voice. He looked over his shoulder at his daughter, who was making a disgusted face in the backseat. "Shut up, squeaker." He muttered, his cheeks tinged with a hint of pink.

Lian snickered in response, clearly amused by her dad's embarrassment. Roy looked back at you, feeling a mixture of annoyance and fondness for his daughter. He muttered under his breath, "You just have to ruin the moment, don't you, kid?" Lian just chuckled in response and stuck her tongue out at him.

He rolled his eyes and turned back to you, still feeling the tension and desire between the two of you. "That's okay. Better not give my family a show." You admitted. You leaned towards him and kissed his cheek. "Bye Archie." You teased. He felt a pang of frustration as you pulled away, but he couldn't help but chuckle at your nickname for him.

"You're gonna be the death of me." His voice was a low grumble. He watched as you got out of the car, feeling a mix of disappointment and anticipation for the next time he would see you. You looked behind and saw Lian's adorable face peering out of the backseat window. You smiled and waved goodbye at her. You sighed and walked up the stairs and into the manor. Lian waved back through the window, watching you walk away.

Roy watched you disappear into the manor, feeling a mix of emotions swirling inside him. He took a deep breath before turning to look at his daughter in the backseat. "You enjoying yourself back there, squeaker?" Lian just giggled in response, her eyes sparkling with mischief. He rolled his eyes and sighed, knowing that he wasn't going to get much more out of her. He put the car in drive and started making his way home, still feeling the memory of your kiss on his lips.

You walked inside the manor, you tried to walk into your room without being noticed. I don't need to add anymore to today. You thought to yourself. However, before you could slip into your room unnoticed, Alfred, noticed you. Alfred was always observant and he had a knack for noticing things even in a large and busy manor like the Wayne Manor.

"Good morning, miss." He greeted you with a warm smile. "May I have a moment of your time?" You turned around and greeted Alfred. "Good morning, Alfred." You smiled at him. Alfred noticed the smile on your face and the hint of a blush on your cheeks. He had a knack for picking up on subtle signs and he had a suspicion about what had happened. "You seem to be in a good mood this morning." He remarked, his tone gentle and curious. "Yeah, I had a good time last night." You smiled. Alfred raised an eyebrow, picking up on your good mood and the flush on your cheeks.

"I take it you were with Roy Harper?" He asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. You immediately turned red. "Why would you say that, Alfie?" You asked. Alfred chuckled at your reaction, clearly amused by your blushes. "I know you well, young lady." He said with a smile. "And I saw Mr. Harper's car leave the manor. It wasn't difficult to put two and two together." "I was hoping no one would notice..." You embarrassingly replied. Alfred chuckled again, his eyes sparkling. "You should know better than that, dear. There are few things that happen in this manor that go unnoticed." He reached out and patted your shoulder reassuringly. "But don't worry, your secret is safe with me."

"Why's that?" You asked Alfred.

Alfred chuckled as he saw your inquisitive expression. "Because, my dear, I have been keeping secrets for the Wayne family for a long time now." He leaned in closer to you, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "And besides, I have a soft spot for young love."

"So you'll keep it from Bruce?" You asked.

Alfred nodded, his expression serious and reassuring. "Of course, miss." He said gently. "Your secret is safe with me." He patted your shoulder again, his tone turning playful again. "Besides, Mr. Wayne has enough to worry about without adding your love life to the mix."

"Thanks Alfred." You smiled.

He leaned in closer and dropped his voice to a whisper, "But you might want to consider investing in some makeup before Mr. Wayne start asking questions."

"Yeah... Thanks, Alfred." You bashfully replied. "I'm gonna go upstairs..."

Alfred nodded. "Of course, dear." He said gently. He watched as you turned to head upstairs, a smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. As you walked up the stairs, you felt a mix of emotions swirling inside you. You were grateful for Alfred's discretion, but you also couldn't help but feel a sense of anxiety at the thought of having to cover up the marks on your neck. When you finally reached your room, you took a deep breath and closed the door behind you. You leaned against it for a moment, trying to calm your racing thoughts. You looked around your room, still trying to collect your thoughts. Your mind kept wandering to the previous night's events, reliving every moment with Roy. You could still feel the remnants of his touch on your skin, and you caught yourself absently touching your neck, where his lips had left their mark.

You smiled and felt your cheeks turn red. Roy always had this effect on you. As you thought about him, your mind began to wander, imagining what could have happened if you and Roy had been alone for a bit longer last night. You could still feel the heat of his body pressing against yours, the taste of his lips on yours, and the feeling of his hands roaming over your skin...

You sighed and began taking off your clothes looking in your closet mirror looking at all the bruises and hickeys Roy left on you. As you looked at the mirrors, your fingers gently traced the marks on your skin, each one reminding you of the times he had claimed you for himself. Each hickey seemed to tell a story of passion and desire, a reminder of the powerful connection between you and Roy. You felt a shiver run down your spine as you imagined what it would be like to feel his hands on you again, to feel his body against yours, to feel his breath on your skin...

You slipped into your bed sheets and felt your head spin in circles from how dizzy the memories of last night made you.

It’s not that he needs Monaco, but it would make things easier. Taxes, residency, team logistics. Mostly, he just hates the principle of it. He’s raced these streets. Risked his life at La Rascasse. Smiled through grid walks, kissed the trophy once, twice. How much more Monégasque does he need to be?

Still, the Principality remains unimpressed.

Oscar is dreadfully impatient about it all. 

He walks to lunch out of spite. Refuses the team car. Chooses the one place that doesn’t care who he is: Chez Colette, tucked between a florist and a family-run tailor, with sun-faded menus and the same specials board since 2004. It smells like lemon and anchovy and garlic confit. Monaco’s soul in three notes.

You’re wiping down a table when he steps in. You don’t look up right away.

He knows your name, but he won’t say it aloud. That would make it too real. Instead, he watches the way your fingers move over the woodgrain, the tiny gold cross around your neck. No wedding ring. 

Definitely Monégasque. Probably born here. He’s seen your grandmother in the back, slicing pissaladière with a surgeon’s precision.

You approach his table, pen tucked behind your ear. He opens his mouth to ask for the special.

Instead, he says, “Would you like to get married?”

There’s a beat of silence so clean you could plate oysters on it.

Your brow lifts, just slightly. “Pardon?”

Oscar’s own voice catches up with him. “I mean. Lunch. And then—maybe—marriage. If you’re free. Not in the next hour. Just in general.”

Another beat. Then you laugh, low and incredulous. Your English is heavily accented. A telltale sign you learned it for the express purpose of surviving the service industry. “Is this because of the citizenship thing?”

He stares at you.

You shrug, eyes twinkling. “You’re not the first to ask.” 

Oscar groans and slumps back in his chair, dragging a hand over his face. “Of course I’m not.”

You grin, and he thinks maybe he wouldn’t mind being the last.

“How do you feel about pissaladière?” you ask, scribbling on your notepad.

“Is that a yes?”

You walk away without answering. He watches you disappear into the kitchen, the sound of your laughter softening the corners of his day.

He’s not sure what he just started. But he knows he’s coming back tomorrow.

And so Oscar returns the next day. Then the day after that. And the one after that.

At first, it’s curiosity. Then it’s habit. Eventually, it becomes something closer to ritual. Lunch. Sometimes dinner. Once, a midnight snack after sim practice, when he told himself he needed carbs and not just a glimpse of the waitress with the tired eyes and fast French.

He likes the way the place smells. He likes the handwritten menu and the old radio that crackles Edith Piaf like it’s a lullaby. He likes you, though he doesn’t let himself think about that too often.

You mumble French at him when he walks in. The first time, he wasn’t sure if it was welcome or warning. Now, he knows it’s both.

You’re usually wiping something down or balancing three plates on one arm. You never wear makeup. Your apron’s always tied in a double knot. And you never, ever miss a chance to call him out.

“If you’re here to poach the brandamincium recipe, you’ll have to marry my grandmother,” you tell him one afternoon.

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Tempting. But I hear she’s already married to the oven.”

You snort, and his chest flares with something stupid and bright.

The regulars give him side-eyes. Your grandmother watches him like she’s trying to solve an equation. Still, you never ask him to leave.

He tips well. He’s not trying to impress you. He’s just grateful. For the peace. For the food. For you.

One night, the lights are low and the chairs are half-stacked when he shows up with two tarte aux pommes from the bakery down the street. You look at him like you’re considering throwing him out. Instead, you pour two glasses of wine and sit.

He peels the parchment off the pastries. “Chez Colette. Named after your grandmother?”

You nod. “She started it with my grandfather. 1973.”

He glances around. The cracked tiles. The curling menus. The handwritten notes on the wall that must be decades old. “And now it’s yours”

“Sort of,” you say dismissively. “I wait tables. I do the books. I fix the pipes. Mostly I pray the rent doesn’t go up again.”

Oscar feels a twist beneath his ribs. He’s spent millions on cars. Watches. Sim rigs. But this—this tiny restaurant and your soft frown—feels more fragile than any of it.

“It’s perfect,” he says.

You look at him with the sort of grin that unravels him. “It’s dying.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. So he takes a bite of tart. Lets the silence sit between you. He swallows his mouthful of pastry, then says, “Then maybe we save it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “We?”

Oscar smiles. When you don’t tell him to leave, he makes a decision. 

He returns three days later, after hours. He doesn’t mean to knock twice, but the restaurant is dark, the chairs up, the shutters half-drawn like the building itself is asleep. Still, he raps his knuckles on the glass, envelope in hand, because this isn’t something he can deliver over a text. Or a tart.

You appear after a minute, hair pinned up, sweatshirt on instead of your apron. You squint at him through the glass like he’s forgotten what day it is.

“We’re closed,” you say as you open the door halfway.

“I know,” Oscar replies, holding up the envelope. “I brought... paperwork.”

Your brows knit. You glance down at the crisp white rectangle like it might bite. “If that’s a menu suggestion, je jure devant Dieu—”

“It’s not,” he says quickly. “It’s—alright, this is going to sound completely mental, but just let me get through it.”

You cross your arms. “Go on, then.”

Oscar takes a breath. You’re still not letting him in; he figures he deserves it. “There’s a clause,” he starts slowly, “in the citizenship law. A foreign spouse of a Monegasque national can apply for residency after one year of marriage and continuous residence in the Principality.”

“I’m aware.” 

He opens the envelope and slides out three neat pages, stapled, formatted like a sponsor contract. He’d asked his agent to help without saying why. Said it was a tax thing. That part wasn’t entirely a lie.

“This is a proposal,” he continues. “One year of marriage. Eighteen months, technically, to be safe. We live here, we do all the legal bits. Then we file for annulment, or divorce, or whatever keeps it clean. No... weird stuff. Just paperwork.”

You stare at him. He rushes on.

“In return, I’ll wire you 10% of my racing salary during the term. That’s around 230,000 euros. And 5% annually for five years after. You can use it however you want. To keep Chez Colette open. Renovate. Hire help. Buy better wine. I don’t care.”

You say nothing. The silence stretches. A bird flutters past the awning. Oscar rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not asking for a real marriage. Just a legal one,” he manages. “You’ve seen how hard it is for people like me to get a foothold here. I’ve driven Monaco more times than I’ve driven my home streets. I want to stay. I just... can’t do it alone.”

You look at the contract, then back at him. “You typed up a prenup for a fake marriage?”

“Technically it’s a postnup,” he mutters, half to himself.

Something in your face shifts. Not quite a smile. But not a no, either. “You’re serious,” you say, scanning his face for any hint of doubt.

“I really am.”

You shake your head, understandably overwhelmed and disbelieving that this acquaintance had plucked you out of nowhere for his grand citizenship scheme. “Give me a few days. I need to think.”

Oscar nods. He doesn’t push. He just hands you the envelope and steps back into the fading light of Rue Grimaldi.

Two days later, you tell him to come over once again. You give him a specific time.

The restaurant is closed again, but this time it’s by design—chairs down, kettle on, one ceramic pot of lavender still bravely holding on near the window. The table between you is small. A two-seater wedged against the wall beneath a sepia photo of Grace Kelly. 

Oscar sits across from you, spine a little too straight, as if you’re about to interrogate him in a language he doesn’t speak. You’re reading the contract like it’s the terms of his parole.

“Alright,” you say, flipping the page with a deliberate rustle. “Ground rules.”

He nods, trying not to look as if he’s bracing for impact.

“One: I’m not changing my last name.”

“Didn’t expect you to,” Oscar says.

“Two: no pet names in public. No ‘darling,’ no ‘chérie,’ and absolutely no ‘babe.’”

He makes a face. “I don’t think I’ve ever said ‘babe’ in my life.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

You tap the next section of the contract. “Three: no sharing a bed. We alternate who gets the apartment when the press is nosy, but I don’t care how Monégasque the walls are. We are not reenacting a romcom.”

“I like my own space.”

“Four,” you continue, now fully warmed up, “if I find out you’ve got a girlfriend in another country who thinks this is all some hilarious prank, I will go on record. Publicly. With—how do you say?—receipts.” 

Oscar’s eyes widen, then he laughs. He can’t help it. You’re glaring, but it only makes him grin harder. “There is no secret girlfriend,” he assures, still smiling. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

You study him a second longer. He meets your gaze. Not in a cold way. More like someone trying very hard to be worthy of trust.

“Alright,” you murmur, sitting back. “We have only one problem.” 

“Do we?” 

“This.” You gesture vaguely between the contract, the table, and him. “This is very convincing on paper. But people will ask questions. My grandmother will ask questions.”

“I figured as much,” Oscar says, drawing a breath. “Which is why we’ll need to... date. First.”

“Date,” you say, testing the word out on. Your nose scrunches up a bit. Cute, Oscar thinks, and then he crashes the thought into the wall of his mind so he nevers thinks it again. 

“Publicly. Casually. Just enough to sell the story,” he explains. “Lunches, walks, one trip to the paddock maybe. Something the media can sink its teeth into. I’ll—I’ll pay for that, too.”

“You’re telling me I have to pretend to fall in love with you,” you say skeptically. 

Oscar’s smile tilts. “Not fall in love. Just look like you could.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then you drop your head into your hands, laughing once—sharp and disbelieving. “Dieu m’aide,” you mumble into your palms. “Fine. One year. No pet names. Separate beds. And if you make me wear matching outfits, I walk.” 

Oscar’s heart soars. “Deal,” he says, sealing it before you can back out. 

He reaches out to shake on it.

You hesitate. Then take his hand.

And just like that, you’re engaged.

A photo of Oscar with a takeaway bag from your restaurant makes the rounds on a gossip account. The caption reads, Local Hero or Just Hungry? Piastri Spotted Again at Chez Colette. He doesn’t comment.

Then, a week later, he’s asked on a podcast what he does on his days off in Monaco. He shrugs, smiles, and says, “There’s this little place down on Rue Grimaldi. Family-owned. Best tapenade in the world.”

The host jokes, “That’s oddly specific.”

Oscar just sips his water. “So’s my palate.”

After that, things move faster. A video of you two walking along the harbor—him carrying two ice creams, you stealing bites from both—ends up in a fan edit with sparkles and French love songs. Then someone snaps a blurry photo of you adjusting his collar before a press event. The caption: Yo, Oscar Piastri can pull????????

He never confirms. Never denies. Just keeps showing up like it’s natural. He opens doors. He holds your bag when you need to tie your shoe. He stands a little too close when you’re waiting in line. The story builds itself.

Until one night, a photo leaks.

It’s at the back entrance of the restaurant, late, after a pretend-date that turned into real laughter and too much wine. You’re saying goodbye. He kisses you—cheek first, then temple, then, finally, the crown of your hair.

That’s the money shot. Oscar, his lips pressed atop your head; you, with your eyes closed. Turns out both of you are pretty good actors. 

The internet implodes.

Lando calls the next morning.

“Mate.”

Oscar winces. “Hey.”

“You’re dating?” Lando sounds honest-to-goodness betrayed. Oscar almost feels bad. 

The Australian squints at the espresso machine like it might save him. “Technically, yes.”

“You didn’t think to mention that?”

“I was enjoying the privacy,” he deadpans.

Lando hangs up. Oscar makes a mental note to apologize when they see each other next at MTC. For now, though, he has more pressing matters to handle. One he discusses with you while he’s helping you close up shop.

Oscar nudges you gently. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh no.”

“I need to use a pet name.”

You whip your head toward him. “Absolutely not.”

“Hear me out. It’s weird if I call you ‘hey’ in interviews. People are starting to notice. One. Just one.”

You narrow your eyes. “Like what?”

He clears his throat, adopting a dramatic air. “Darling.”

You shake your head. “Too Downton Abbey.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Too American.”

“Snugglebug?”

You stare.

“That was a test,” he says defensively.

“Try again.”

He considers. “Just—how about ‘my future wife.’”

You look away—too quickly. He sees it. The flicker. The way your lips twitch before you hide them. 

“My future wife, then,” he says, sounding too smug for his own good. 

You don’t say it back, don’t promise to call him your future husband. It’s alright. As it is, he has a couple more hurdles before he can even get to the wedding bells part of this arrangement. 

Oscar has faced plenty of terrifying things in life: Eau Rouge in the rain, contract negotiations, Lando in a mood. None of them compare to this. Your grandmother’s dining room, cramped and full of porcelain saints.

He’s painfully aware of the scratchy linen napkin on his lap, the heavy scent of cedarwood and amber in the air. The wallpaper is floral. The lighting is... judgmental. And across from him, your grandmother—petite, sharp-eyed, hair in an immaculate bun—regards him like a fraudulent soufflé.

You sit between Oscar and her, valiantly attempting to translate. The infamous Colette says something sharp and direct in French.

You smile saccharinely sweetly at Oscar. “She wants to know if you have real intentions.”

Oscar clears his throat. “Tell her yes. Tell her I think you’re… remarkable.”

You raise an eyebrow but translate. Your grandmother hums noncommittally, eyes narrowing just a touch. Then she asks another question. You translate again. “She wants to know what you like about me.”

Oscar panics. “Tell her you’re bossy.”

You give him a look.

“In a good way! I like that you tell me what to do. It’s grounding,” he backtracks. “And that you don’t laugh at my French, at least not out loud. And that you know exactly what you want and refuse to settle for less.”

Shaking your head, you deliver the words in French. Oscar has no way to know if it’s verbatim or if you’re somehow making him sound better. Regardless, your next translated words hold true. “She says she still doesn’t trust you,” you say wryly. 

“Fair,” he says. 

The meal continues. Your grandmother asks about his family, his racing, what he eats before a Grand Prix. You relay each question in English, Oscar doing his best to keep up, alternating between charming and catastrophic. He drops his fork once. He mispronounces aubergine. You have to explain what Vegemite is, and it nearly causes an incident.

Finally, somewhere between the cheese course and dessert, he reaches for your hand. It surprises both of you, the way his fingers find yours without fanfare.

Your grandmother notices. She watches for a long second, then exhales through her nose. Her next words don’t sound as cutting. You murmur, translating, “She says she’ll be keeping an eye on us.”

Oscar nods solemnly. 

Outside, later, as the night air cools your flushed cheeks, he lets out a breath like he's crossed the finish line. “Think she’d be open to babysitting the fake kids one day?” he asks ruefully. 

You laugh. Hard.

He’ll take it, he decides. 

The season starts. You stay in touch. Oscar shows up at the restaurant after three months on the dot, still smelling faintly of champagne and podium spray. “I brought the trophy,” he announces, holding it out like a peace offering.

You stare at the intricate cup accorded to him for crossing the finish line first, then at him. “You think I want a trophy in exchange for emotional labor?”

“I also brought you a pastry,” he adds, brandishing a delicate tarte tropézienne.

You take the pastry.

He follows you inside, slipping into your usual booth in the back, where the sound of the espresso machine muffles any chance of a quiet moment. You sit across from him, pulling your apron over your lap like a barrier.

“So,” he begins. “We should probably talk about... the proposal.”

“You’re really not wasting time,” you chuckle. 

“We’ve got a timeline. Press, citizenship, nosy neighbors. I have to make it look like I can’t bear to be without you.”

You snort. “That’ll be a performance.”

He grins. “Oscar-worthy.”

You try not to smile at his joke. “What do you even envision? You just collapsing in the paddock and screaming that you must marry me immediately?”

“That was my backup plan.”

You sip your coffee, watching him over the rim. “And what would be the first plan?” 

“Something classic. You’ll pretend to be surprised. I’ll get down on one knee. Ideally, there will be flowers, soft lighting, maybe a string quartet hiding behind a hedge.”

You shake your head. “Ridiculous.”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t want something like that?”

You hesitate. Just for a bit. “Fine,” you admit. “If it were real, I suppose I would want something simple. Something quiet. Not in front of a crowd. No flash mobs.”

“Noted. Absolutely no synchronized dancing.”

“And I’d want it to be somewhere that means something. Like... the dock near the market, maybe. Where my parents met. Just us. Some lights over the water. Nothing fancy.”

Oscar has gone quiet. It bleeds into the moment after you answer. You’re glaring at him heatlessly when you demand, “What?” 

He shrugs, eyes a little soft. “Nothing. Just... You’re really easy to fall in love with when you talk like that.”

You roll your eyes, but the blush betrays you. He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Should we make it the market dock, then? For the fake proposal.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the words don’t come. “Alright,” you concede, all the fight gone out of you. “But if you get a string quartet involved, I will throw you into the sea.” 

“No promises,” says Oscar, even as he cracks the smallest of smiles.

Oscar FaceTimes his sisters on a Sunday morning, two hours before his second free practice session in Imola. He’s still in his race suit, hair slightly damp from the helmet, seated cross-legged on the floor of his motorhome like a boy about to beg for pocket money.

“Alright,” he says, flashing the camera a sheepish grin. “Before you say anything—I know it’s been a while. But I have news.” 

Hattie appears first, her hair in rollers, holding a mug that says #1 Mum despite not having kids. Then Edie, still in bed, squinting at her phone like it betrayed her. Finally Mae joins from what appears to be a café, earbuds in, already suspicious.

“You’re not dying, are you?” Mae says apprehensively. “Because you have ‘soft launch of a terminal illness’ face.”

“No one’s dying,”  Oscar says exasperatedly. “I’m—okay, this is going to sound a bit mad, but I need you all to come to Monaco next weekend.”

A beat. Silence. A spoon clinks against ceramic.

“Oscar,” Edie says slowly, “if this is about the cat again—”

“No, no! I swear, it’s not about the cat. I’m—proposing.”

Three sets of eyebrows go up. Even Hattie lowers her mug.

“Is this the waitress?” Mae asks, frowning. “She’s real?” 

Oscar lets out a heavy sigh. “Yes, she’s real. You’ve met her—at Chez Colette, remember? She works there. Thick accent. Quietly judges people with just her eyebrows.”

Recognition dawns slowly. “The waitress who told dad his wine palate was embarrassing?” Hattie says, remembering the one and only time Oscar had taken them to the restaurant, post-race. Back when it was just a place for good food and not ground zero for a marriage of convenience. 

“The very one,” he says. 

“I liked her,” Edie says. “Sharp. Didn’t laugh at your jokes.”

“So what’s the rush?” Mae’s eyes are narrowed. “You’re not the spontaneous type.”

Oscar hesitates. There’s a script he wrote for this exact moment, but it crumbles like a napkin in his hands. He tries the truth, or at least a gentle version of it.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what matters,” he says. “About building something. And... Monaco’s home now, in a weird way. But it’s not really home without her.”

It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole story.

There’s a pause, then Hattie sniffs and says, “Well, if this is how I find out I need a bridesmaid dress, I expect champagne.”

“I want seafood at the rehearsal dinner,” Edie adds.

“And we need a proper girl’s day with our sister-in-law-to-be,” Mae mutters, smiling despite herself.

Oscar grins, relief warm and fizzy in his chest.

“So you’ll come?”

“Of course we’ll come,” they say in near-unison.

The screen glitches for a moment, freezing them mid-laughter. Oscar watches their pixelated faces and thinks, oddly, that maybe this fake proposal has a bit too much heart in it already.

They fly in. His parents, too. The local press catch wind of it; rumors fly, but he says nothing. He’s too busy watching proposals on YouTube and figuring out how to make this halfway convincing. 

On the day, Oscar finds that the dock near the market smells like sea salt and overripe citrus. The string of lights overhead flicker like they know what’s about to happen. Oscar stands at the edge, jacket wrinkled, hair wind-tossed, a paper bag tucked under one arm like he’s hiding pastries or nerves.

You arrive five minutes late. On purpose. He doesn’t look up right away, too focused on adjusting something in the bag. When he does glance up, there’s a boyish flush in his cheeks like he’s trying very hard not to bolt.

“You’re early,” you tease.

“I’m punctual,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

You walk toward him slowly, letting the moment settle like dust in warm air. Behind the crates of tomatoes and shutters of the market stalls, there’s the faintest sound of movement—your grandmother, probably, crouched next to a box of sardines with Oscar’s sisters stacked like dolls behind her. His parents, also trying to be discreet as they film the proposal on their phones. All of them out of earshot. 

Oscar clears his throat. “So,” he says. “I was going to start with a speech. But I practiced it in the mirror and it sounded like I was reciting tyre strategy.”

You fold your arms. "Now I’m intrigued."

Oscar pulls the ring out of the paper bag like he’s defusing a bomb. It’s a simple one. No halo, no flash. Just a slim gold band and a small stone, found with the help of a very patient assistant and a very anxious jeweler.

“I know it’s not real,” he says. “But I still wanted to ask properly. Because you deserve that. And because, if I’m going to lie to the world, I want to at least mean every word I say to you.”

He kneels. One knee on the old dock planks, the other wobbling slightly.

You try not to smile too much. You fail.

He looks up. Cheeks flaming, eyes glinting. “Will you marry me, mon amour? For taxes, for residency, and the longevity of Monaco’s local cuisine?”

You take the ring. Slide it on. It fits like something inevitable. “Yes," you say softly, amusedly. “But only if you promise to do the dishes when this all goes sideways.”

He laughs, rises, pulls you into him like he’s trying to remember the shape of this moment for later. The lights flicker above you, the market quiet except for the faint sound of someone muffling a sneeze behind a barrel of oranges. You lean in, mouth near his ear.

“There’s nothing more Monégasque than what I’m about to do.”

Oscar pulls back. “What does that—”

You grab his hand and hurl both of you off the dock.

The splash echoes into the cove, loud and wild and full of salt. Somewhere behind you, your grandmother cackles. One of Oscar’s sisters screams. The sea wraps around you both like an exclamation point.

He surfaces first, sputtering. “I didn’t even bring a string quartet!”

You shrug, treading water, the ring catching the last of the sunset. “Welcome to the Principality, monsieur Piastri.” 

Somewhere above, the dock creaks and the lights swing, and a family of co-conspirators starts clapping. The water tastes like the beginning of something strange and maybe wonderful. Monaco, at last, lets him in.

One blurry photo on Instagram is all it takes. 

Oscar, soaked to the knees, hair flattened to his forehead, grinning like someone who’s just robbed a patisserie and gotten away with it.

You’re next to him, clutching a towel and wearing an expression that hovers somewhere between incredulity and affection. The ring—small, elegant, unmistakable—catches the light just enough.

His caption is a single word: Oui.

It takes approximately four minutes for the drivers’ WeChat to implode.

Lando is the first to respond: mate MATE tell me this isn’t a prank.

Then Charles: Is that my fucking neighbor????

Followed by George: This is either extremely romantic or deeply strategic. Possibly both.

Fernando simply replies with a sunglasses emoji and the words: classic.

The media goes feral. Engagement! Surprise dock proposal! The Chez Colette Heiress™! There’s already a Buzzfeed article ranking the most Monégasque elements of the proposal (you jumping into the sea is #1, narrowly edging out the string lights). Someone tweets an AI-generated wedding invite. The official F1 social media releases a supportive statement.

By Thursday’s press conference, Oscar has a halo of smug serenity around him. He had fielded questions all morning, deflecting citizenship implications with the precision of a man who’s done thirty rounds with the Monégasque bureaucracy and lost each time.

Lando, seated beside him, nudges his elbow.

“So,” he says into the mic. “Do we call you Mr. Colette now, or…?”

Oscar doesn’t miss a beat. “Only on the weekdays.”

A ripple of laughter. Cameras flash. “I’m just saying,” Lando continues, faux-serious, “first you get engaged, next thing you know, you’re organizing floral arrangements and crying over table linens.”

“I’ll have you know,” Oscar replies, “the table linens are your problem. You’re best man.”

“Wait, what?”

But Oscar’s already looking past the cameras, past the questions, to the text you sent him that morning: full house again tonight. your trophy is in the pastry case. i put a flower in it. don’t be late.

He shrugs at the next question—something about motives, politics, tax brackets. All he says is, “Chez Colette’s never been busier. She looks beautiful with that ring. I’m winning races. Life’s good.”

And for once, no one argues. (Except Lando, who mutters, “Still can’t believe you beat me to a wife.”)

But then the hate makes its way through the haze. A comment here. A message there. Oscar doesn’t find out until much later, but you supposedly ignored them at first. The usual brand of online cruelty wrapped in emojis and entitlement. It curdled, slow and rancid, like spoiled milk beneath sunshine.

DMs filled with accusations. Gold digger, fame-chaser, fraud. A journalist who called the restaurant pretending to be a customer, asking if it’s true you forged documents. The restaurant landline, unplugged after the fourth prank call. 

By the end of the week, someone mails a dead fish to Chez Colette. Wrapped in butcher paper. No return address. A note tucked inside reads: Go back to the shadows.

You find it funny. Morbidly, anyway. You show it to your grandmother like a joke, like something distant and absurd. She doesn’t laugh.

Oscar doesn’t either.

He hears about it secondhand—Lando lets it slip, offhandedly, after qualifying. Something about the restaurant and a very unfortunate cod. He chuckles at first, caught off guard, then notices the way Lando avoids his gaze.

He texts you that same afternoon. what’s this about a fish?

You send back a shrug emoji. He calls you. You don’t pick up.

The silence between you is short and volatile. He digs. He finds out. He walks into the kitchen after hours, sleeves rolled, still in his race gear. “You should’ve told me.”

You’re wiping down the bar with the same rag you always use when you’re pretending you’re fine. “It’s not your problem.”

His jaw ticks. He’s too still. That particular quiet you’ve only seen once. After a bad race, helmet still in his lap, staring out at nothing, eyes unblinking. “It is my problem,” he says, voice low, tight. “We did this together.”

“We faked this together,” you correct, sharper than you meant.

“Don’t split hairs with me right now.”

You glance up. There’s a glint in his eye Not anger, exactly. Something colder. Something surgical. Protective. That night, he drafts the statement himself. It’s short. No PR filters. No fluffy team language. No committee approval.

If you think I’d fake a proposal for a passport, you don’t know me. If you think insulting someone I care about makes you a fan, you’re wrong. Leave her alone.

He posts it without warning. No team heads-up. No brand consultation.

The fallout is immediate. And loud. Some applaud him—brave, romantic, principled. Others double down, clawing at conspiracy theories like they hold inheritance rights. But the worst voices get quieter. The dead fish don’t return. You stop sleeping with your phone on airplane mode.

A few sponsors call to ‘express concern.’ He answers them all personally. Later, again in the restaurant kitchen, he leans against the counter while you wash greens, trying to act like it didn’t cost him anything to do what he did. Like it didn’t make something shift between you.

“Don’t read into it,” he says, picking at the label of a pickle jar with too much focus. “I just didn’t want our story to tank before I get my tax break.”

You don’t look at him. He shifts, awkward. Adds, “And... I guess we're friends now. Loosely.”

You pass him a colander without comment. He holds it as if it’s evidence in a case he’s trying to solve. “Still not reading into it,” you say, finally, absolving him and thanking him all at once.

“Good.”

When you turn away, he watches you a little too long. And when you laugh—just barely, just once—he lets himself smile back.

The restaurant is full, as always. Someone just ordered two servings of pissaladière and asked if the newly engaged couple is around tonight.

Your grandmother rolls her eyes and tells them, in her stern, stilted English, “Only if you behave.”

The wedding planning happens in the margins. Between races, between airports, between whatever strange reality the two of you have created and the one that exists on paper. Oscar reads menu options off his phone in airport lounges. You text him photos of flower arrangements with captions like Too romantic? and Is eucalyptus overdone?

Neither of you want something extravagant. The more believable it is, the smaller it needs to be. Just close family. A quiet ceremony. A reception in the restaurant, chairs pushed aside, candles on the table. You call it a micro-wedding. Oscar calls it a tax deduction with canapés.

Still, some things have to be done properly. Rings. A few photos. Legal documents with very real signatures. He misses most of it, but you keep him looped in with texts and the occasional FaceTime call, grainy and too short. It’s always night where one of you is.

On one of his rare trips back to Monaco, he stops by the restaurant to say hello. Your grandmother tells him through gestures that you’re at a fitting two blocks away. He finds the boutique mostly by accident. Sunlight catching on the display window, the bell chiming softly as he pushes the door open.

You’re on the pedestal, the back of the dress being pinned by a seamstress. Simple silk, off-white, the kind of dress that wouldn’t raise eyebrows in a civil hall or turn heads on a red carpet. Your hair is pinned up, loose and a little messy. 

Still, he freezes.

You catch his reflection in the mirror and gasp. “Oscar!” you yelp, spinning to look at him. “It’s bad luck to see the dress!”

He blinks, caught. “It’s not a real wedding,” he huffs. 

You squint at him. “Still. Don’t ruin my fake dreams.”

He steps further in, slow, like he’s not sure what rules he’s breaking. “So that’s the one?”

You shrug, turning a little in the mirror. "It’s simple. Comfortable. Feels like me."

He nods, too fast. “It’s nice. You look…”

You wait.

He swallows. “Very believable.”

“High praise.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, eyes still on the mirror, or maybe just on you. There’s a feeling crawling up his throat, unfamiliar and slightly inconvenient. “I should go,” he says. “Let you finish.”

“You came all this way. Stay. I want your opinion on shoes.”

“Right, because I am famously qualified to judge footwear.”

And so he sits, cross-legged in a velvet chair that probably costs more than a front wing, and watches you try on shoes, one pair at a time. You argue over ivory versus cream. You make him close his eyes and guess.

He doesn’t say much, but he files it all away. The way you wrinkle your nose at kitten heels, how you giggle when a buckle gets stuck, how you mutter something in French under your breath when the seamstress stabs your hip with a pin.

He doesn’t understand why his chest feels tight. But he doesn’t question it, either.

The day of the wedding arrives like a postcard. Sun-drenched, breeze-cooled, the sea winking blue behind the low stone wall where the ceremony is set up. Your grandmother insists on arranging the chairs herself. Oscar offers to help and is swiftly redirected to stay out of the way.

Chez Colette is shuttered for the day, but still smells like rosemary and flour. The reception will spill into the alley behind it, where the cobblestones have been hosed down and scattered with mismatched café tables, each with a little glass jar of fresh-cut herbs.

For now, the courtyard near the water has been transformed with folding chairs, borrowed hydrangeas, and a string quartet (at Oscar’s insistence and your distaste) made up of one of your cousins and her friends from the conservatory. They play Debussy with just enough off-tempo charm to feel homemade.

Oscar stands at the front, hands shoved into his pockets, tie slightly crooked despite Lando’s earlier attempts to straighten it. His shoes pinch slightly. He’s convinced his shirt collar is a size too small. Lando is beside him, fidgeting like he’s the one about to get married.

“You good?” Lando whispers, leaning in just enough.

“No.”

“Perfect.”

Oscar smooths the paper in his pocket for the eighth—no, ninth—time. It’s creased and slightly smudged from nerves and a morning espresso. He didn’t memorize his vows. He barely even finished them. But they’re his, and he wrote them himself. With some help from Google Translate and an aggressively kind old woman on the flight to Nice.

Guests trickle in like sunlight. Your friends in summer dresses and linen suits, their laughter lilting in the sea air. His family, sunburned from the beach, trying to look formal but cheerful. Hattie gives him a thumbs-up. Edie mouths, Don’t faint. Mae just grins and adjusts the flower crown someone handed her.

Then you walk in.

And the world does that annoying thing where it goes quiet and dramatic, like a movie scene he wouldn’t believe if he were watching it himself. You wear the simple dress. Ivory, sleeveless, the hem brushing your ankles. Your hair is down this time, soft around your shoulders. You have a hand wrapped around your grandmother’s arm, and your smile is the kind that turns corners into homes.

Oscar forgets what to do with his face.

The ceremony begins. The officiant says words Oscar doesn't register. Lando keeps elbowing Oscar at appropriate times to remind him to nod, and once to stop picking at the hem of his jacket.

You go first, when the vows come. Your voice is steady, low, threaded with amusement and something else. Something real. You say his name like it matters. Like it might keep meaning more with every time you say it.

You make promises that are half-jokes, half truths. To tolerate his road rage on normal roads. To always keep a tarte tropézienne in the freezer for emergencies. To have him; sickness and health, Australian and Monégasque. 

His turn.

He pulls the paper from his pocket. Unfolds it like it might disintegrate. Clears his throat. Glances at you.

“Je... je promets de te supporter,” he begins, awkwardly, his accent thick and uneven. “Même quand tu laisses la lumière de la salle de bain allumée.”

There are chuckles. His sisters blow into handkerchiefs. A pigeon flutters past like it, too, is here for the drama. He stumbles through the rest.

Promises to make you coffee badly but consistently. To bring you pastries when you're angry with him. To never again get a string quartet without written approval. He throws in a line about sharing his last fry, even if it's the crispy end piece.

Halfway through, he glances up. And sees it. The shimmer in your eyes. The not-quite-contained tears that threaten to spill. It knocks the air out of him.

By the time the officiant is saying, And now, by the power vested in me—, Oscar doesn’t wait. 

He leans forward and kisses you, hands framing your face like he can catch every single tear before it falls. His thumb brushes the edge of your cheekbone. It’s not rehearsed, but it’s right. You melt forward, like the kiss was always part of the plan.

The crowd cheers. Your grandmother sniffs like she always knew it would come to this. One of your cousins whistles. Lando punches the air with both fists.

The reception begins in the cobbled alley behind Chez Colette, strung with borrowed fairy lights and paper lanterns swaying in the breeze. The scent of rosemary focaccia and grilled sardines fills the air, mingling with the crisp pop of celebratory champagne.

Someone’s rigged an old speaker system to loop a playlist of jazz and golden-age love songs, occasionally interrupted by the soft hiss of the espresso machine still running inside. Your grandmother commands the kitchen like a general, spooning barbajuan into chipped bowls and muttering under her breath in rapid-fire Monégasque. 

The courtyard buzzes with the kind of warmth that can’t be choreographed. Oscar’s sisters are deep in conversation with your friends, comparing childhood embarrassments. Mae pulls up a photo of Oscar in a kangaroo costume at age six and your side of the table erupts in delighted horror. One of your cousins has started a limoncello drinking contest beside the dessert table.

Lando, never one to be left out, sidles up to one of your bridesmaid cousins and introduces himself with a wink and a terribly accented “Enchanté.” She laughs in his face, but doesn’t walk away.

The music shifts from upbeat to something softer, slower. Oscar’s mother pulls him onto the floor for their dance. He resists at first, shy in the way only sons can be, but she hushes him gently and holds him like she did when he was five and fell asleep in the backseat of the family car.

They sway to the music, and halfway through, she wipes at her eyes and whispers something that makes Oscar nod too quickly and look away, blinking hard.

Later, it’s your turn. He finds you near the edge of the alley, holding a half-eaten piece of pissaladière, watching the lights flicker across the windows and the harbor beyond. There’s flour on your wrist and a tiny smear of anchovy oil on your collarbone.

“May I?” he asks, offering his hand.

You smile, place your hand in his, and let him pull you in. The music lilts, old and romantic, like something out of your grandmother's record player. You move together in small steps, barely more than a sway, but it’s enough. “A year and a half starts now,” you murmur, eyes on his shoulder.

He hums. “We’ll manage.” 

You let out a breath, equal parts hope and hesitation. “Still feels like we’re tempting fate.”

He leans closer, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Then maybe we should tempt it properly.”

You look up at him, the warning written all over your face. But he’s already grinning like he’s fifteen again, mischief blooming across his face. “You said you wanted something Monégasque,” he hums.

“Don’t you dare—”

He scoops you up before you can finish, and you yelp, arms flailing around his neck.

“Oscar Piastri, I swear—”

“Too late!”

He runs. Through the alley, past your grandmother shouting something scandalized in, past Lando who drops his glass and whoops, past chairs and flower petals and startled guests, and straight for the harbor. 

The water meets you like a shock of laughter and salt, the world disappearing in a splash and a blur of white fabric and suit sleeves. When you surface, gasping, your hair clinging to your cheeks, Oscar is beside you, beaming, his jacket floating nearby like a shipwrecked flag. “Revenge,” he says, breathless, “is so damn sweet out here.” 

You splash him, teeth chattering and smile unstoppable. “You are insane.”

“Takes one to marry one.”

On the dock, guests are cheering, others filming, your grandmother shaking her head with a tiny smile and muttering something about theatrical Australians. The string quartet starts playing again, undeterred. Lando appears holding two towels like a game show assistant and shouts, “You better not be honeymooning in the marina!”

Oscar swims closer, hands catching yours underwater. “You know,” he says, nose almost touching yours, “you never did say I do.” 

You kiss him. Soft and sure and salt-slicked. “That count?” you murmur against his lips. 

He laughs. “Yeah. That counts.”

Beneath the twinkle lights and the ripple of music, the harbor keeps your secret, just for a little while longer.

The headlines arrive before the sun does.

Oscar sees them on his phone somewhere over the Atlantic, legs stretched across the aisle, wedding band catching in the reading light. The screen glows with speculation: Secretly Expecting?, Tax Trick or True Love?, From Waitress to Wifey: The Curious Case of Monaco's Newest Bride.

He scrolls past them all, thumb steady, face unreadable. The truth was never going to be enough for people, he knew that. It didn’t matter that your grandmother cooked the wedding dinner herself or that your bouquet had been made of market stall leftovers and rosemary from the alley. It didn’t matter that Oscar’s mother cried during the ceremony or that you whispered something to him under your breath right before the kiss that made his heart knock painfully against his ribs.

None of that sells as well as scandal. In interviews, he dodges the worst of it with practiced ease. “It was a beautiful day,” he says, and “She looked stunning,” and “No, I’m not changing teams.”

Lando, naturally, finds every headline he can and reads them aloud in the paddock. “‘She’s either carrying his child or his offshore holdings,’” Lando recites dramatically, leaning back in a folding chair, grin wide.

Oscar rolls his eyes. “You’re just jealous you didn’t get invited to the harbor plunge.”

“Mate, you threw your bride into the sea.”

“She started it.”

The grid has a field day. Drivers he’s barely spoken to before raise their eyebrows and offer sly congratulations. Someone leaves a baby bottle in his locker with a bow. Social media eats it up and spits it back out, pixelated and sharp-edged.

But he tunes most of it out. Especially when it turns nasty. He has a team for that now. Official statements, social monitoring, the occasional DM deleted before he can see it. Still, he keeps an eye on the worst of it. Makes sure nothing slips through. Nothing that might reach you.

He lands in Monaco two weeks later with sleep in his eyes and a croissant in a paper bag. He stops by the restaurant like he always does and finds you at the register, wrist turned just so. The ring glints beside the band. Matching his. “You’re wearing it,” he says dazedly. 

“We’re married.”

He shrugs, hiding a smile. “Feels weird.”

“That’s because it’s fake.” 

“Still,” he says, tapping his own ring against the counter. “Looks good on you.”

You roll your eyes and hand him a plate. “Compliment me less. Pay for lunch more.”

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking: that your laugh sounds like music, that the lie is starting to feel like it’s been sandpapered into something real and delicate. Instead, he sits in the booth by the window, watching you refill the salt shakers, and thinks—the world can say what it wants.

You know the truth, and so does he.

The week of the Monaco Grand Prix dawns bright and impossibly blue. The streets of the Principality shimmer under the sun, fences rising overnight like scaffolding for a play the city has performed a thousand times. Everything smells faintly of sea salt and fuel, and by mid-morning, the air is alive with the buzz of anticipation and finely tuned engines echoing off marble walls. But this year, the script reads a little differently.

Oscar Piastri is not just another driver on the grid.

The press reminds him of it daily, with a barrage of questions and not-so-subtle headlines. There’s always been one Monégasque darling. Now there’s the new almost-Monégasque.

A man with a newly minted Monégasque wife, a wedding video that’s gone viral twice, and a story that seems too picturesque not to speculate on. Is it for love? For tax benefits? For strategic branding? The opinions come loud and fast, and Oscar finds himself blinking under the weight of it.

He fields the questions with a practiced smile. “No, I’m not replacing Charles. No, I don’t think that’s possible. Yes, Monaco means something different to me now.”

They ask about pressure. About performance. About legacy. He says all the right things. But in the quiet of the restaurant kitchen, where you’re prepping tarragon chicken for your grandmother and your hands smell like thyme, he confesses: “I feel like I might throw up.”

You look up from your chopping board. “That’s not ideal. Especially not in my kitchen.”

He slumps into the stool near the flour bin, the one that squeaks when someone shifts too much weight on it. He rubs his temples, his posture more boy than racer. “It’s just—this place. This race. You. The whole country’s looking at me like I’m trying to steal something.”

You cross to him, wiping your hands on a faded dish towel. The kind with embroidered lemons curling at the hem. “You’re not stealing anything. You’re earning it,” you remind him. “Like you always do.”

He groans, slouching further. “You’re too good to me. I hate that.”

“You love it, actually.”

“That’s the problem.”

The morning of the race is electric. The sun spills golden light over the yachts and balconies, gilding the grandstands in a glow that feels almost unreal. The paddock is a blur of team radios and cameras, the air tight with nerves.

You find him just before the chaos begins. He’s already in his suit, helmet tucked under one arm, the kind of laser-sharp focus on his face that tells you he’s trying to keep the noise at bay. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, just enough to give him away.

You touch his arm. “Oscar.”

He turns, eyes snapping to yours, and before he can speak, you rise on your toes and kiss him. Not a peck. Not performative. Just real. Your hands rest briefly on his waist. His helmet almost slips from his grip.

He blinks when you pull back. “What was that for?”

“Luck.”

“I don’t believe in luck.”

“No,” you say. “But I do.”

He grins then, a little sideways, like he doesn’t want to but can’t help it. He starts P3. Ends P1.

The crowd roars. The champagne flies. The Principality erupts in noise and color. From the podium, as gold confetti floats like sunlit snow and the Mediterranean glitters beneath the terrace, he lifts the bottle, sprays it with abandon—and then he points directly at you.

A clean, deliberate gesture.

When he finds you after the ceremonies, helmet gone, hair mussed, face flushed with sweat and triumph, he pulls you into his arms like he needs to anchor himself.

He presses his face into your shoulder, his voice muffled but sure. “You kissed me and I won Monaco. I don’t care what anyone says. I’m never letting you go.”

You laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and he lifts you off your feet just so you can feel it for a moment. What it feels like to win, and to soar because of it.

Your honeymoon is late. A stolen few days during the season break, tucked between sponsor obligations and simulator hours. But it’s enough.

Melbourne is crisp in the winter. Sky the color of chilled steel, air sharp with wattle blossoms. Oscar meets you at the airport with a bouquet of native flowers and the look of a man trying not to sprint.

He’s a different version of himself here. Looser, unspooled. Driving on the left like it’s second nature, narrating every corner you pass with stories from childhood. “That’s where I broke my wrist trying to skateboard. That’s the bakery Mum swears by. That field used to flood every winter—perfect for pretending to be Daniel Ricciardo.”

He takes you everywhere. Fitzroy cafés for flat whites and smashed avo on toast, laughing himself breathless when you wrinkle your nose at Vegemite. St. Kilda for long walks along the pier, the scent of salt and fried food curling around you like a scarf. Luna Park for nostalgia’s sake; he wins you a soft toy at one of the booths, the thing lopsided and overstuffed. You carry it anyway.

He insists on a ride on the Ferris wheel, and you sit in the slow-spinning cage, knees bumping, breath fogging the glass. He holds your hand the entire time, thumb grazing your knuckles.

He shows you his high school, points out the old tennis courts and the library he never quite liked. You joke that he peaked too early, and he grins, nudging your shoulder. “I'm still peaking. Haven’t you heard? Married a local princess.”

You eat fish and chips out of paper by the beach, ketchup on your fingers, your laughter carrying over the dunes. You splurge on a seven-course tasting menu with matching wines the next night.

He doesn’t bat an eye at the bill, just watches you sip the dessert wine like it's the best part of the whole trip. The waiter calls you madame and monsieur, and Oscar almost chokes on his amuse-bouche trying not to laugh.

One afternoon, you stop by a museum, wandering slowly between exhibits, your steps in sync. He buys you a ridiculous magnet in the gift shop and sticks it in your handbag without telling you. “A memento,” he says later, as if the entire trip isn’t becoming one already.

On the third night, after a movie and a tram ride that rocked you gently against his side, you end up in the small rented flat he insisted on decorating with local flowers and candles from a boutique shop in South Melbourne. He lights them all before you even step through the door. There’s soft jazz playing on a speaker, and a tiny box of pastries on the kitchen counter. He remembered you liked the lemon ones best.

You turn to him, laughing. “You know you don’t have to do any of this, right?”

His smile falters only a moment. “Yeah. I know.”

But that night, he kisses you like he forgot. Like the boundary lines have been redrawn in candlelight and warmth and the way your laughter fills up his chest.

Oscar, for all his planning and fake vows and clever PR angles, starts to think he doesn’t want to fake a single thing anymore. Not the way your hand fits in his. Not the way you snore just slightly when you’re too tired. Not the way you sigh his name in your sleep like it’s always been yours to say.

Six months into the marriage, Oscar finds it alarmingly easy.

There’s a rhythm now. Races and rest days, press conferences and pasta nights. He wires you money at the start of every month without being asked, a neat sum labeled restaurant support in the memo line, though he likes to pretend it’s something more casual, more romantic.

Sometimes he sends it with a picture. The menu scrawled in your grandmother’s handwriting. A photo of you wiping down the counter, hair tied up and apron on. A video where your voice is muffled under the clatter of pans. He tells himself he does it to keep the illusion going. That the marriage needs its props.

But the truth is, he just wants Chez Colette to survive. Wants your grandmother to keep slicing pissaladière with the same steady hands. Wants your laughter to keep floating through the narrow alleyway outside the kitchen window. Wants to be the reason the lights in the dining room never go out.

That part doesn’t feel fake at all.

In Singapore, the air is thick as molasses and twice as slow. Oscar starts P2. He ends up P4.

The move had been perfect. He was tailing Max, toes on the line, pressure in every nerve. Then the moment came and he hesitated. A flicker. A brake. Not even full pressure—just enough.

Max takes the win. And Oscar sits with it. Sits with the loss, the pause, the decision that shouldn’t have happened but did.

The press room is cold with fluorescent light and smugness. Oscar unzips his race suit halfway and folds his arms over his chest, waiting for the inevitable. His jaw is tight. His eyes sharper than usual. Max gets asked first. He smirks.

“I knew he’d brake. He’s got a wife now,” the Red Bull driver teases. “Has to think twice about these things.”

Laughter. Some loud. Some knowing. Some cruel. Oscar stares at the microphone in front of him like it personally offended him.

He leans into it slowly. “I think Max should keep my wife’s name out of his mouth.”

A beat of silence. Then chaos. Max laughs like it’s a joke. Oscar lets it sit that way. Doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t smile.

He keeps a straight face through the rest of the conference. But there’s something restless behind his eyes, something simmering. Later, the clip goes viral. Memes. Headlines. Polls ranking it as one of the most dramatic moments of the season.

Some people say he’s being possessive. Some say it’s adorable. Others speculate wildly. Pregnancy rumors, tension in the paddock, impending divorce. A few even suggest it’s all a publicity stunt.

Oscar ignores all of it.

He scrolls through his phone in the quiet of the hotel room, looking at a photo you sent that morning. You in a sundress. The restaurant in full swing behind you. A bowl of citrus glowing in the window light. The ring on your finger catching just enough sun to drive him insane.

He should’ve won today. He should be angry at himself. At the telemetry. At the choice he made in that split second.

Instead, he’s angry at Max. At the snickering tone. At the way your name came out of someone else’s mouth like it belonged to everyone but you. Like it was part of a joke he didn’t get to write.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. But he replays the moment again, the way the word wife sounded when he said it. Sharp, defensive, protective. Not fake. Not rehearsed.

Oscar doesn’t sleep that night. Not because he’s haunted by the braking point. But because he wonders, for the first time, if he lost the race on purpose. If he braked because the idea of not seeing you again felt worse than losing. If the risk he once lived for now had consequences he isn’t willing to stomach.

He’s never been afraid of risk.

But he’s starting to learn that love, real or pretend, rewrites the whole strategy. And somewhere along the line, he’s forgotten which parts were meant to be fake.

He falls asleep as the sun comes up, the photo still glowing on his phone screen, your smile seared into the darkness behind his eyelids.

Eight months in, Oscar begins to catalogue his realizations like a man trying to make sense of a soft fall. A slow descent he never noticed until the ground felt far away.

He returns to Monaco between races. You meet him outside the market, where the fruit vendors already call him Oscarino, and where the cobblestones wear your footsteps like a second skin.

He watches you point out the small things: the fig tree tucked behind the old chapel wall, the narrow stairwell with the best view of the harbor, the café that serves coffee just a shade too bitter unless you stir it five times.

“Why five?” he asks, half-smiling.

“No idea,” you say. “It’s just what my father used to do. It stuck.”

He nods like this is sacred knowledge. Like he’s been let in on a secret the rest of the world doesn’t deserve. And there it is—realization one: Monaco will never again be just Monaco. It’s you now. It’s the way you slip through alleys with familiarity, the way you greet the florist by name, the way your laughter belongs to the air here. It clings to the limestone. It softens the sea. 

You show him the bookshop that sells more postcards than novels, the stone bench under the olive tree where your grandmother once waited for a boy who never came. You walk ahead sometimes, pointing out a new pastry shop or pausing to listen to street music, and Oscar lets himself trail behind, watching you like you’re the most intricate part of the landscape.

Realization two: it takes no effort to call you his wife.

He’s stopped hesitating when people say it. Stopped correcting journalists or clarifying the situation. It spills out naturally now, that possessive softness—my wife. Sometimes he says it just to see how it feels. Sometimes he says it because it’s easier than explaining how this all started. But lately, he’s saying it because it makes him feel something solid. Something like belonging. 

“This is for my wife,” he says as he buys a box of pastries for the two of you, and he realizes nobody had even asked. He just wanted to say it, wanted to call you that. 

At dusk, you both sit near the dock where he proposed. You split a lemon tart, the crust crumbling between your fingers. The lights blink to life along the harbor, flickering like a breath caught in your throat.

“You’re quiet,” you say, licking powdered sugar from your thumb.

He’s quiet because he’s on realization three: he’s in love with you.

Not in the way he warned you against. Not in the doomed, reckless way he once feared. But in the steady kind. The kind that snuck in during long nights on video calls, during your terrible attempt at learning tire strategy lingo, during the sleepy murmurs of your voice when you answered his call at two in the morning just to hear about qualifying.

You nudge his knee with yours. “What’s on your mind?”

He doesn’t say the truth. He doesn’t say you. Or everything. Or I think I’d do it all over again, even if it still ended as pretend.

Instead, he leans over and kisses you. Softly. Just for the sake of kissing you. 

Oscar returns to racing with the kind of focus that borders on fear.

The panic builds up quietly, like the slow tightening of a race suit. Zip by zip, breath by breath, until his chest feels too small for his ribs. Every weekend brings new circuits, new stakes, new expectations. Somewhere beneath the roar of the engines, the hum of media questions, the blur of tarmac and hotel rooms, there is a ticking clock. A deadline for when papers have to be filed. He races away from it. 

It starts simple: a missed call. Then another. A message from you—lighthearted, teasing, as always. Tell your wife if you’ve died, so she can tell the florist to cancel the sympathy lilies.

He sends a voice memo in response, tired and rushed. Laughs a little. Says he’s just busy. Promises he’ll call when he gets a moment. The moment doesn’t come.

You begin to write instead. Short texts. Then longer ones. Notes about the paperwork, your grandmother’s health, the weather in Monaco. You remind him, gently at first, that his declaration needs to be signed before the deadline. That the longer he waits, the more eyes you’ll have to avoid. You joke about bribing a notary with fougasse. He hearts the message but doesn’t reply.

And slowly, your tone shifts.

I know you’re busy, one message reads, plain and raw. But I haven’t properly heard from you in six weeks. Just say if you don’t want to do this anymore. I won’t make a scene.

He stares at it in the dark of his hotel room. He doesn’t respond that night. Or the next.

In interviews, he smiles too easily. Jokes with Lando. Brushes off questions about Monaco, about the wedding, about how it feels to be the Principality’s newest almost-citizen. He avoids looking at the ring he still wears.

He tells himself he’s doing the right thing. That this is the cleanest way to let go. That maybe, if he can finish the season strong, everything else will settle into place. But every time he checks his phone, and sees no new messages from you, something sharp twists under his ribs. And still, he doesn’t go back.

The Abu Dhabi heat wraps around the Yas Marina Circuit like silk clinging to skin. The sun is starting its slow descent over the water, dipping everything in that soft golden wash that photographers live for and drivers hardly notice. Oscar notices, because you’re there.

You’re standing just past the paddock entrance, sundress fluttering lightly at your knees, sunglasses perched high, arms crossed like you’re trying to look casual and failing, which is how he knows you didn’t tell him you were coming.

He stops in his tracks, sweat already drying on the back of his neck from the final practice run, and stares. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he says unceremoniously.

“McLaren flew me in,” you reply with a little shrug. “Apparently, there are...rumors. Trouble in paradise.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Trouble manufactured by your absence, more like.”

You raise a brow, just enough for him to catch the sting tucked beneath the humor. “You’ve been making it hard to keep up the illusion.”

Oscar exhales, jaw tightening. He wants to say he knows, that he’s been unraveling with every missed call, every message he didn’t answer because it felt too close to the thing he couldn’t name. Instead, he just says, “I thought the distance would help.”

“It didn’t,” you say simply.

The silence between you stretches, broken only by the far-off roar of another car doing laps in the distance. One of the crew members brushes past, giving Oscar a brief nod, and then disappears into the garage. And then you add, voice softer, “It’s not like I need you to be in Monaco every weekend. But sometimes it felt like you didn’t want to be there at all.”

That lands harder than anything else. There’s tiredness under your eyes, tension in the way you hold your hands together. But you’re here. You flew thousands of miles for a pretend marriage that doesn’t feel so pretend anymore. That has to mean something.

Because of that, Oscar thinks the race is going to be a mess. He thinks he’s going to falter, distracted by the pressure to make the act believable, especially now with you in the crowd and the cameras already tracking every flicker of expression. He thinks he’s going to crash.

He doesn’t.

From the moment the lights go out, he’s more focused than he’s been all season. Every corner feels crisp. Every overtake, calculated. His hands are steady, his breathing even. He doesn’t look for you in the stands, but he feels you there. A gravity, steady and unseen. He drives like he wants to win for the both of you.

P1.

He finishes second overall in the standings. But in this moment, it feels like first in everything.

The pit explodes around him. Cheers, backslaps, mechanics tossing gloves in the air. Oscar climbs out of the car, champagne already being popped somewhere, the air sticky and electric. Helmet off, hair damp, grin tights.

He scans the crowd like he always does after a win, but this time he’s looking for someone. You’re pushing through the throng, one of the PR girls parting the sea for you with a practiced flick of her clipboard. You stumble once in your sandals, catch yourself with a laugh, and keep going. He doesn’t even wait. He surges forward, meets you halfway. 

Oscar cups your face and kisses you, champagne and sweat and adrenaline on his lips. The cameras go wild. The crowd screams. Somewhere, someone yells his name like they know him. He doesn’t care.

He kisses you like he forgot how much he missed it, how much he missed you, how long it's been since something felt this real. The kiss isn’t perfect—your nose bumps his cheek, his thumb smears makeup from beneath your eye—but it doesn’t matter.

When he finally pulls back, his voice is low and breathless against your ear. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“Apparently, I did,” you grumble, already failing to sound irked. “You keep getting lost without me.”

He laughs, something quiet and incredulous. Then, he holds you tighter and buries his face in your neck for one private second before the next cameras flash.

Monaco in the off-season is softer, like the city exhales after the last race and slips into something comfortable. The streets smell of sea salt and early-morning bread. The market thins out, the water calms, and Oscar returns.

He doesn’t text that he’s coming. He just shows up at Chez Colette on a Tuesday morning, hoodie pulled over his hair, hands tucked into his pockets, like he’s trying to apologize just by existing.

Your grandmother spots him first. “Tu as pris ton temps,” she grouses, and swats his arm with a dishtowel. “Si tu la fais attendre plus longtemps, je te servirai ta colonne vertébrale sur un plateau.”

Oscar grins, sheepish, and mumbles, “Yes, Madame.” He finds you in the back kitchen, sleeves rolled up, peeling potatoes like it’s a form of therapy. You don’t look up at first, but you know it’s him. You always know.

“You’re late,” you say noncommittally.

“I brought flowers,” he says, setting them down between the pepper and the oregano. “And an apology. And—a real estate agent.”

That catches your attention. “What?” 

“You said the building has plumbing issues. And your grandmother keeps threatening to fall down the stairs,” he says meekly. “I figured we could find something close. Something that doesn’t feel like it’s held together by wishful thinking and rust.”

Your lips part. “Oscar—”

“We don’t have to move,” he adds quickly. “But I want you to have the option. I—I want to help. Not because of the contract. Because I care for you and the restaurant and your grandmother who wants to serve my spine on a platter for being a terrible husband.”

The silence that follows is thick but not heavy. He reaches out, gently prying the peeler from your hand, and brushes a thumb over your knuckles. “You taught me how to love this city,” he says softly. “Let me take care of you. Just a little.”

You kiss him before you can think about it. Softly. Slowly. Like you’re reminding yourself what it feels like.

The days that follow move in a familiar rhythm. Oscar doesn’t race. He wakes with you and helps with deliveries. He lets your grandmother teach him how to deglaze a pan, how to make stock from scratch, how to use leftover vegetables for the next day’s soup. He burns the onions twice, gets flour on the ceiling once, and swears he’s getting better. He insists on learning to make pissaladière from scratch and ruins three baking trays in the process. The kitchen smells of olives and chaos.

You share a toothbrush cup. You buy a little rug for the bathroom that he claims sheds more than a dog. He brings your grandmother to doctor’s appointments, even when you say he doesn’t have to. He learns where you keep your spices and starts recognizing people at the market. 

He holds your hand under the table when no one’s looking. And sometimes, when no one’s around at all, he still kisses you like someone might see.

You try not to talk about the timeline. About the looming expiration date. About the day one of you will have to be the first to say it out loud. Instead, you let him tuck your hair behind your ear. You let him draw a smiley face in the steam of your mirror after a shower. You let him fold your laundry even though he does it wrong. You let him dance with you in the living room while something slow and old plays on the radio.

And when he lifts you onto the kitchen counter one evening, his mouth warm against yours, you don’t stop him.

The winter chill makes the cobblestones glisten; Monaco is always sort of a dream after midnight, all soft amber streetlights and the hush of waves echoing off stone. Your laughter fills the alleyways like a song no one else knows. Oscar is drunk. Absolutely, definitely drunk. And you are, too.

You’re both wrapped up in scarves and half-finished wine, weaving through the old town with flushed cheeks and noses red from the cold. Oscar’s coat is too big on you, or maybe you’re just small inside it, and every few steps you bump into his side like a boat tethered too close.

“Are you sure you know where we’re going?” you ask, tripping a little over a curb. You clutch his arm.

“Nope,” he chirps, tightening his grip around your shoulders. “But we’re not lost. We’re exploring.”

You grin up at him, and it hits him again—how stupidly beautiful you are. Not in the red carpet, glossy magazine kind of way. In the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh, and how you say his name like it means something. He’s pretty sure his heart’s been doing backflips since the second glass of wine.

You stop by a low stone wall that overlooks the port. The moon sits fat and silver on the horizon, and Oscar feels like the entire world has tilted slightly toward you. “Can I ask you something?” he says, leaning his elbows on the wall beside you.

You nod. Your breath comes in puffs of white.

“What do you know about love?”

“Hm,” you murmur, intoxicated and contemplating. “I know it is tricky. I know it doesn’t always feel like butterflies. Sometimes it’s just... showing up. Letting someone in. Letting them ruin your favorite mug and not holding it against them.”

He huffs a laugh. “That happened to you?”

“Twice,” you say. “Same mug. Different people.”

“Did you love them?”

You pause. “I think I loved the idea of them. The idea of being seen.”

Oscar looks down at his hands. He doesn’t know why he asked, or why he cares so much about your answer. Maybe because he’s been feeling like he’s standing on the edge of something enormous. Something irreversible.

“What about you?” you ask, nudging him. “Any great romances, my dearest husband?” 

“Not really,” he admits. “There were people. Nothing that lasted. I didn’t want to risk it.”

“Because of racing?”

“Because of everything,” he says. “Because I’m good at pretending. And it felt easier than trying.”

You nod slowly, then rest your head against his shoulder. It’s not flirtation. It’s not even comfort. It’s something else. Something steadier. Oscar swallows. His thoughts are a mess of wine and wonder. You, against his side. You, in his jacket. You, not asking him for anything except honesty.

This is love, he thinks. 

Not the crash of the waves, not the fireworks. This. He doesn’t say it, though. Instead, he wraps an arm around you, pulls you closer. “Let’s get you home,” he murmurs, voice low against your hair.

You sigh, content. “You always say that like you’re not coming with me.”

And he smiles, because he is. Of course he is.

Morning comes, spilling into the bedroom like honey, slow and golden. Monaco hums faintly beyond Oscar wakes to the warmth of your body, the tangle of your leg thrown over his, your hair a soft mess against his chest. He doesn’t move.

There’s a stillness in the morning that doesn’t come often, not with his schedule, not with the pace of the season. But here, now, he lets it hold. This was the second rule you two had broken—realizing that a warm body was something you could both use, even if it wasn’t for the sake of making love. Just to have something to hold. 

He remembers the wine from last night, the stumbling laughter, your hand in his as you leaned into his side. This is love, he had thought, drunk and shadowed by the bluish evening. It’s still love, he thinks now, sober and in the daylight.

His hand drifts along your spine, drawing lazy patterns only he can see. You shift slightly, nuzzling into him, the smallest sigh escaping your lips. You once said you liked how he spooned. It had been early on, somewhere between forced breakfasts and joint bank statements. It had made him feel stupidly triumphant.

He doesn’t want to get up. Doesn’t want to leave this bed. He wants to memorize the weight of you against him, the sound of your breathing, the way your fingers twitch in your sleep. But then his phone buzzes. The alarm is gentle, insistent. He reaches for it without moving too much, careful not to jostle you.

A calendar reminder glows on the screen.

ANNIVERSARY IN 1 WEEK. START CITIZENSHIP DECLARATION.

Oscar stares at it. The words feel like they belong to someone else. A script he memorized, not a life he lives. He dismisses it. Hits snooze like he’s defusing a bomb. 

You stir, eyelids fluttering open just enough to glance at him. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he lies, tucking the phone under his pillow.

You hum, unconvinced but too tired to push. He shifts, pulling you closer, curling his arm under your neck, bringing you closer the way you like. Your back fits into his chest like a missing piece. You sigh, warm and content. Within moments, you’re asleep again.

Oscar stays awake. He counts your breaths, anchors himself to the rise and fall of your shoulders. The bed is quiet, your dreams peaceful, but something aches behind his ribs.

One more week. He holds you tighter.

Just a little longer.

Oscar doesn’t mean to ruin a perfectly good afternoon, but the words are sitting like a stone in his chest. They jostle every time you laugh, every time you brush your fingers against his arm, every time you ask if he wants a sip of your drink, already holding the straw out for him.

You’re barefoot, perched on the ledge of the terrace, hair loose. There’s leftover risotto on the table between you and the scent of oranges from the orchard down the street. It should be enough. He should leave it alone. But he doesn’t, he can’t, because a contract is a contract and he refuses to shackle you more than he already has.

“What do you want to do for our anniversary?” he asks, voice low.

You go still. It’s not immediate, but he sees it. The flicker behind your eyes, the pause too long before you smile.

“We could do something small,” you say eventually, your voice gentler than before. “Dinner. Maybe at that place with the sea bass. You liked that one.”

He nods, forcing a smile. “I did.”

You twist the stem of your wine glass between your fingers. “And after that,” you say, “you can submit your declaration.”

There it is.

You say it like you’re reading from a recipe card. Like you’ve practiced in front of the mirror. Like you’re trying very hard to pretend your chest doesn’t hurt. Oscar doesn’t respond right away. He doesn’t trust himself to. You sip your wine, and he watches the way your hand trembles just slightly, how your shoulders curl inward like you’re trying to fold yourself smaller. Like you’re preparing.

“Okay,” he says, plain and simple.

You smile. You always do.

When he gets up to leave for the gym, you walk him to the door. It’s quiet. You stand on your toes to kiss his cheek, and he turns just enough to catch your lips instead. It happens without thought. Without ceremony. The way it always has.

He pulls back slowly, his forehead nearly touching yours. “I’ll see you tonight?”

You nod. “I’ll be here.”

But even as you say it, he can feel it. The detachment. The quiet retreat. You’re drawing the curtain in your head, beginning the soft choreography of letting go. Because this is how the plot was written. Because this is how it will go. For better, for worse; for richer, for poorer. 

He walks out into the afternoon sun, but it doesn’t feel like light. It feels like the slow fade-out of a film. One where the hero doesn’t get the timing right. One where love comes too late.

On the day of your wedding anniversary, Oscar wakes up early.

Monaco hums quietly beyond the window, still in the lull between morning coffee and the world waking up. He turns onto his side and watches you sleep, for a moment pretending today is just another morning. He tries not to think of it as a Last Good Day.

Still, he makes sure everything is perfect.

He picks out the white dress shirt you said made him look like someone in an Italian film. He even tries to iron it for once. He buys your favorite flowers and then arranges them in the living room vase. He lets you sleep in and makes coffee the way you like it, with a dash of cinnamon. The two of you eat breakfast on the tiny balcony, knees knocking gently beneath the table.

When you smile at him over the rim of your cup, he kisses you. Long, sweet, steady. Like he means it. Because he does.

He books a quiet table at the small bistro tucked into one of the back streets of the city, a place you once said reminded you of Paris. You laugh too loudly over wine, your hand finding his easily over the tablecloth. For a few hours, you let yourselves be the kind of couple you’ve always pretended to be.

Then, slowly, the shadows lengthen.

“Ready to go?” you ask, voice soft as the sun begins to set.

He swallows. “Not really.”

Still, you walk hand in hand down the cobbled streets. The mairie—the city hall—waits like an afterthought, a quiet door at the end of a narrow alley. Oscar detours.

“Gelato?” he offers.

You smile sadly. You know what he’s trying to do. “Before filing paperwork?”

“It’s tradition,” he lies. “One year deserves dessert.”

You let him. You always let him. You get gelato; he tastes one too many samples. He pretends to get lost as you walk through the market, even though Monaco is probably the easiest map to remember in the world. He takes you to the docks, just for a minute, just to watch the boats rock gently in the water. You lean into him, silent, warm, your head tucked beneath his chin. He feels you there, but something else, too. The soft press of reality.

“We should go,” you whisper eventually.

He nods, but doesn’t move.

“Five more minutes,” he says. “Please.”

You let him delay. And delay. And delay.

The moment you file the paperwork, the clock starts ticking in a new way. You’re both aware the curtain is about to fall, but no one wants to call out the final act. So you stay there, together. Not speaking. Just watching the harbor. Pretending it’s still the first day, and not the last good one.

But this is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.

You walk into the government building side by side. Oscar’s hand grazes the small of your back as the two of you wait at the numbered queue, the soft whir of the ticket printer, the low hum of bureaucratic silence filling the air.

He signs the papers for the Ordinary Residence Permit with an orange pen you handed him from your bag. You’ve always kept pens on you. He knows that now, like the many other things he’s come to know and love about you. You watch him scrawl his name, carefully, and when he finishes, he exhales through his nose like it took something out of him.

The official behind the desk looks at the documents, stamps them, hands them back with a nod. Oscar is granted residency. Carte Privilège and citizenship are now visible, shimmering just over the next hill.

Neither of you speaks of endings. Not yet.

You agree to drag it out a little more. Not for legal protection now, not even for optics, really. Just to ease the world into the conclusion. He wires you ten percent of every monthly deposit still, but it’s no longer transactional. It’s a quiet act of love, of investment. A stake in something that outlasted the farce.

Two years instead of one and a half. Long enough for the lines to blur beyond recognition.

He’s there when your grandmother needs surgery. You’re there when he misses the podium in Spa and sits, soaked in rain, on the garage floor. 

The divorce happens on a random off-season day. A Tuesday, maybe. The restaurant is closed. Oscar wears a hoodie and sunglasses like he’s hiding, but the clerk doesn’t even look up to recognize him.

The two of you sign quietly. No rings on your fingers anymore, but his tan line still shows.

“Take care,” you say, because there’s nothing else to say.

He nods. “You, too,” he says, and he means it as much as he knows that he’ll never love anybody else. 

The story ends, quiet as it began—

Monaco is a small place. The kind of small that lives in the bones, that lingers in the echo of footsteps down alleys, that smells like salt and baked peaches even in February. Oscar thinks, at first, that he might be able to avoid you. He’s wrong.

He runs into your grandmother before he sees you. She catches his wrist in the produce aisle of the market and drags him toward the tomatoes. 

“Ce sont mauvais,” she says, inspecting them with a frown. "Viens avec moi."

Oscar doesn’t protest. He never does with her. Her hand is still strong, her voice still unimpressed by celebrity. She mutters in French about overpriced zucchini and tourists ruining the flow of the Saturday market. He follows her like he used to, like he always will. She doesn’t ask about the divorce, and Oscar is half-tempted to grill her about how you might’ve justified it. In the end, he decides it won’t do him any good. 

She feeds him a small pastry over the counter at Chez Colette, dabs powdered sugar off his chin, and says nothing when he glances over at the kitchen, where you aren’t. But you’re there later, arms flour-dusted, laughing with a vendor, the soft light of the late afternoon catching in your hair. And when your eyes meet, the silence isn’t sharp. It’s soft. Familiar. Something like home.

You greet him with the same smile you used to wear when you were both still pretending. “Back already?” you ask, brushing your hands on your apron.

“Couldn’t stay away,” he says. It’s mostly true. Okay, no: it’s entirely true.

In the aftermath, the press circles like gulls. Questions echo at paddocks and press conferences, in magazines and murmurs: Why did the marriage end? Was it all just for the passport? Was there heartbreak? Had there ever been love?

Oscar gives clipped answers. “We’re still friends. It ended amicably. I’ll always care about her.”

He says them all with the same practiced ease he once used on the track. But none of them touch the truth: that sometimes, in the quiet of his apartment, he still thinks of you when he hears the clink of wine glasses. That he misses the sound of your laugh bouncing off tile. That he still folds his laundry the way you taught him. That he sometimes forgets and checks his phone for your texts before remembering you no longer owe him any.

And sometimes, like a secret he keeps close, he still calls you his wife in his head.

Friendship is easier than silence. You both settle into it like a well-worn coat. You pass each other notes on delivery slips, meet for drinks that stretch into hours, walk the promenade without ever having to explain why. You send him soup when he’s sick during the off-season. He fixes the restaurant’s leaky sink without being asked. You tell him about your new dates, gently, and he listens too closely, nodding like he’s not tallying every man who isn’t him.

He learns to exist in proximity to the past. Learns to let his gaze linger on your cheekbones without reaching out. Learns that the ache isn’t something that ever really goes away. He sees you in the blur of every streetlight, in the smell of garlic on his hands, in the soft echo of French murmured over dinner.

The years go on. Races come and go. The restaurant thrives. He doesn’t kiss you again, but he lets you lean your head on his shoulder on cold nights, and you let him hold your hand under the table at weddings. At your grandmother’s birthday, he still helps serve the cake. 

Love doesn’t vanish. It just changes shape. It breathes differently. It makes room.

And Monaco stays small. Always small. Just enough room for memories, for weekend markets, for a kind of love that doesn’t ask for more—but still dares, in the quietest way, to linger.

Three years after the divorce, Oscar renews his Ordinary Residence Permit. It feels less momentous than it should. There are no trumpets, no ceremony. Just a polite government clerk stamping a paper, and a weight Oscar didn’t know he was carrying suddenly easing.

You come over that evening. He insists on cooking.

You arch a brow, leaning against the doorway to his small kitchen. “If you burn the garlic again, I'm calling your mum.”

“She’s the one who taught me this, actually,” he replies, a little too proudly.

The meal is simple: pasta with olive oil, lemon, and garlic, tossed with cherry tomatoes and a flurry of parsley. You watch him plate it with a kind of reverent amusement, your wine glass in hand. He lights a scented candle. It’s too much and too little all at once.

You take a bite of his labor of love. “You’ve improved.”

“No burns this time.”

“Progress.”

You eat in silence for a few minutes, the sort of silence that only exists between people who have known one another across the worst and best of themselves. Then, without looking at you, Oscar asks: “Why are you still single?”

The question isn't accusatory. It's soft, tentative, like he's peeling back a layer he doesn't have the right to touch. You don’t answer right away. He glances up.

You're still. Your fork rests against the rim of your plate. You have one or two silver hairs now, and laugh lines from the years. Oscar likes to think one or two of them might be from him. You smile, slow and crooked. Your voice is impossibly sad without taking away from the amusement of your words.

“To be married once is probably enough for me.”

It lands somewhere between a joke and a wound. Oscar nods, because what else can he do?

The pasta is a little too al dente. The wine is already warm. The truth lingers in the corners of the room, unspoken but present. You both sip, chew, avoid. Later, he sees you to the door. You press a kiss to his cheek, brief, like a punctuation mark. “Happy anniversary,” you half-joke.

He leans against the doorframe after you’ve gone, watching the hallway where your footsteps fade. 

One full year later, Oscar invites you out again. 

Except he doesn’t take you to a restaurant, doesn’t cook some pasta dish for you. Not really. He asks you to walk instead, your hand in his like old times. You go without question, winding through the tight alleys and open plazas until you reach the harbor.

It’s dusk. The dock stretches long and narrow, lined with the boats of old money and new dreams. The sea breathes soft against the pilings. The air is salted and damp, heavy with the scent of brine and engine oil. Lights flicker to life over the water—dancing like stars, like possibility.

He slows as you reach the edge of the dock. The sky is dipped in indigo, the sun a smear of molten orange far behind the hills. You shiver slightly, just enough for him to offer his jacket, which you take with a smile that softens something in his chest.

And that’s where he kneels.

Not at a white-tablecloth place. Not with roses and fanfare. But here, where he kissed you once. Where you dragged him into the harbor to celebrate something that wasn’t even real. Where you clung to each other with laughter in your throats and seawater on your skin.

“I know,” he says, voice breaking, because you’re looking at him like he’s insane. He deserves that, he figures. 

His French fails him in the worst way. All the rehearsed lines dissolve on his tongue. He switches to English, because he’s desperate, because he needs you to know. 

“We married for taxes once,” he says. “What do you say about marrying for love?” 

He opens the box.

You gasp.

It’s not new. Not a cut-glass showpiece or anything plucked from a catalogue. It’s old. Your birthright. An heirloom. A week ago, Oscar sat across from your grandmother armed with months of practiced French. He told her the whole story, spoke of his devotion, and came out of the conversation with this blessing. 

There is so much he wants to say.

How he wishes he could have fallen in love with you in a normal way; how he still probably wouldn’t have changed a thing.

How he agrees to be married once is enough, which means he wants to marry you over and over again. In Monaco, in Melbourne, in whichever corner of the world you’ll have him. 

Before he can start, you’re sinking down to your knees, too. The dock creaks beneath you both.

You kiss him all over the face—temples, nose, cheeks, lips—laughing and crying all at once. “You idiot,” you whisper. “You stupid, beautiful idiot.”

He pockets the box, and, hands shaking, reaches for your waist, your shoulders, your hair. He laughs into your shoulder. “Is that a yes?” he breathes, but you’re too busy sobbing to get any words out. 

That’s okay, Oscar thinks to himself as he pulls you as close as he can. 

oh, babe. yixing is soft outside of the bedroom, but once the lights are off? that man is relentless.

the slowest, most sensual pace. he wants to feel everything, wants to make you fall apart inch by inch.

he lives for teasing. kisses that start sweet and lazy, only to shift into something deeper, wetter, his tongue brushing against yours as his hands start wandering.

dirty talk in that soft, breathy voice of his. “hmm, baby… you’re shaking already? i haven’t even really touched you yet.”

the type to build you up so painfully slow, whispering against your skin, “i want you to feel everything. don’t rush, just let me take care of you.”

loves eye contact during sex. his eyes stay locked on yours as he moves inside you, watching your every reaction like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

overstimulation king. he’ll make you come once and still keep going, murmuring, “one more for me, baby, just one more.” except it’s never just one more.

into body worship—he adores every part of you, takes his time kissing, licking, and sucking on the spots that make you whimper.

hand placement is elite. whether he’s gripping your hips, wrapping a hand around your throat, or pinning your wrists above your head, he knows exactly what he’s doing.

morning sex? absolutely. he loves waking you up with slow, lazy thrusts, pressing kisses to your neck as his voice drips honey into your ears.

aftercare is so sweet—he runs you a bath, holds you close, and kisses your hair as he whispers soft praises. “you’re so perfect for me, baby.”

Sometimes it truly feels like this indefinite being is determined to deal you the worst set of cards, and this – this trumps all. Being stuck in an elevator with your ex-boyfriend sounds like the beginning of a shitty romcom, except it’s not. It’s your life, and it’s been your life for the past eight minutes, since the metal box you stepped in ground to a creaky, noisy halt halfway between the sixth and seventh floor. 

And it takes eight minutes before Soonyoung sighs resignedly. “Are you just going to ignore me forever?” 

Forever, you think, is your least favourite word. There were a lot of things you thought you’d have forever, and one of them is standing right next to you.

You swallow thickly. Your reply comes measured and clipped. “For as long as possible.”

When he speaks next, you can hear the attempt at a forced smile in his tone. “Well, you kinda just failed.”

You stay silent. If anyone had told you five years ago that Kwon Soonyoung would be begging to talk to you and you’d be ignoring him, you would have called them crazy; and yet, here you are. Ignoring him like your sanity depends on it, because actually, it does. So for the past eight minutes – nine now, but who’s counting? – you’ve barely spoken a word. You’re both stuck; the recovery team can’t make it for two hours at least; and God hates you, basically.

Soonyoung’s trying to make the most of it, and you’re not letting him.

He says your name, ever so softly. “Really, though. How – how have you been?”

It’s weird, going from years of no contact to working together. It’s been a year since Soonyoung joined your company, but it hasn’t become any easier. Not when he’s such an open book, so fucking easy for you to read. Every time you cross paths, he gets this look in his eyes – sad puppy, you’ve nicknamed it. Now is no different.

“I’ve been okay,” you say finally, stiltedly. You’ve never been able to resist that face, and you’re pretty sure he knows it too. “What about you?”

The silence is painful, but the way he says fine stings a little bit more. You know when he’s lying, and he never used to do that to you.

“So…” He shifts his weight awkwardly, huffing out an uncomfortable laugh as he gazes intently at his shoes. “This is weird, right?”

You match him with an equally uncomfortable smile. “The weirdest.”

“Our longest conversation after forever,” he says. “But I wasn’t expecting it to go like this.”

You cock your head to the side, fixing him with a questioning gaze. All hopes of ignoring him are sailing out the hypothetical window. “How were you expecting it to go?”

Soonyoung looks up at you with one of those embarrassed, endearing smiles. “Better.”

There’s a pregnant pause, and then – “You know, Jeonghan calls you the one that got away.” 

He’s always had a habit of dropping things like that on you; things that leave you a little winded.

“That makes it sound like I escaped,” you say, with an ease you don’t feel.

Clearly, Soonyoung doesn’t feel it either — he exhales heavily. “Maybe you did. Escape, I mean.”

You snap your head towards him, eyes almost owlish in your surprise; “You’re not serious.” When he doesn’t say anything, you continue haphazardly, “Soonyoung, that’s not — there wasn’t anything to escape from.” 

Your ex-boyfriend looks miserable. Avoids eye contact, staring fixedly at his shoes with a dejected expression he can’t properly disguise; even throughout the three years of your relationship, you rarely saw him like this. He looks…

Heartbroken, your mind suggests.

“I’m serious,” you insist again, pushing the thought out of your mind. “You weren’t a bad boyfriend, Soonyoung.”

He snorts then. “Okay, we both know that isn’t true.”

“It is!” 

“If we had, like, a counter of who fucked up however many times, I would leave you in the dust.”

You don’t know how to tell him this might even be half of it. This weird pedestal he puts you on – it’s not even guilt-tripping. You’ve seen that, but never from him; Soonyoung just truly, sincerely feels bad. Whenever you look back on your relationship, which is more often than you’d care to admit, it’s plain as day. He truly, sincerely feels that he has never deserved you. Like you’re something out of this world, out of his world. 

“Wow.” Soonyoung huffs out the one word, and it’s half a laugh, half admiration. “You are so out of my league.”

“Stop,” you whine, pushing his shoulder lightly. “Don’t say stupid things like that.”

“Well, not everyone gets to date the prettiest girl in law school,” he retorts quickly, lifting his brows. “Not sure why I of all people get to, but thank you.”

“Stop it,” you repeat, rolling your eyes and fixing the tie he’s wearing. “You’re gorgeous and you know it. You should know it, at least.”

“Not just that!” he protests quickly. “I just mean… you’re so smart. And good. And kind, and funny, and — ”

“Ah, yes! Of course, Kwon Soonyoung, known famously for being mean and horrible and extremely unfunny,” you say sarcastically, before tugging his tie and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “I choose my league, and you’re the only one in it.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he murmurs, slightly breathless.

“Oh, shut up and kiss me.”

There were a lot of things that went wrong with you and Soonyoung. You’d started off wonderful: both of you bright, flaming, drawn to each other like magnets. You managed the stresses of law school, graduated together, and lined up jobs – jobs that were miles and miles from each other.`

There were lots of things that went wrong with you and Soonyoung, but if you had to pick one, it would be long distance.

“When did we stop trying?”

The question makes you snort. “What, you want a date and a time?”

Soonyoung smiles ruefully, but there’s nothing happy about it. It’s more of a painful grimace. That’s always been the way with you both: you deflect, he feels. He doesn’t hide the way you do, not from anyone. And for a few years, he was the only one who you didn’t hide from. 

Maybe that’s what has you opening your mouth again. “I could probably give you one. A date, I mean.”

Soonyoung hugs his knees to his chest, eyes searching your face. You can read him so well it physically makes you ache. The hint of uncertainty in his eyes, the twitching of his fingers – he’s nervous. He’s torn between wanting to know what you have to say and the strong sneaking premonition that it might hurt. “Go on,” he says finally, just as you knew he would. 

Honestly, you don’t have an exact date. Things fell apart slowly, and then all at once. A toppling tower – leaning, leaning, leaning, until it crashed. 

“There were probably a few things,” you say, softly. “My birthday, for a start.”

He winces reflexively. “That…” he begins, and then breathes out, shutting his eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make up for that.”

“I mean, in the end, it wasn’t that big of a deal.” You’re not sure why you’re trying to reassure him, even if it's true. You forgave him almost immediately.

“Shit.” 

Soonyoung’s first eloquent word when he walks into the apartment only means you become sure of what you already suspected. He takes in the half-eaten cake on the table, candles blown out and tossed to the side, the scraps of wrapping paper littering the floor, the cards; you take in his face. And you know, as quick and as simple as that – he forgot. 

Some small part of you had been holding a sneaking hope that maybe this was just an elaborate attempt at a surprise. You’d told him once, months and months ago, that you didn’t think ignoring people on their birthday to surprise them later was a very nice thing to do. But you’d rather he forgot that than your entire birthday.

His eyes meet yours, both of you frozen to your places. Him at the doorway, you at the table. The distance between you isn’t more than a few metres, but suddenly it feels like an engulfing abyss. Still, even from the other side, you can feel the guilt pouring out of him. 

“Shit,” he says again, before rushing his words out. “Shit, baby, I’m so sorry.”

You haven’t cried all day. You haven’t let yourself, but this has your eyes brimming over before you can control it.

“I’m going to bed,” you say finally, hugging yourself tightly, making yourself smaller. The apartment is warm, but you suddenly feel freezing. And despite your best efforts, there’s a waver in your voice, verging on a crack. “I’m tired.” 

You glance over the remains of your birthday party, one that you plastered a fake, painful smile on the whole way through, and then you turn to leave. 

“Baby, wait,” he implores quickly, and takes a step towards you — you mirror it immediately with a step back, and it makes him pause, his expression falling even further. “Baby.”

“You’re not allowed to call me that.” Your voice is obviously shaking now. “Not today. Maybe — maybe tomorrow.”

Maybe tomorrow you’ll be able to hear his excuses, his promises, but today, you’re allowed to be upset. You’ll let yourself have today, at the very least.

He’d driven hours to see you that day, but he’d still forgotten why he was there. You hadn’t really celebrated your birthday before you met him. Soonyoung was the one who made it a big deal, back when you first started dating, and even now, there’s a sharp pang in your chest when you remember how hurt you were that day.

“You made up for it tenfold,” you remind him now, because it’s true. He made the rest of the week practically a utopia, once you banned him from apologising. And he’d been so busy at work, so incredibly tired the whole month before, and you could understand. Both that he upset you, and that it was an innocent mistake. And you’ve never seen more sincere apologies than those that came from Soonyoung.

He looks grim, shakes his head, but doesn’t say any more. Probably because you’ve had this conversation a few times already, both of you too stubborn to give in. 

“Keep going,” he says, then, looking at you head on. “What else?”

All of a sudden, you don’t want to talk about what else. All of a sudden, you’re annoyed with him, his stupid face, this stupid elevator. “Do we have to do this?” Your voice has switched from somewhat reassuring to harsh – for want of a better word, angry. It makes his brown eyes a little round with surprise, his mouth parting a little.

“What?”

“What else and what if have been on my mind for three years, Soonyoung,” you say acidly. “Forgive me if I don’t really want to talk about it to your face.”

Again, his mouth opens a little bit, stays open as he tries to form words. Until he gives up, seals his lips and nods. “Alright. Okay. That’s fine.”

“I know it’s fine!” you cry out, only more angry that he won’t argue back. You’re lawyers, it’s what you do. And just to be petty, you add — “Besides, I bet your girlfriend wouldn’t be happy about this anyway.”

Finally, his passive poker face drops, and he looks a little confused. “My what?”

Immediately, you regret opening your mouth, but it’s too late to back down. “Your girlfriend. You know, that girl from accounting.”

“The girl fr— You mean Rachel?” Soonyoung gapes at you, and something in you bridles, until he continues. “Mrs Choi, who's married to her wife and adopting a kid next year?”

Well, now you feel stupid as fuck.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he continues, and if you weren’t afraid to look at him right now, you’d swear he was hiding a smirk.

“Whatever. I don’t care. Why are we even talking about this?” you snap, irritated and embarrassed.

He still sounds smug. “You brought it up.”

“You sit with her every lunch hour,” you mutter, heat creeping up your neck. “I just assumed.”

“Well, there’s nothing there. So don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried! I don’t care who you date, Soonyoung!”

He looks a little taken aback, blinking once or twice, cockiness gone without a trace. “Wow,” he says, finally. If you didn’t know him as well as you did, you wouldn’t notice the slight tremble in his voice. “That’s the first time you’ve said my name since — ”

He cuts himself off, but you complete the sentence in your head — three years ago. Three years since you packed up and walked out of his life. It feels like a decade ago; it feels like last week. You’d been so sure that you wouldn’t see his face again after that, that it was a decided end of a full four years of your life. Until last year, when he’d waltzed straight back into your life, this time at your workplace.

“This is the new hire.” Your boss is speaking, but you’re still finishing up the last sentence on the document you’re working on, and you listen absently as he fires a couple instructions — “Jeon, you’ll show him around. Filing system, get him logged on, the works.”

You look up then, to cast Wonwoo a knowing smile, because he always gets lumped with showing around the newbies, but halfway to making eye contact with your friend, you catch the familiar tilt of a jaw, the soft lines of a nose you know so well.

You’ve seen Soonyoung in a hundred people since you left him. You’re always looking over your shoulder at the bus stop, at the grocery store, at the library, finding a tiny piece of him in everyone and everything, a tiny piece that lodges itself tight and sharp into your throat until you take a second look, until you see unfamiliar eyes or too dark hair or shorter legs. Until you find something to make you swallow, exhale, and keep walking.

Now, your second look doesn’t yield anything unfamiliar. Except maybe his hair, gone from blonde to black, but everything else — everything else. It’s him, and he looks just as shocked to see you as you are to see him. There’s a heavy moment that seems only heavy to the two of you, everyone else still talking, the boss still giving instructions, but you and Soonyoung are looking at each other, dumbfounded, and all you can think about is the distinct taste of bile in your throat and the tie he’s wearing is the one you got him for his birthday.

Your initial plan is to avoid him. He foils that plan within two hours, cornering you in the break room, whispering urgently, “I had no idea you worked here, I swear I’m not, like, following you or – ”

The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind, and you just pin him with a blank stare. 

“I could quit.”

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish the sentence. “I’m not so butthurt that I can’t be a professional.”

“Right,” Soonyoung nods, breathing out a little. His lips are chapped. He never used to wear lip balm, just used to borrow yours. You hate yourself a little for remembering that.

The memory almost makes your lips twist with an sardonic smile. “I was so pissed when you showed up here.”

You can see his half smile, rueful and charming, through your peripheral vision. “I felt so bad about it, you know. But you just seemed annoyed when I saw you in the break room, so I figured you weren’t… mad or upset or anything.”

“I went straight from the break room to cry in the bathroom for fifteen minutes,” you admit truthfully. “I had to tell Wonwoo I had curry for breakfast.”

“You cried?”

You scowl. “I’m not saying it to be pitied, Soonyoung. I’m just saying, I’m not, like, some heartless jerk with no feelings. Of course I was upset.”

“I know that,” he says quickly, vehemently. “Of course I know that.” He hesitates, and then continues, words practically inching out of him. “It’s not really my place to ask, but… you and Wonwoo… are you guys…?”

“You’re right,” you say, and press your cheek onto your knees to fix him with your eyes. “It’s not your business. But that’d be hypocritical of me, so… no. No, we’re just friends. I’m friends with his girlfriend too, Cam, she works at the plant shop down the road.”

Soonyoung tilts his head back, lets out one of those breathy laughs that aren’t really laughs. “It’s so weird that you have new friends now.”

“Thanks,” you say, dripping with sarcasm.

“Not like that! I just mean I’m so used to – like, it used to be our friends, you know what I mean?”

“Not since three years ago,” you say with false lightness, because when you lost Soonyoung, you lost the friends he brought you too. You catch the glint of pity in his eyes again, and scoff. “It’s not a big deal. They were your friends first.”

Frowning, he speaks again. “First doesn’t matter. It didn’t matter to them either. Seungkwan said you were the one who stopped answering their calls.”

It’s true, and the feeling still burns a little, because Seungkwan and Jeonghan had called so many times. Even Vernon called a couple times, and you weren’t even that close to him, but Soonyoung has always attracted good people. Like calls to like. Maybe that’s why you ended up leaving.

“I was trying to make it easier,” you say bluntly., “for them to choose you.”

Your ex-boyfriend clicks his tongue, rakes a hand through his dark hair. “It’s not about sides, ___, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well, it felt like it at the time, alright?” Your words come out louder than you mean them to, and you pause, trying to quell your defensiveness. 

Soonyoung raises his hands in half-hearted surrender. “Alright. Alright.”

Something in your stomach feels acidic. Leaning your head back against the cool wall of the elevator, you manage to meet his eyes apologetically. “How – how are they, though? Seungkwan and everyone?”

Graciously, he ignores your quick show of temper. “They’re good. Seungkwan’s working freelance photography now. Jeonghan still hates his job, but keeps getting promoted anyway.”

Jeonghan. You told him you thought you were going to break up before you even told Soonyoung. You wonder if he remembers it, because that night is seared into your memory – New Year’s Eve, three years ago.

You’re much drunker than you ever intended to be when you finally find a place to sit in the cramped apartment, waved over by a sympathetic looking Jeonghan. He pats your head affectionately as you groan. 

“Feeling alright?”

“No,” you say elaborately.

Jeonghan never pries, which is probably what makes people tell him everything. He only raises his eyebrows at you, a hint of scepticism toying with his smile.

You look away, eyes drawn immediately to your boyfriend, laughing in the middle of the kitchen. Throwing his head back, squeezing his eyes shut, looking so fucking happy; when you see him like this, your heart always feels so incredibly warm and so incredibly full. 

Except today, there’s something else intertwining it, something similar to dread, and it causes the faint smile on your face to fade a little.

Jeonghan sees it, of course, and when you look back at him, his eyebrows only raise higher. 

You sink further into that horrible, looming feeling. “Jeonghan.”

“___.”

“I think I’m going to break up with him this year.”

If you didn’t know Jeonghan as well as you do, you’d think the information hadn’t affected him at all; his features remain completely impassive, but you catch the flash of surprise in his eyes. He stays quiet for a long time, the silence between you filled with thumping bass and indistinct conversation, until finally, he asks the only question there is to ask. “Why?”

It’s ridiculous, how one word can bring you to the verge of tears. But that one word holds so much weight – why would you break up with him? Why would you, when you’ve pictured a future with him a thousand times over? 

Why would you leave the best thing that ever happened to you?

You blink back the tears, and Jeonghan waits.

His voice is soft, but you still hear him under the din of the party. “Is this about your birthday?”

You shake your head quickly. “No.” You stop. “Maybe. It’s – there’s just – little stupid things.”

“Little things add up,” Jeonghan says gently. You hate how he’s already understanding.

“Sometimes – ” You swallow thickly. “Sometimes I just feel so far away from him.”

You don’t have to explain that you don’t mean physically. Because that’s part of it, but it’s not all of it, but without you saying that, Jeonghan knows. You barely notice when he takes your plastic red cup from your hands, setting it on the table next to him. “And I know he loves me, and he’d never hurt me on purpose, and – he’s been so good to me, Jeonghan.”

Jeonghan only hums, waits for you to continue. And you do, the alcohol only pushing more words out of your mouth. “The distance,” you say, “is killing us.” You rub furiously at your eyes. “No matter how hard we try, Jeonghan, it’s not working, and I feel like – I’m the only one who can see that. He’s ignoring it, but we can’t keep going like this.”

Jeonghan hesitates for a second, looking torn, more torn than you’ve ever seen him look. “Do you still love him?”

Tears blur your vision again, but don’t quite escape this time. “I don’t know how to stop.”

When you kiss Soonyoung after the countdown, your cheeks are wet.

“Long distance.”

“What?”

“You asked what else,” you say, picking at your nails. “I think it was the distance. I think that’s what – you know. Broke us up.”

Soonyoung has that look in his eyes, the one where he wants to argue but knows he’s going to lose, knows that you’re right. He breathes out, licks his lips and tries to speak. “We tried so hard.”

It’s not even a counter-argument. You agree with him, even. The two of you were brilliant at long distance, until you weren’t. Hours-long video calls, surprise weekend visits, staying over for the holidays, until it all started collapsing. Weekly movie nights kept getting postponed. Visits had to decrease in number. You were missing each other’s calls – if one of you wasn’t working late, the other always was. It was like the entire universe was working against you both, and suddenly, you felt like a burden rather than a lover, and Soonyoung would probably say the same. It’s hard not to feel that way, when you’re celebrating your anniversary over FaceTime and both of you keep dozing off while the other talks.

In a way, Soonyoung is right: you both tried so hard. In a way, he’s so wrong: neither of you tried hard enough.

Towards the end of it all, you were too tired to fight. Both of you were. The breakup was a quiet affair, mostly. You brought it up first, standing in the kitchen of Soonyoung’s apartment after realising you had no idea where he kept his cereal bowls.

“Soonyoung?”

“Babe, I told you, it’s the third cupboard from the left,” he calls, but he’s rounding the corner to his kitchen anyway. He stops in his tracks when he sees your face, smile fading, and for a second, time freezes.

“Soonyoung,” you say again, quieter.

And he knows. “Don’t,” he says, faintly, but there’s no weight behind it, because he knows.

Tears are already brimming your eyes, and you’re wrapping your arms around yourself, shaking your head. “I can’t,” you say, and you’re not sure what you mean. I can’t end it. I can’t keep going.

The picture before him is enough for Soonyoung, and any defence, any fight he still had in him (because he’s always been the more tenacious) drains. He gives in, same as you. 

“Okay,” he says, in a voice that’ll haunt you for years to come, a clashing harmony of gentle and damning. “Okay.”

You try to formulate words. You fail. All that you can say is “Soonyoung.” before you trail off. 

You don’t finish. He gives you a tired, forced smile, says something about, “We had a good run, didn’t we?”, but you’re too busy trying to wrench the tears back into your eyes to focus properly. Your efforts are in vain, of course, tears slipping down your cheeks hot and heavy, no matter how much you try to stop.

“I’m sorry,” you say tearfully, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t be sorry.”

After that, he only helps you load your bags into your car and says thank you when you give him the house keys. He does everything so quietly, so methodically, so defeatedly. It’s like he’s just lost a war he’s been fighting for far too long.

It turns out that in the end, four years can be reduced down to this: two cardboard boxes, three bin bags, and two broken hearts.

It’s your fault, in technical terms. You finished this. You’re the one who said the words, or almost said them, the one who spelled out what was so obviously ignored. More than once, because you’d tried this before, six months ago. Soonyoung was the one who fought back. He’d said no, of course, that first time. He’d said no with tears in his eyes, like it was a surprise to him, like he couldn’t see it the way you saw it — that you were on two very different paths. 

Soonyoung didn’t believe in following diverging paths, he believed in forcing yourself straight ahead hand-in-hand, come hell or high water. He believed in it, until he didn’t, and then he let you go.

When it’s time for you to leave, he accepts the hug you can’t help but fling on him just before you step in the car. Both of your arms around each other, fitting into place like you have a hundred times before, but so much tighter and so much briefer this time. Soonyoung clings to you like he’s never going to see you again, because he isn’t. You cling to him like this is the last time you’ll ever hug him, because it is.

And then both of you are pulling away, laughing awkwardly at the wet patch you’ve left on his shirt, and then you’re getting in your car and he’s waving you off and it’s over, just like that.

“It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it?” There’s an acerbic quality to Soonyoung’s laugh as he continues. “We broke up because of distance, and here we fucking are.”

There’s a metre and a half between you two.

“Maybe it was a dumb reason,” you say. Voicing the thought that’s tormented you since the day you drove away. Because maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was a temporary rough patch, and if you’d stayed, if you’d fought a little more and a little longer, you’d still have Soonyoung.

But you didn’t, and you don’t.

There’s a heavy expression on Soonyoung’s face, a strange mix of anger and confusion and guilt. “Maybe,” he says, at last. There’s the vaguest trace of bitterness, the little tiny sting that reminds you again that you’re the one who called it quits. 

“It felt like the weight of the world at the time,” you say ashamedly, squeezing your eyes shut for a second.

Soonyoung takes the chance and scoots closer to you, sitting against the wall with you, shoulder-to-shoulder. (How easy it would be to just rest your head there, as you’ve done a thousand times before.) “It can’t have been easy,” he says, patting your hand with his own. Warm and familiar in its unfamiliarity, which is when you realise you’ve misread him, for once – he’s not bitter. He’s empathetic.

“It wasn’t stupid,” Soonyoung continues softly, rubbing his eyes, “but God, I wish you’d just talked to me. Actually — I wish we’d talked to each other.”

“Yes, well,” you say dryly, wondering if he’s going to catch your reference, “I’ve always had a problem with communication.”

He catches it; it makes him pause, lift up his head, give you a tiny smile.

It takes you a minute to register that the seat across from you has been occupied. When you do look up, you realise Soonyoung’s mouth has been moving since he sat down, and you haven’t heard a word of it. Also, somewhere between the class you guys shared two days ago and his presence in the library this morning, his hair’s gone from a discreet dark brown to a particularly indiscreet blond.

“I’m sorry,” you shake your head, taking out your earphones and setting down your pen. “What?”

“I said – do you have a problem with communication or something?” Despite the nature of his words, he’s practically beaming at you.

You blink at him, bewildered. “I mean… maybe? But — what?”

He holds up his phone. “Project,” he explains elaborately. “I’ve been texting, and I didn’t get a reply, and then I saw you over here, so I thought I’d ask.”

You frown, grabbing your phone. “I didn’t get any texts.”

Soonyoung mirrors your expression, tapping at his screen, and you’re struck by how much the blond suits him. As did the brown. As did the black he had a semester ago. Not that you’ve been keeping track, but it’s hard to not notice someone like Soonyoung. Even if the first time you talked to him was two days ago to organise the project you’ve been paired up for — you know him. Of him, at least.

He swivels his screen round to face you, showing you a contact with your name and what you quickly realise is almost your number. You smile a little awkwardly, tapping the last digit. “That’s meant to be a seven. You’ve got an eight.”

“Fuck,” he exhales, “that explains it. Who the hell have I been texting about litigation then?”

Something about his expression and his tone is so comical it makes you laugh, which surprises him a little – he glances up at you with a blatantly admiring smile, and he taps the edge of the desk. “Your eyes light up when you laugh, did you know?” And as quickly as he says it, he moves on, gesturing to your phone. “I’ll text you about the project, okay?”

He’s like a hurricane, and you’re trying your best to keep up. “Okay,” you agree confusedly, still hot-faced from the sudden compliment. “Yes. That’s — yes.”

As he gets up to leave again, he shoots you another one of those blinding, dazzling smiles, and sticks his hand out. “We’re friends now, right?”

His question sounds childishly sweet, and you can’t find it in yourself to do anything other than agree. 

Your one little reference sets you both off. You spend the next two hours talking and talking and talking, every other sentence beginning with “Remember when…”, as the two of you dredge up the long-buried memories of four long years spent together.

Soonyoung talks about the massive crush he had on you before you even got paired up for the project. You talk about how you never believed him, even when he did ask you out – it took three tries before you understood how serious he was. And then you remember the time Soonyoung sprinted from campus to his accommodation and back just to get you the calculator you forgot for your exam – and the time you both went to a frat party and ended up playing the most intense game of UNO in the bathroom with Vernon, which ended in a drunk Soonyoung trying to flush the cards down the toilet. 

He talks about the surprise party you threw for his birthday, and you talk about the time he tried to make you pancakes for National Girlfriend Day and failed horribly. You ate them anyway.

You don’t, however, talk about other things, even if you remember them. You remember Soonyoung kissing your forehead every morning he woke up next to you. You remember him buying your favourite flowers for your favourite vase every week. You remember coming home after a long day to food already delivered and paid for when he was working hours and hours away. You remember being so incredibly in love that it made you giddy and so in love it made you calm. And you don’t talk about it, just store it away somewhere as a reminder of what love is meant to feel like. If four years with Soonyoung brought you anything, it’s that: it taught you how to love and be loved.

When the recovery team finally arrives, you leave the elevator feeling like a new person. It doesn’t hurt when you look at Soonyoung anymore, there’s only a vague, warm fondness. And he can look you in the eye now, which he does. He smiles at you, sticks out his hand the same way he did all those years ago.

“We’re friends now, right?”

an / AHHH!!!!!! i know this fic is only like 5k but it took a lot out of me so i’d love to hear your thoughts. literally any thoughts. i wanted this fic to be longer but it happened this way and. what can i do. i may be the author but im NOT in control. it’s not a fic i’m 100% proud of but i think it’ll still hold a special place in my heart!!!! i love an angsty exes au.

anyway — this will be my last fic this year!!! see you all in 2025 and thank you so much for all the notes and all the reblogs and all the wonderful conversations this year i love you

perm taglist: @n4mj00nvq @eoieopda @som1ig @glowunderthemoon

@wondering-out-loud @tokitosun @hannyoontify @sahazzy

@dokyeomin @icyminghao @smilehui @nicholasluvbot @lvlystars

@immabecreepin @hanniehaee @kokoiinuts @astrozuya @doublasting

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@pearlesscentt

One so violent it would tumble buildings and flood the earth. You wanted the raindrops to beat your back like hailstones and waves of thunder to shake this cursed city. But no; it was warm with not one late-night chill floating in the air. April had started just a few days back and with it brought the advent of spring, the world was turning towards new beginnings yet you had never felt so stuck and lost. Callous words replayed in your head like a glitchy record, the same syllables being repeated over and over till it all faded into one inescapable noise.

Moving here was supposed to be the start of the life you had always wanted: a big city, quaint apartment, your long-term partner and dreams just waiting to be fulfilled. You left the only home you had ever known, But you should’ve listened when you were told that ‘not all that glitters is gold’, not even their eyes when they told you they loved you. Everything you thought you knew - shattered. And all it took was one particularly nasty row. It left you disoriented - both mentally and physically, so you tried to find the answers to your problems by searching in the corners of rundown clubs and pools of scarlet red wine.

When you shook your purse, the lack of a jingle indicated that you had forgotten to pick up the notes and coins that you left on the bar counter to pay for a cab, swearing loudly like a teen getting their first taste of defiance. You headache went from a dull thud to full on pounding, maybe drinking away your problems wasn’t the best idea. The roads were empty and the streetlights dim. You made a note to never visit this part of the city again. Especially after the sun had already set.

Click, and in the corner of your eye was a small pocket of hell, wavering around its silver compartment. Long, calloused fingers tended to the flame before blowing it out and relighting it again. Click, your eyes darted to the lighter’s owner. A familiar face was not exactly what you were expecting.

It was like Joshua Hong existed exclusively at midnight, fading out of existence as dusk turned into dawn. But yet, as time went on, you found yourself thinking of his ebony hair and addictive smile in the middle of the afternoon. He looked like a dream - a sliver of his face illuminated by the flame. He hadn’t noticed you yet, sporting a slight frown, his forehead creasing as if in contemplation. He shook his head and took out a Marlboro from his half-empty packet, taking a drag as quickly as he lit it. The smoke swirled around his head like a ribbon: a gift bow tied at his lips. The pink was chapped and the skin around them dry. You wondered if he had been taking care of himself lately.

“Y/N what did I tell you about going out alone when it’s dark?” Your heart skipped beats like hurdles and your head was about to go for a joyride.

“Joshua Hong, are you trying to kill me?” You gripped your chest and Joshua chuckled lightly before taking another drag.

“I was trying to save you.” He blew out the smoke. “You were so lost in thought there, I thought you were about to faint.”

It came like clockwork – his caring gestures, words that always knew how to soothe and caress so tenderly. The way he spoke with such softness reminded you of your mother during your school days (when you failed one of your mock exams, she held you against her chest and cooed in your ear, back then you felt like you mattered: you wondered when it all went wrong). You knew he could smell the alcohol on you, but for once he chose to ignore it.

“What the fuck are you even doing crouching in some alleyway anyways? It’s sketchy, are you like a vampire or something?”

“I’m a photographer Y/N, the night provides underrated inspiration.” Joshua took another drag like a breath and relished in it like it was fresh air. You watched the smoke fall out of his mouth in puffs and you wondered if he did this all the time. As someone whose life dream was to create art you could relate, you just hoped you didn’t look as sketchy as him piecing together your ideas.

“Do you smoke?” He turned his body to you and asked.

“Not anymore, out grew it in my teenage years. But I get the temptation now and again.” You lay against the wall and stared up at the moon hidden behind the clouds. Your heart was heavier than you ever thought possible, a part of you wished the roads were busier. A car could just rush by and that would be the end of you and all your problems. Maybe then your partner would see your point of view.

“Trust me, you don’t.” He said, crushing the bun of his dying cigarette using the heel of his Doctor Martin’s. He turned back to face you, eyes gentler than a lover’s caress.

“Come, I know a place that I think might get your mind off things.”

—

“Joshua, slow down, are you trying to kill me?” You squealed as he shoved his hands against your back.

You swung back and forth, feet kicking wildly up into the air. With sections of your hair flying in front of your face sticking to your lip-gloss, the rusty metal chains etching deeper marks into the palms of your hand as Joshua swung you faster and faster, the bubbly laughter from behind you ricocheting off every corner of the children’s playground. With the force Joshua was pushing you at, you feared the swing would collapse under your weight. However, it was nice, for even just a minute, to pretend as if you and your actions were weightless, watching the world spin in circles. Like in your adolescence, when you and your hometown friends would get drunk on cheap vodka in a park not too different to the one you found yourself in and felt like not even God himself could touch you.

“Is that a challenge?” He remarked. Before you could respond he had already revved back to give you an even more powerful shove, giggling while seeing your face scrunch up in horror.

Joshua’s plan worked, within seconds of being with him, you forgot all about the argument with your partner. A guardian angel of sorts, Joshua came into your life how sleep comes to the tired - slow at first then engulfing you into a world that ceases to exist when you open your eyes again.

After every bitter fight, you always ended up by Joshua’s side. However, despite his pleading, you don’t leave them (they were the only trace of the person you used to be). But when you were with Joshua, you forgot it all: your nagging partner, the chill in your shared flat when they left you alone, that dull aching homesickness. Like magic, Joshua could clear your mind, his sweet smile causing an amnesia-like effect. Leaving only the faint smell of cigarette smoke and a deep feeling of emptiness to remember him by.

“Joshua Hong, you’re evil!” You squealed and he laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world, “like the devil disguised in an angel’s body!”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” The smirk on his face was iridescent and for a second you almost couldn’t be mad at him.

“It can be whatever you want it to be.” You turned to him as he grabbed onto the metal chains to slow down the swing.

Up close his heart-shaped lips looked so impossibly soft, you craved them pressed up against your cheek, his hands around your neck- Fuck. You felt the alcohol coursing hot underneath your skin, erasing your already limited filter - you would never have this confidence sober.

“I’ll take it as a compliment, as that means you very indirectly called me attractive,” He replied with a cocky smirk.

“You’re reaching for heavens with that one.” You let out a chuckle as he sat on the seat beside yours and swung lightly to and fro.

“Is it a crime to hope you think of me in the same way I think of you?” He sighed and started up into the starless evening sky,

“What I’m trying to say is, I think you’re really beautiful Y/N.”

Before you could even form a response, Joshua was speaking again, rummaging in his coat pocket for a cigarette and lighter.

“I haven’t been here in years with someone. Even, I haven’t been here at all in quite a while. I’m surprised this place hasn’t been torn down.”

You could see what he meant. Even with the slightest of movements, the swing set groaned like a grey sky before a storm. Before sitting on it, Joshua had to blow off a thick layer of dust that had settled upon the seat, dispersing like age-old ashes. The rest of the park looked considerably abandoned, the grass looked like it hadn’t been cut in years and vegetation had grown in cracks between the concrete paving. You imagined this park on the very outskirts of the city used to be surrounded by bustling residential, where the park was used as a community hub and not a meeting place for a nicotine addict and the shittest partner known to man. When answering him back you had to pretend you were completely unaffected, as if you get called beautiful every day of the week (you don’t, your partner barely complimented you anymore.)

“Who was the last person you visited with then?”

Still staring at the sky, he answered, “My first love, this was her favourite place in the world.”

“Been?”You quip, confused, “How come she doesn’t like it anymore?”

Joshua turned to face you, unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. The previous look of mischief in his eyes was impossible to trace, replaced with a gloomy grey. He looked slightly defeated and only then did you start to piece things together.

“Oh, Joshua…”Your voice softened, “I’m so sorry for your loss…”

Your memory panned back to past conversations and the way he spoke so fondly of her. You had assumed they fell apart like first loves normally do. Then you remembered that not even a couple of minutes ago he called you beautiful, it made you feel guilty about the way your heart fluttered at the compliment even though he may have thought nothing of it.

And there it was, as if a director cut the slate and the curtains opened, rain started to pour from the sky. ‘Pathetic fallacy at its finest’, you thought to yourself, as you watched the rain soak Joshua head to toe, drops of water running down his face like crystal tears. The water so easily slipped of the leather of his brown jacket and onto his dark wash jeans. Under the showering sky, you felt as if you both were black and white film stars, playing destined lovers. Everything felt like destiny with Joshua, even though you knew you both were never meant to be. So entranced in the warmth of his soft brown eyes, you almost didn’t feel the chill that ran down your spine at the feeling of your damp clothes clinging to your skin.

“It’s okay, though it isn’t. It’s just something I have to come to terms with. I’m grateful that I loved her while I had the chance to.” You hummed in agreement, and he lit the cigarette and took a drag for longer than he usually did.

“Up until today,” He continued, “I still have trouble sleeping.”

“Same, not with the dead girlfriend part but with the trouble sleeping bit.” He laughed at that. You smiled, relishing that he found you funny. “I’m like half melatonin at this point.”

“And you call me the vampire?” Joshua smiled a smile that showed his teeth peeking out from his gums.

“Well, that makes the two of us! So when are we going on a one-way trip to Transylvania?”

“We’ll have to see about that,” Joshua said and got off the swing, the chains squeaking as he removed his weight. You decided to push yourself while you waited for him to put out his cigarette.

With you staring up at the starless black sky, Joshua knew he shouldn’t. He knew the feelings festering in the depths of his abdomen would bring him to ruin someday. Somewhere along the line, he knew he would regret this night. Whether it would have been tomorrow in the shimmering amber of dawn or a drunken night ten years too late. Because you would never fully be his and he would never fully be yours.

He knew that. He knew that. Yet…

You were nothing short of beautiful. The way your eyes glistened, laugh sounded and skin smelt. The way your wet clothes stuck to your body. The way he knew you were suffering yet he couldn’t do much about it. If you asked, he would put his life on the line for you. You crumbled every bit of his glass-like resolve and you did it effortlessly. He swore never to love another, to call someone else his. But you were making it oh so difficult. His disposable camera in his right hand felt heavier than his fast-beating heart. It rang throughout his chest and travelled into his ears. A warning siren: the universe begged him not to. His camera would get damaged, the photo would come out blurry, it’s not worth it-

Fuck it.

Flash

He snapped a photo of you anyway.

You go to knock again on the door, heavy footsteps and heavier breaths, but just as soon as your knuckles make contact with the heavy wood, the door swings open. 

Jihoon looks disappointed. “You were going to knock again, weren’t you?”

You roll your eyes, pushing him aside and going straight for the marble bar cart you know sits in the sitting room off the formal dining area. 

“You know you really have to work on your patience.” He says to you from the foyer, voice already sounding a bit far away. You always forget how big acclaimed-music-producer Woozi's house is. Although, you think, staring at the array of top shelf liquor arranged neatly on the bar cart, mansion is probably a more apt word for it. 

You pour yourself a glass of whiskey. 

Jihoon joins you in the room once you’ve already taken a seat in one of the brown leather arm chairs. 

“How many glasses is that?”

You scoff. “I have a show at the Roxy after this.”

He hums, flicking the square paper in his hand. 

You sit up slightly. “What is that?” Jihoon takes the paper over to the record player in the opposite corner of the room. He slips a clean black record out of the manilla slip and carefully places it into position. It doesn’t take long for the gentle hum of the record spinning around the platter to fill the room. 

God, I love music. You think to yourself sitting back slightly in the armchair and allowing your eyes to shut. 

“I want you to listen to this.” You hear Jihoon say, followed by the small pop of the decanter being opened and the quiet trickle and crack of liquor falling over ice. The sound of a bass overtakes the room. It’s somehow… gentle. 

“Who’s it by?”

Jihoon doesn’t answer at first. You hear him sit down in the armchair next to yours while drums fill in the spaces of the songs and a guitar starts to hum along. And the sound that comes from the record player next–in all honesty, you don’t think Jihoon could have prepared you for. It’s a man’s voice, polished, in a way that you just know he’s been doing this for a while. His whole life maybe. There’s this rough, almost growly quality that amps the song up even more, and yet, simultaneously, his voice glides over the lyrics like honey spilling over the side of its jar. There’s so much depth in every note he hits. You don’t know if you’ve ever heard a voice–a sound–quite like this. 

“Who is this?” You ask again once the first chorus comes to a close, opening your eyes and taking a proper look at Jihoon. He looks mildly amused.

“Have you heard of the Numbers?”

Seungcheol hurries into the studio from the car, guitar in one hand and lyrics in the other, fully expecting to get chewed out by his producer. “Jihoon, I’m so sorry. There was tra-”

Seungcheol stops in his tracks. The control room is empty. He steps back into the doorway and rereads the signage. He has the right room, so then… where is everybody?

“Seungcheol,” he hears a voice call for him from the recording stage. It’s Soonyoung, waving him inside and pointing at you. You smile at him, give him a nod of sorts. His eyes dart to Jihoon, giving him a look that says, who the fuck is that? 

He walks into the recording booth hesitantly. 

“Hey.” Jihoon says casually. “I don’t think you guys have met yet.” 

You stand and approach him, sticking out your hand. Seungcheol just looks at it. 

“The label thinks you guys would sound good on one track and want you to try recording ‘Begin Again’ together.” 

He ignores your outstretched hand and looks straight at Jihoon. “Can we speak privately?”

—

Seungcheol had assumed he’d be the one getting chewed out in the studio today. Oh, how things have changed. He’s worked so hard on this song. More time and effort than he’s ever put in any of the band’s songs that came out before it. He can’t believe Jihoon would allow anyone else to try and taint it. “Begin Again” is his song. And he’ll be damned if he’s not the only one singing it. 

Seungcheol’s ready to say all of this, but, “Before you say anything,” Jihoon doesn’t even let him speak, “I know how you feel about this. But the decision came from above me, okay. The Number’s last album didn’t do as well as the label hoped. They think another voice in the band could shake things up. And who knows, “Jihoon continues with a shrug that only makes Seungcheol fume more, “maybe this could be what you guys have been missing.”

Seungcheol cannot believe what he’s hearing. “We aren’t missing anything.” 

“Don’t be dense.” Jihoon pans with a sideways stare. “I know you guys are good. I know you guys are gonna be big, but the rest of the world needs some convincing. Just try this, okay? This could be it.”

Seungcheol just shakes his head. 

“I scouted them out myself. They’re a good singer and even better writer-”

“Writer?” Seungcheol nearly screams, arms flying to point at you through the control room window where the two boys are talking. “You want them to write on the song too?”

“They have a couple of…” Jihoon sighs, choosing his next word with extra precaution, “revisions.”

“Fuck that, Jihoon. I wrote a great song. It–”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“You wrote a good song.” Jihoon refutes, matter-of-factly. “You wrote a good song, and they,” he points at you, “they made it a great one.” 

Seungcheol is speechless. 

“Here.” Jihoon pushes a piece of torn notebook paper into his hands. 

If Seungcheol wasn’t so aware of the line Jihoon was drawing, he would’ve pushed harder, but at the end of the day, Jihoon is his boss and his lifeline in this business. If Jihoon says so, really says so, then there’s not much Seungcheol can do to fight it. Seungcheol is stubborn, but he’s not a fool looking to waste his own breath. He looks back into the recording stage. The band looks happy chatting to each other. And you, well, you’re staring at him.

A red light flashes on the sound board beneath him. “Talk over the changes.” Jihoon says to the band and you through the intercom. “We record in ten minutes.”

— 

“It’s nice to meet you,” you say to Seungcheol sitting on the stool in front of the second mic. Seungcheol’s never even seen a studio setup with two mics before. He swallows a scoff. “Jihoon showed me the song the other day, and your voice it—“ 

“What does this line mean?” Seungcheol cuts in, taking his seat on the stool next to yours. “I changed my heart. I morphed my mind. You don’t have the right to tell me I didn’t try.” 

Your face drops immediately. “Are you serious?” 

Seungcheol raises a brow–a challenge.

You let out a breath of pure disbelief, focusing your gaze just above his head, and hands starting to make motions in the air. “It’s about changing yourself to be with someone. It’s about them never acknowledging that.”

“That’s not what this song is about.”

You give him a pointed look. “What do you think the song is about?”

It’s his turn for the disbelief. “What do I think the song I wrote is about?” You don’t falter, not even for a second. Seungcheol grasps at the words, mouth agape. “It’s about redemption.”

“That’s too easy.”

“How is that too easy?”

“Look,” you huff, mouth opening and closing like you can’t decide what it is you want to say. You end up reaching your arm out, palm open like you want a fucking hi-five or something. In the back of his mind, Seungcheol wonders if you’re still waiting for the handshake he never gave. “Give me your original lyrics.”

He does, you snatch the paper keeping your eyes on him for a second too long before finding whatever it was that you were looking for. “Right here,” you say, finger pointing at the tattered paper and eyes darting back and forth between him and his lyrics. Your face lights up. You look like you're holding back a smile. You look… excited. “Here, in the bridge you wrote: take me home, welcome me on those familiar roads, embrace me in your arms, oh please, tell me I still belong.”

“What about it?” Seungcheol asks, almost forgetting that he’s upset at Jihoon for this whole arrangement, nearly forgetting that he’s supposed to not be accepting any of your revisions because for the first time in so long, he’s able to really talk to someone about his lyrics. 

You look up at him fully, and almost sadly, you say, “You really don’t get it, do you?” Seungcheol looks down at the lyrics you gave him, scanning them again. Funnily enough, that line is the only one of his you’ve kept. 

“The song’s not about redemption,” you tell him. “It’s about guilt.”

—

Seungcheol, you, and the band end up recording your version of the song. It’s a good song. It’s still his melody, his hook, and his bridge, but almost none of the lyrics are his. Just like that, “Begin Again” becomes as much your song as it is his. If he wasn’t so angry at Jihoon, maybe he would’ve had the mind to notice how good you sound singing it.

Choi Seungcheol is an asshole. 

That you learned in the recording studio with him and haven’t been able to get out of your head since. Unfortunately, he’s got one hell of a voice and gift for creating a good melody. And him and Jihoon together in the studio, god, they’re magic. You went out and purchased The Number’s previous record after you recorded “Begin Again”. You haven’t stopped listening to it since. 

It’s one day when you’re working a shift at the diner that you start humming the song playing over the speaker while grabbing an order from the kitchen. You don’t even think twice about it. That is until you make it right in front of the table whose orders you’re holding and start to hear your own voice.

You nearly drop the four plates of burgers.

You rush over to the jukebox, not believing your ears, not believing that your voice, your words, your song is playing for the entire diner to hear. 

And there, right at the bottom it reads: “Begin Again” by the Numbers ft. you

“Holy shit.”

The desert wasn’t too far from home, but it could not have been more different. There was so much nothing for as far as your eyes could see. There was dust everywhere, all over the place, sifting up through the air and in your lungs. How are you supposed to sing like this?

You hear the bands’ voices come up from behind you. 

“Hey,” Seungcheol says, coming up next to you and resting an arm on the same wood railing as you. “How are you feeling?”

“Great.” You answer truthfully. You could barely believe it when you got the call from Jihoon saying that they wanted you to play the festival along with the Numbers. Although, considering that your song is playing on every radio station, it probably shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was. 

The crowd roars as the previous artist says his goodbye. 

“Have you ever played for a crowd like this?”

“Nope.”

He nods slowly. “It’s a lot. The first time especially, for sure. But just go with it, and uh,” he smiles, towards the ground, “it’s a lot of fun once you get past the nerves of it all.”

You look at him, battling against the grimace forming on your face. “Is this pep talk for me or for you? Cause I’m fine.”

His smile disappears when he sees your face. You must’ve lost the battle. 

He inhales sharply. “‘Begin Again’ is last. Come out after I introduce you.”

You nod, and he joins the rest of his band. 

The crowd cheers when they get on stage. The first song starts with a familiar guitar riff and the pound of the drums, followed by the crowd going ballistic. You’ve been playing on stage for a while now, but only ever in small clubs with small crowds. You’ve never seen a crowd like this, and it makes you ecstatic. 

You hear Seungcheol sing the final words of the song and Junhui play the final chords. And you don’t know if its the crowd or the shot of vodka you took during the bridge or the fucking look Seungcheol gives you, but something, something, makes you forget what Seungcheol said about waiting and walk right onto that stage. 

Joshua and Minghao look confused. Seungcheol looks vaguely pissed. Junhui and Soonyoung barely notice. But you don’t register any of that. All you can think as you walk onto that stage, grin flashing and arms up in the air is: this crowd was fucking waiting for me. 

You step up to your mic and wait until the crowd quiets down. You introduce “Begin Again” as a song you wrote. The crowd erupts. You look over at Seungcheol, smiling, no–grinning, loving how annoyed he looks. Minghao doesn’t miss a beat, starting the song immediately. Your body moves on its own, dancing to the song, belting out each note, and loving every second of it. It’s sometime during the second verse, the one Seungcheol sings alone, that you notice how entranced he is. His eyes are half closed, and his fingers fly across his guitar like he’s not even thinking about it. He smiles at the crowd. You think you hear someone faint. He looks your way then, right before the pre-chorus, smiling still as if he wasn’t just glaring at you. It hits you almost instantly: nothing else matters to him right now. He’s in it, like really in it, and the only thing he seems to care about is putting on a good show. He’s loving this as much as you are, and maybe that’s enough to prove that you and Choi Seungcheol are more alike than either of you think. 

You leave your mic stand and start dancing towards him. His entire body turns towards you, waiting for you, his eyes following. You meet right in front of his mic just as the chorus begins. And you’re left with no choice but to stand next to him, singing into the same mic with your faces so close you can feel every ragged breath he takes, see the sweat rolling off his hair, and hear the blood pumping through his veins. Take me home. You both sing with your entire chest. Welcome me on those familiar roads. You see him turn his head to face you. You mirror the motion, and sing the next line looking right into his eyes. Embrace me in your arms. Have his eyes always been this big? Oh please, tell me I still belong. And of course it’s this line you’re singing to each other like this. Of course it’s the one line in the entire song that you didn’t actually write and the one line he did. 

The chorus ends, and you slowly back away from his mic and move back towards yours. He rips away on his guitar, fingers still flying like it’s the easiest thing, all while never taking his eyes off you. Staring at you like he found something. Staring at you like it’s only you and him on that stage. 

You don’t even remember the song ending. 

Music flows through Northside Tavern. A jazz band is playing today, and the piano player keeps making eyes at you. 

“I heard the show over the weekend went well.” Jihoon says into your ear. You just nod. “And that the label really liked what you did with the song.”

You laugh. “Not just the label. The whole country liked it.” You give one last look to the pianist, before turning to Jihoon fully. “I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but I have a number one single.”

You head over to the bar and ask for an old-fashioned. 

“Not just you.” Jihoon yells behind you to be heard over the cheers after the band’s last song. 

You pivot. “Excuse me?” 

“It wasn’t just you.” Jihoon flags down the bartender, orders a scotch, neat. “It was the Numbers too.” 

The bartender slides over three drinks. 

You lean in over the counter. “We only ordered two.” 

Wordlessly, the bartender points to the other side of the bar. The piano player holds up their drink. Jihoon grabs his drink, and you grab the remaining two. You lift them both up towards the pianist who gives you a rather charming smile, and then take a simultaneous sip from the straws of both drinks. You taste your old-fashioned and what seems to be a margarita. 

You and Jihoon make your way over to a booth. 

“What I wanted to say,” Jihoon continues, “is that the label likes you with the band, and they want you to make an album with them.”

“An album?” You suck in your bottom lip, feeling a sudden rush from all the alcohol. An album is exactly what you’ve been pushing and working so damn hard for. So then why does this feel bittersweet?

“I think this is going to be a good thing.” Jihoon tells you sincerely, eyes softening. “You and Seungcheol…” he hesitates for a moment. You hate when he chooses his words like this, picking out the bad ones and testing out all the others. But perhaps you only hate it so much because you lack the ability to do it yourself. “You guys work.”

You take another long double sip of your drinks, squinting at Jihoon skeptically. “What did Seungcheol say?”

Jihoon’s mouth parts. There. There it fucking is. Running your tongue over your top set of teeth, you say, “you haven’t asked him yet, have you?”

“No, we haven’t asked him yet–”

“I can’t believe this.”

“–but the rest of the band is already on board, and we all thought it’d be smarter if you agreed before we asked him.”

You tilt your head slightly. You thought Jihoon knew you better than this. “I’m not saying anything until he does.”

“Be honest with yourself here,” Jihoon says seriously, pushing his drink to the side and leaning forward, “it’s no secret that you and Seungcheol don’t get along. And I get it; I really do. But I know you see it.”

You cross your arms over your chest. “See what?”

“Most people in this business spend their entire lives looking for what he and you found during the ‘Begin Again’ sessions and again on the stage at the festival. And most people fail. Don’t throw that away over whatever bullshit he gave you when you first met. Don’t throw away the chance you’ve been waiting for because of that. You guys belong together. Focus on that.”

You don’t say anything after Jihoon finishes his little speech. Instead you reach for your drinks and finish them both in one long, prolonged sip. You ignore his annoyed ‘tsk’. 

Putting the empty glasses down and to the side, you nod up at him, pursing your lips. “Are you done?”

He takes a long, final swig of his drink. “Yes.”

“Ask Seungcheol first.” You pull out your wallet and drop a couple bills on the table. “Then, you can call me.”

Today is already off to a bad start. 

Seungcheol had come into the studio ready to record and knock out at least 2 or 3 songs off the album today, but then Minghao wanted to talk about the album’s direction and Soonyoung wanted to request everyone to add as many drum parts as possible. 

And it’s as he’s listening to Junhui and Soonyoung argue about the addition of piano solos, that you walk into the studio. 

Jihoon welcomes you with a hug. Hansol, the sound engineer, offers to make you tea. Meanwhile, Seungcheol can’t understand why you deserve any kindness at this moment. Your session started an hour ago. 

“You’re late.” Seungcheol says, bringing the rest of the band to notice your arrival. 

You look at him with a smile, gesturing to the two boys who were just arguing. “Doesn’t really look like I missed anything.”

“We were talking about the album’s direction.” Minghao says from behind Seungcheol. 

You nod, putting down your stuff and taking a seat. “Okay, shoot.”

Seungcheol puts his hands up. “Well since we’re talking about it. I’ve been working on a couple songs, and,” he hesitates, pulling out a couple sheets of paper that Jihoon helped him print and handing them out, “I think I might have something good that we can build the rest of the album off of.”

Everyone takes a moment to read. Seungcheol watches the room carefully. Joshua clears his throat. Junhui plays a loose note. 

Your voice is the first that comes out of the silence. “Are you serious?”

He whips his head around. “What?”

“‘Will you still love me when I’m old? Will you still love me when I’m proud.’” You read aloud, before shoving the paper back towards him, that mocking smile still plastered on your face. “I’m not singing that.”

He scoffs, tongue swiping at his lips. “Why not? They’re good songs.”

You shrug. “They’re cheesy.”

“You haven't even read the whole thing.”

“I’ve read enough.”

“Are–are you… is this–I mean, like, you…” Seungcheol only knows one thing for sure right now: you might be the most insufferable person he’s ever met. “Jihoon!” 

“Okay, you know what,” Jihoon’s voice comes through the intercom. You both turn towards it. “How about you two go home and figure out some way to work together instead of wasting my studio time. Write one song, just one, together, and the rest of us can go from there tomorrow.”

He slips a curse between a breath. 

“Okay?”

You and Seungcheol look back at each other. It’s you who speaks first this time. “That’s fine with me.”

—

It’s a nice day out today. The sun shines through big clouds. There’s a nice breeze, and the roadways are empty. You’re sitting in the passenger seat humming something he can’t hear over the wind while Seungcheol drives. In all honesty, he doesn’t even know where he’s heading, but it might be the first time he's felt some semblance of peace with you around. 

The announcer on the radio station introduces the next song. Seungcheol turns it up and sings alongside Kim Mingyu’s voice. You stop humming.

“You like this song?” You ask. 

He quickly glances at you. “Yeah, who doesn’t.” The song was insanely popular a year or two ago. If you didn’t like it at first, you heard it enough on the radio and in every store until you did. Although, it doesn’t actually take anyone very many listens to fall in love with it. Unfortunately, the rest of Kim Mingyu’s songs never quite lived up to this one. 

“I wrote this song.” You say to him, as if it’s the most simple thing. 

“Oh, really?” Seungcheol replies with a chuckle. “You worked with Kim Mingyu?”

“Well, not all of it, but the melody and most of the lyrics, yes.” You tell him seriously, like you haven’t even registered that he thought you were joking. “I mean, worked is a strong word, but we did date for a bit.”

 Seungcheol stops at a red light and spends it staring you in disbelief. 

“Come on,” you say after a moment, “you really think Kim Mingyu wrote this song?” 

Seungcheol listens to it again: They could never get it out of their heads. Like a scene on repeat. Like a mountain falling. Something unforgettable, but forgotten still. Something like you. Someone like me. 

And instantly, it clicks–of course you wrote this song. Of course it’s the case that Kim Mingyu’s best song and one of Seungcheol’s favorites was written by none other than you. 

He looks over at you while at another light. Your head leans back against the car seat, and your arm hangs over the edge of the open window. You don’t look like you’re enjoying listening to the song even if you are the one that wrote it. In fact, you look mildly annoyed, nose scrunched while inspecting your nail beds, teeth grinding. 

Seungcheol changes the station thinking: why’d you let him take it?

Before he can really think about it any further, you sit up in your seat and point at the next light. 

“Turn right up there. I know a place.”

— 

When you had said that you knew a place, Seungcheol imagined that it’d be a coffee shop or an empty bar or anything other than the middle of the woods sitting on the rocks along a stream. 

Although, he must give you credit: the setting you’ve taken him to is beautiful. There are birds humming and life strumming all around you. The water is a blistering blue that glistens and shines in the sunlight streaming through the trees like a million coins falling from the sky. The water has a small current running through it, and it beats against the rocks lightly, like the lightest, most gentle drum beat. The breeze is nice and cool on Seungcheol’s skin, sifting through his hair and past his limbs. And maybe the best part is how all around him, on every single side, he’s surrounded by green. 

It would have been perfect, if not for the fact that you and him have been here for two hours and still have absolutely nothing. 

“Okay,” you relent, after he turns down another one of your ideas for a song, “how about this melody?”

You start humming one of the worst melodies Seungcheol’s ever heard in his life.

“Absolutely not.”

You grunt frustrated, arms falling through the air. Your head follows suit, settling in your hands, face buried from his view. 

“Why’d you even say yes to this?” You snap, looking up at him after a moment, brows furrowed and hands gesturing vaguely in the air. “If you have no intention of taking any idea I give you seriously, why did you say yes to this?”

“I didn’t.” Seungcheol reminds you. “Neither of us did. Jihoon kicked us out of the studio.”

“I don’t mean that.” You flare. “I mean letting me in to do this album with the Numbers. Why’d you agree to it?”

There’s a change in the wind. A sudden quietness that must be attributed to some insect dying. Seungcheol hadn’t expected you to ask this. He hadn’t even expected you to think it. 

“It wasn’t…” he starts, looking for the words in the space between you and him. He looks up at you, hoping to find them there. Instead he finds hope in them. 

Seungcheol has been in this exact spot before–sitting in front of someone that wants to believe in him and is asking him to give them a reason. He’s seen this before, and he has no interest in repeating his past mistakes. He sees no need to add you to the list of people he’s disappointed. With a short laugh, he says, “You know what, let’s just get back to writing.”

“Fuck that.”  You respond immediately, grabbing at his guitar.

“What are you–”

“No. Fuck that.” You repeat, successfully pushing his guitar off his lap. “If this is going to work, you have to at least pretend like you trust me. Song writing isn’t just strumming on your guitar all day and hoping for the best. It’s vulnerability, and it’s pouring your heart and soul and life into something and praying that someone out there feels the same way. That’s what ‘Begin Again’ was. And every single person who listened and liked that song and every single person who sang with us at the festival is saying that they feel the same way. So, what are you so afraid of? Why do you feel like you can’t trust me?”

Seungcheol gulps. “Which question should I answer first?”

You inhale slowly. “The latter.”

Seungcheol just shakes his head. “I don’t know you.”

“Ask me then.” You say desperately, like it should have been obvious to him, “whatever it is that you want to know just ask it.”

Seungcheol nods. In truth, there’s a million questions he wants to ask you about everything, but at this moment, all those questions sink to the bottom of his mind and only one rises to the top and travels to the tip of his tongue. “Why’d you let Kim Mingyu take credit for that song?”

You lean back slightly at his questions. Looking away from him and towards the murky waters before answering. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t always like this.” You tell him, laughing lightly. “I used to let guys like you walk all over me.”

His heart jumps into his throat. He’s barely able to choke out a, “guys like me?”

You nod, still refusing to meet his eyes. “Guys who don’t believe that I have what it takes.”

“I never said that.”

“But you showed me.”

“When?”

You look at him then, squinting. He hopes what you see is genuineness. He asked the question sincerely. “When you were so quick and ready to dismiss my changes to the lyrics during the ‘Begin Again’ takes. When you let me join your band on this album, and then expected me to sing an entire record full of songs that mean nothing to me. I’m a songwriter, Seungcheol. It’s the one thing about me that no one can take.”

Something between intrigue and malice slips in behind his tongue. “So what can people take?”

You shake your head, smiling ever so slightly. “My turn. What are you so afraid of?”

Seungcheol inhales sharply. “Well, I’m afraid of dying and of heights and–”

“Stop that.” You cut in, like you really mean it. “Why are you so afraid to say what you really think?”

He sucks in his bottom lip, shrugging. “‘Begin Again’ was your song more than it was mine. What if people don’t like what I have to say? What if they can’t relate and just think I’m fucked up and crazy?”

Your eyes soften, and your smile lines deepen. It takes a moment for him to register that you're smiling, really smiling, at him. He’s never known a smile could feel so inviting. 

“But what if they do?”

Seungcheol takes a moment to think about what you’ve said. And in that moment, whatever insect had died gets resurrected, returning to nature’s hum, filling his ears. Seungcheol looks all around him. The hum of life, the beat of water, the tune of leaves falling. He’s surrounded not just by nature and greenery, but also by music. And it’s erupting from every corner of these woods.

His eyes finally land on you.

“I think I found our melody.”

When you come into the studio the next day, the song is done. You went to sleep humming it still and running through the lyrics over and over again in your head.

“Let us sing it for you first,” Seungcheol suggests to the rest of the band with Jihoon listening in from the control room. “And whenever you feel like you got it, just hop in with what you think works, and we can refine and shape it from there.”

You watch the rest of the band as Seungcheol explains it. Minghao looks shocked, but excited. Soonyoung looks proud. And you can’t really read what the other two are thinking. 

“Jihoon, are we good?” Seungcheol asks, turning around to the window into the control room. 

“Whenever you’re ready.” Jihoon replies, voice filtering in through the intercom. You nod. Seungcheol nods. The rest of the band nods. Jihoon presses a couple buttons and says, “This is ‘Can You See Me’.”

Seungcheol starts playing the chords he found yesterday. You’re not sure why or how but it reminds you of those woods. His voice starts singing the first line of the song. You close your eyes and take it in. You join him for the chorus, singing alongside his voice feeling the words flow. It’s Junhui that joins you two first, playing a couple loose notes, testing things out. By the end of the chorus, he’s found it, playing a little more confidently and adding a whole new level of depth to the song. A depth that makes you feel like you’ve only ever known two colors your whole life and in a matter of seconds Junhui added in a third. Joshua joins in next, as your voice takes over for the second verse, playing off what Seungcheol was playing but making it his own. Seungcheol goes over to where Soonyoung’s sitting and says something to him in his ear. Soonyoung nods. Seungcheol goes over to Minghao, but Minghao shakes his head, already starting to play something. Seungcheol heads back to his mic right before the second chorus starts. You turn and sing the last line of the pre-chorus to him

And I know that you never trusted me. 

He joins you for the chorus, singing back.

Can you see me standing from there? And can you see the blood on my hands? If I give you all of the parts to my heart, Will you care that I’ve been scarred and stitched up?

Soonyoung starts playing then, the drums filling in the last thing the song needed. You listen to the rest of the band play and marvel at how insanely talented they all are to pick up and play something that actually works after only a minute of hearing it. The song needs polishing, yes, but it’s got a good sound and it’s heading in the right direction.  

You don’t take your eyes off Seungcheol, and he doesn’t take his eyes off you. And for the remainder of the song, you sing to each other. 

The song ends. The last one playing is Junhui. And for a couple seconds, no one says anything. 

It’s Jihoon’s voice that comes out of the silence first. “I’m a fucking genius.” 

You smile at Seungcheol. He smiles back. 

After recording and polishing ‘Can You See Me’, you and Seungcheol fall into a song-making rhythm of sorts.

(We don’t always have it perfect.)

“I feel like this lyric in ‘Puzzle Pieces’ doesn’t fit.” You say to Seungcheol, before muttering the lyric outloud. “It’s too shy. I don’t know. I just think it’s missing the mark a little bit, don’t you think?”

Seungcheol groans tiredly. “God, I can’t think about this anymore. Can we take a break? Go get some food or something?”

“Yes, but before we do, do you think ‘I see us standing in the distance’ or ‘I see you standing in the distance’ works better here?”

Seungcheol just stands ignoring your question and muttering ‘no’ repeatedly. 

You follow, running after him and begging him to listen. 

(Boy, do we fight.)

“I think there should be more drums in the hook.” Seungcheol announces after the third run through. 

“Why?”

His eyes widen, sarcastically. “Because there should be.”

“Don’t do that.” You scoff, used to his antics. “Answer the question: why?”

He sighs, resting his hands on his hips. “It’s missing something. The song still feels empty. I mean, the lyrics allude to a love that’s blooming and growing between two individuals, but nothing behind the lyrics build up with it. There’s almost a disconnect between the words and the music.”

“I disagree.” 

He scoffs. “All that for–”

“I think it works just fine without the drums, and if you add the drums it’ll become more suspenseful. The song is supposed to feel like falling.”

He shakes his head. “It’s supposed to feel like butterflies.”

“It’s supposed to feel like peace.”

(Sometimes you win.) 

“Let’s vote.” Seungcheol suggests. “If you’re for the drums, raise your hand.”

Only Soonyoung (the drummer), does.

(Sometimes you lose.)

Jihoon presses the red button on the sound board, announcing to the recording stage, “Take 3 of Aurora. Seungcheol, try softening your voice a little for this one.”

“Jihoon, can we just try one take with me in it?” You ask him. “I think even if I were just singing a harmony or in the background of the bridge, it would add so much.”

“No.” Jihoon says, scribbling something down in his notebook. “I’m with Seungcheol on this one.”

“Jihoon, you haven’t even heard my–”

“This song doesn’t need your voice.”

(But sometimes, we get it just right and fit like the last two puzzle pieces.)

“No,” you say, shaking your head as Joshua and Minghao finish off the last chords of the song, “It needs to sound murkier.”

Joshua, Junhui, Soonyoung, and Minghao just stare at you blankly.

“Less cymbals, Soonyoung.” Seungcheol says over the speaker from the control room. “And Minghao, ride out the low tones more.” 

You turn and see him. He catches your eyes, smiling slightly, reassuring you. Like he gets you. 

From behind you, you hear Junhui lightheartedly mutter, “since when do they have their own language?”

Joshua and Soonyoung laugh, but you barely notice because you see him. You see the way his brows furrow when he’s thinking. You see the way he sticks out his tongue when he’s focused. You see all of it. 

And for a moment, he sees you. All of you. And he doesn’t turn away from it.  

Today’s songwriting session quickly turned into a field trip from the studio to grab food which then turned into you leading Seungcheol’s car to the beach. You and Seungcheol sit on a stone ledge, right where the sand begins, 20 paces away from the ocean. Between you sits leftover fries and your untouched song notebook. You watch the sun dip into the sea and listen to the waves crash over and over again. The wind pushes furiously, tossing his hair to the side and pushes his head away from it. It just so happens that away from the wind means towards you. 

“So,” you begin, popping a fry in your mouth and dusting the salt off your hands, “when are you going to answer my question of why you let me in the band?”

Seungcheol figured this question was coming. He’s been avoiding answering it. “You really want to know?”

You look at him sincerely. “Yes.”

Seungcheol looks out to the water. “After our first album, Jihoon prepared a tour for us. It was this tiny tour, not even big enough for a tour manager. We played in the smallest venues with okay-sized crowds. I mean, it was barely a tour, really more of a way to get our name out there. And after the northern leg of it, I…” Seungcheol closes his eyes and sees moments from that tour flash behind his lids: strobe lights, bodies in bed, empty glasses, and negative pockets. Sometimes memories can feel like nightmares. “I was just in a really, really, bad place. By the time we were halfway down the east coast, I was barely even able to play. Jihoon saved me then. He saved my fucking life. But he had to cancel the rest of the tour in that process. The rest of the band, man, they couldn’t even stand the sight of my face. Minghao especially. It was Jihoon who ended up being the one to convince them to let me back in. I owe Jihoon my entire livelihood and my life. So when he asked what I thought about you joining the band for this album and when I saw how badly he wanted it to happen, I owed it to him to say yes.”

It’s been so long since he’s recounted that story, even to himself. It doesn’t hurt as much as it once did. That knowledge surprises him. 

“Where are you now?” You ask suddenly, pulling him out of his head.

He turns to you. “What?”

“If you were in a bad place then, where are you now?”

The wind quiets for a moment; he feels a warmth overtake him in its absence. “Someplace better.”

He looks down, not even noticing the smile growing on his face, and catches sight of your notebook. He points at it, asking, “may I?”

You look down at it as well, grabbing another fry. “Sure.”

He flips through the pages of your notebook. The first half isn’t even songs. It’s snippets, words, singular sentences taking up an entire page. It’s only halfway through the book that it actually turns into something that could be called songwriting. He asks you about it. 

“Ah, that’s when I met Jihoon.” You tell him, smiling fondly. Seungcheol puts the notebook down and waits for you to explain. “Before him, I had songs, but they weren’t real songs, you know? They were just some combination of all the snippets and sentences I had written down. But then Jihoon heard me play at the Eastern, and said that I had a good voice. He asked if he could give me his card so that we could talk more, and I said that I wasn’t interested in people who only saw me for my voice and walked away.” 

“You’re insane.” Seungcheol mutters, baffled. He remembers the chance encounter he had with Jihoon right after he and the band moved down here to make a name for themselves. He remembers how hard he begged for the same chance Jihoon offered to you so simply. “So, how’d you end up working with him then?”

“He found me again at the diner I used to work at after that. I told him I still wasn’t interested, and he asked if I had written the song I played that night at the Eastern. I said yes, and he said that he was only interested in my voice because my songs weren’t there yet.”

Seungcheol chuckles.  “So he’s always been an asshole then?”

“Oh yeah.” You nod, mirroring the sound. “He was an asshole about it, but he was right. And it was the first time that someone believed in me enough to think that I could be better. That is what made me want to try and write a song that would make him see that I’m as good of a songwriter as I am a singer. I spent a lot of time working and got out one good song. I sang it all across the strip. He finally saw me play again at Ben’s Garage. I let him sign me after that.”  

“What was that song about?”

Your lips do this half frown thing that makes Seungcheol want to peer inside your brain and figure out exactly where it came from. “It was about what all songs are about.”

“Which is?”

You look at him like it’s obvious. “Love.”

It feels like a shot of sunlight through his veins. 

Seungcheol drives you back home after the beach. You had gotten nothing done in terms of the album, but you felt happy, and you felt free. You watch him from the corner of your eye. You’ve only known each other for some months now, but it feels like so much longer. You’ve told him more about yourself and your past than anyone else you’ve met in your adult life. You’ve told him your deepest worries and darkest secrets, and he never turned away from you, not once. Instead he took your insecurities and turned them into beautiful melodies. He turned all your doubts into celebrations of hope. And he did it for you. 

Suddenly, it no longer feels like you only met him when you recorded ‘Begin Again’ together. Suddenly, it feels like you’ve known him since you were a teenager and like you’ve been in love with him ever since. Your palms start to sweat. Your heart sinks past your lungs. Is it all those goddamn fries or him that’s making your stomach turn?

He turns onto your street. This is it, you think to yourself. This is everything I’ve been waiting for.

He walks you to your door, and you stand facing each other on your porch. 

“This was nice.” You tell him, taking another step towards him. 

“It was.” He mumbles, a lazy smile on his face.  

You take another step towards him. He doesn’t move back. His mouth parts. You watch his lips, trace them with your gaze. You think about what it would feel like to kiss them. 

“Do you want to come in for a bit?” The words come flying out of your mouth involuntarily. You barely register that you’ve said them. They didn’t come from your mind but from a tiny spot deep in your gut where the urge to take another step towards him lies. You give into that urge without thinking twice about it. You’re closer to him than you’ve been in months. The last time you were this close being that moment on stage during the ‘Begin Again’ performance. You’re surprised you remember that. His breaths then were ragged, uneven. His breaths now are barely there, like he isn’t even breathing. You can smell the mint he popped in his mouth when you left from the beach. You can smell whatever perfume he must’ve sprayed on his neck this morning. 

And you’re so wholly aware of the fact that his eyes are looking at your lips. 

He turns away from you and glances at your door, saying, “I should go.” 

You feel something in your chest sink and sink and sink. 

“I’ll see you in the studio tomorrow.” He continues. “We still gotta help Junhui figure out his part for ‘Puzzle Pieces’.” 

And with that he’s off, and you’re left standing on the porch alone wondering how someone can look at you like that and then just leave. You look down by your feet and see your heart sitting there, next to your shoes. You leave it there and head it inside. 

The next day, Jihoon cancels your studio time without explanation and reschedules you and the band for the following day. 

When that day finally does come, Seungcheol doesn’t show up on time to help you and Junhui figure out the right notes to play for the song you wrote together like he said. Instead, he stumbles into the studio late with a song in his hand wearing the same clothes he wore with you at the beach. And that alone, feels like a betrayal of some sort. 

“What’s it about?” Joshua asks.

He looks around the room, excited. “It’s about my new partner.” 

You feel the urge to vomit all over the recording stage. 

—

Jeonghan, it turns out, is Seungcheol’s partner’s name. Seungcheol had brought him into the studio a week after they started dating, and he’s been coming routinely ever since. As much as you hate it and as much as it makes your heart bend and break, Seungcheol looks really, genuinely happy with him. You wonder if he ever looked like that with you. 

You really wish you hated Jeonghan, but you don’t. He’s actually quite nice and gets along with the whole band so easily. He even makes friends with Jihoon. You thought he might be a distraction to Seungcheol while writing and recording, but Seungcheol is more focused and productive and creative than ever. The song he wrote right after meeting him is good, like stupidly good. There isn’t a single word in it that needs changing. 

With your help, Seungcheol writes another song about him, called ‘Light of My Life.’ It’s while writing that song that you find out that Jeonghan was never a stranger, and that day after the beach was not their first meeting. It’s Soonyoung who tells you how Jeonghan is from their hometown and how Seungcheol and Jeonghan used to date. 

The day that you record ‘Light of My Life’ Jeonghan is also in the studio, sitting in the control room and laughing at something with Hansol. 

You light up my life even when it’s dark. You both sing together. It’s an acoustic song; only Joshua stands behind you guys strumming the chords on his guitar. The rest of the band didn’t even come in today. You color my world even when I’m feeling blue. You glance over at Seungcheol. He isn’t looking your way. He’s looking at Jeonghan through the control room window. When I’m with you, I never feel alone. You think about the times when he used to look at you while recording. When you hold me, baby, I feel at home. Jeonghan looks back at Seungcheol. It hits you how beautiful he is, with his dyed silver hair and slender face. You don’t blame Seungcheol for writing such a beautiful song about him. You don’t blame yourself for helping him. I can’t believe this has happened to me. Seungcheol wrote this song for Jeonghan, but he wasn’t the only writer on this song. Right before the next line, Seungcheol finally finally turns and looks at you. I feel alive because of you. 

Seungcheol turns back to the control room, and for the rest of the song, you wonder that if Seungcheol wrote this song for Jeonghan, who the hell did you write this song for?

—

A tune comes to you while you drive home that night. You scribble down a couple lyrics in your notebook as soon as you walk through your door. 

Silver hair. Silver skin. Sliver of my heart you took with him. 

Joshua throws a party that weekend. A housewarming for the house he bought with the ‘Begin Again’ checks. Stepping in through the foyer, you question whether you should be buying a house too. You forget that thought by the time you reach the drinks table. 

After your hellos to the rest of the band and all the small talk with people Joshua wanted to introduce you to, you end up standing alone in his backyard, sloshing around the dark liquid in your cup. Truthfully, you’ve barely left your apartment all week. You hadn’t been in the mood for a party. But it’s nice out here. The air is fresh and crisp. The lights, which Soonyoung and Minghao enthusiastically and drunkenly told you they helped put up, are warm but not too bright. You imagine you’ll stay out here for the rest of the party. 

“Hi,” you hear a voice say from behind you. You turn around only to find Jeonghan. You hope your face doesn’t betray you when you greet him back. “What are you doing out here?” 

You gulp down a bitter sip of your drink. “Just wanted some quiet.” 

“Same. Junhui started doing karaoke again.” 

“Oof.” You groan sympathetically. “Already?” 

He just nods with a laugh. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen all of them.” 

You like Jeonghan. You really do. It’s just taken you until now to realize that you don’t really know him apart from small talk in the studio and the two songs Seungcheol wrote about him. “When did you move down here from your guys’ hometown?” 

“Oh.” His chin juts out a bit. “I moved down with the band actually.” 

You don’t hide the surprise on your face. 

“I take it no one told you that then.” Jeonghan chuckles darkly. You shake your head. “Uh, well, yeah,” he continues, shoving his free hand into his pocket, “Seungcheol and I started dating right when the band formed. I used to do the photography for them. And when they proposed moving out here, I thought I ought to come with. And I did.” He gulps his drink. “It was good for a while. Really fun in the beginning. But then I got my job taking pictures for the paper, and they were doing the album. And well,” he looks at you like you already know what he’s about to say. You don’t. “It already wasn’t really working anymore by the time the album was finished. And then they went on tour…” 

He leaves that part blank. But based on what you heard from Seungcheol about that first tour, you can piece together what might’ve happened. You question whether Jeonghan left that empty to spare Seungcheol or to spare himself. Then you question how he knew you knew about it. 

“Oh.” Is all you say. You don’t ask about when they encountered each other again. You don’t want to hear it. 

“You know,” Jeonghan begins again, “I actually used to watch you play at the Tabernacle.” 

You groan immediately. You only ever played at the Tabernacle when you first started. You cringe thinking about what you might’ve sang on stage in front of him. “Oh my god. I’m so embarrassed to even think about those days.” 

“No! Don’t be!” He reassures, kindly. “You were really good. I especially liked that one song that went like… The days were wide open, as far as the eye could see.” 

Your heart nearly soars straight out of your body. You had forgotten about this song. You used to love it dearly. You join Seungcheol’s boyfriend for the second line.

The world was mine to take, but I’ve never been good at accepting things. 

“You and the band together,” Jeonghan says a moment after you both stop singing, “it’s magical, don’t get me wrong, but that song,” he smiles at you, “it’s a damn good song.” 

You can’t help but smile back. “Thank you.” 

“Cheol showed me a couple of the songs from the album.” Jeonghan mentions, and it instantly and heartbreakingly reminds you who you’re talking to. You hate that he has a nickname for him. “They’re amazing.” You look at him. He seems genuine. “They’re so good and real and raw that it almost makes me wonder…” his voice tapers off, losing the sound to a small exhale that appears as if it was meant to be a laugh, “Nevermind.” 

“What?” You poke, instinctively leaning in towards him.

He meets your eyes, creases running along his forehead and frown lines more prominent than ever. “It almost makes me wonder if there was something between you both.” 

You swallow, pointing at your chest. Your voice comes out raspy without you meaning for it to. “Me and Seungcheol?” 

He nods. “Yeah, I mean the lyrics in ‘Begin Again’—“ 

“That song’s not about me. Or about him.” You defend. “We didn’t even know each other when we wrote that.” 

“What about ‘Can You See Me’?” 

Your breath catches. Truthfully, you answer, “I don’t know what that song’s about.” 

—

When you get home that night, you finish the song you started writing about Seungcheol and Jeonghan. 

When you breathe in his lips, do you think of mine? What kind of songs were we making? Were they all lies? 

“What’s it called?” The question comes from Soonyoung. 

You look up from the paper in your hands filled with the lyrics you had completed over the weekend and after Joshua’s party. You notice he looks sad. You turn your gaze to Minghao. You can’t really tell what he’s thinking in that moment. 

“Uhm–I don’t know. I haven’t thought of a title yet.”

Seungcheol walks in then. “What are you guys talking about?” He asks, setting down his stuff. Then, more to himself than to you guys, he murmurs, “And where are Junhui and Josh?”

Soonyoung and Minghao don’t say anything. Instead, when Seungcheol asks what you’re doing, they both look at you. You imagine even if Junhui and Joshua were here, they’d do the same. Have you really been this transparent? At what point did they put together all the pieces? 

You hand Seungcheol the song. You have no idea what his reaction will be. 

He just nods, like he has no idea what the song is about. Like he doesn’t see his name and Jeonghan’s scribbled in the margins. 

“Call it ‘Silver Lies’.” He says. 

Minghao makes a noise. “Call it ‘Silver Linings’.” 

“Vote on it?” Seungcheol proposes. 

“No.” You look at Minghao. He stares back at you. Something unspoken lies in the space between. “We’ll call it ‘Silver Linings’.”

A party rages around you. Flashing teeth and flashing lights. Another drink, another riff. You don’t even know where you are right now. You remember coming home after working on ‘Silver Linings’; you remember wanting to forget your own mind. This is the only way you know how.

You don’t even know how long it’s been. 

This is what you do know: You’re sitting by a pool. Your feet are wet. You haven’t been this drunk since your 18th birthday. Choi Seungcheol is standing across the pool from you. 

Your face breaks out in a smile. Sober you will regret that. Sober you will also regret how your first thought is that he looks beautiful. You’ll regret the fact that you finally, drunkenly but honestly, admit to yourself how pretty you think he is, how you’ve thought so since your first time hearing him sing, and how you’ve been so painfully aware of it ever since. 

You let yourself fall in the water. Head sinking for a moment, before breaking the surface again. Floating on your back, you start humming the melody to ‘Silver Linings’ in your head. 

Silver hair. Silver skin. Sliver of my heart you took with him. 

You can’t tell if it’s the chlorine or something more pathetic that burns the corner of your eyes and runs down the side of your cheeks. 

You feel something tug on your arm. The sudden jolt makes you lose your balance, falling beneath the water. You’re so fucking wasted you forget if you even know how to swim; you almost forget to not breathe. 

You feel a pair of arms pull you up and hold your head above the surface. You know who they belong to. It strikes you in the back of your mind that this is the first time you’ve been touched by him. So maybe that’s why you relish in the feel of his arms around your waist and the way his hand grips at your hip. 

He looks at you like you’re filth. Just as all your partners before him did. First they’re sweet and charming, but it always ends like this. In their arms, simultaneously wanting to be far away and fighting the urge to beg: love me, please. 

Even if he wasn’t your partner, even if all he was was a hope and a ‘what if’. 

You barely even register it when you say, “you're just like the rest of them.” 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He rages back, not even acknowledging what you said.

“Nothing.” You tell him, smiling, wishing like hell that you believed it. 

“You missed our studio time. We were supposed to record ‘Silver Linings’.” He fumes at you. “Do you know what time it is? Do you even know what day it is?”

“Do you know how much of a fucking mood kill you can be?” You bite back. 

“What are you on?” He looks repulsed. You hate it. Hate the way that you showed him your whole heart and that he still looks at you like this. 

Seething, you say, “What do you think?” 

And that—that is what breaks him. What makes him lose his shit and start screaming. 

“Jihoon is fuming at us!” 

You barely notice it. Instead, you repeat in your head the words to the one song you truly, wholeheartedly wrote for him. 

“The record label isn’t going to let this slide, you do realize that, don’t you?” 

When you breathe in his lips, do you think of mine? 

“You wasted an entire day of recording!”

What kind of songs were we making? 

“No.” You say finally, voice coming out quiet. It sounds so misplaced and so wrong next to all the yelling between you two. “We wasted so much more than that.” 

Were they all lies?

For the first time since you’ve seen him tonight, he doesn’t say anything back. He just stares at you, like he can see straight through. The party continues all around you. It never stopped. It never quieted down. And yet, it somehow feels like you and him are the only ones in this pool. Like you’re stuck in time. Like you’ve created your own world with him and that’s where you’ve retreated to now. 

“Was any of it real?” You ask before you can stop the words. You hate how pathetic you sound. You hate how desperate it all is. 

All he says before leaving you in the water alone is: “I’m with Jeonghan now.” 

He splashes water in your face on his way out. 

When Seungcheol walks into the studio, you’re already there, talking with Jihoon and someone else he doesn’t recognize. 

“Hello.” He says cautiously to the group.  

The man says hi back. You don’t look at him. Jihoon is the one that finally explains. 

“Seungcheol, hey, this is Wonwoo. He’s from the paper, The Stones, and he’s going to be doing a piece on the band and the creation of the album.  It’ll be an inside look into the process of making an album and a bit about the band itself.” 

“Hey, man,” Seungcheol greets properly, extending his hand to shake. Wonwoo fumbles with a place to set down the pen and notebook in his hand for a second, before shaking it. Seungcheol doesn’t miss the way you scoff under your breath. “Wonwoo, right?” The reporter nods. “Anything you want us to do for you or for the piece?”

“No. Not at all.” He shakes his head profusely. “Just keep working on the album as you would normally. I might pop in here and there with questions, but other than that, it’ll be like I’m not even here.”

Seungcheol smiles brightly. “Well, you’re in for a treat today because we have a song to record.”

For the first time that day and for the first time since that night in the pool, you look at him. “No, we don’t.” He wonders if you remember that night, what you said to him, what he said back. 

“Actually,” he reaches into his bag and pulls out a piece of paper he’s been working on for the past two days. He hands it to you. “We do.”

You read the lyrics silently for a moment, then frowning, you read them aloud. “I’m used to making games out of broken hearts. Silly me for trying to play around with yours.”

Wonwoo makes a noise. “Damn. I wonder who that’s about.”

You snap, whipping back around to Wonwoo. “What happened to ‘it’ll be like I’m not even here’?” 

He mutters an apology and quickly scribbles something down in his notebook. You turn back to Seungcheol. “I’m not singing that.”

He ignores you and looks at Jihoon. “Let me see the song.”

You extend the paper out to him without taking your eyes off of Seungcheol. In Jihoon’s defense, he’s been working the hardest to keep the peace as early as when you recorded ‘Being Again’ together. Nonetheless, your face still morphs from hurt to angry. Seungcheol doesn’t blame you, but he also doesn’t really give a fuck. 

Jihoon, sounding more exhausted than Seungcheol has ever heard him sound before, only sighs. “How about we just try the song?”

—

Recording first starts with the instrumentals. The rest of the band recording their parts exactly as Seungcheol heard it in his head. 

Finally, with the rest of it recorded, he focuses on vocals. 

He only wants you singing it. 

“Take one of...” Jihoon starts, speaking through the intercom. “What’s it called again?”

Seungcheol answers: “‘We Are Not Done.’”

You’re the only one in the recording stage. Seungcheol sits in the control room with Jihoon, Hansol, and Wonwoo. The rest of the band is either home, in the lobby, or behind him in the control room. Seungcheol’s already demonstrated for you the general beat of the lyrics against the instrumental. You still hold the lyrics up behind the mic, brows furrowed at them. 

“Pour me a drink I–for all…” Normally, you’re a picture of confidence in the recording studio, but your first attempt to sing the song is an absolute train wreck. 

Seungcheol reaches over Jihoon’s shoulder and presses the red button. “Cut. What’s going on?”

You look through the window, exasperated. “I don’t get it. The words, they just–”

“It’s–Pour me a drink for all the fools made out of me.” Seungcheol demonstrates again. “I can’t live with myself half past 12–and it’s just like that for this whole verse.” He waits a moment. “Good?”

You stare at the lyrics, brows still scrunched together. “Yea.” 

“Okay. Take two.”

You sing: “Pour me a drink for all the fools made out of me.” Your voice is timid, almost. Seungcheol’s never heard you sound or act anything close to timid before. “I can’t live with myself half past 12.”

“Cut.” Seungcheol stops you again. “You have to sound larger than life singing, like you don’t care if people see how fucked up you are.”

“Excuse me?” You nearly scream at him.

“I’m talking about the song.”

Jihoon shakes his head. “Take 3.”

You look mad now. At least that will be closer to what Seungcheol wants. “Pour me a drink for all the fools made out of me.”

“Cut.” Seungcheol can see you biting your tongue. “Sing it looser. Less restrained. Don’t worry about hitting the notes. Take 4.”

“Pour me a drink for all the fools–”

“Cut.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Even looser. Take 5.”

“Pour me a drink f–”

“Cut. Let your voice get ‘ugly’. Take 6.”

“Pour me–”

“Cut!”

— 

(Wonwoo’s interview with Seungcheol)

Wonwoo: So, Seungcheol, I remember there being an impossible number of takes for the track ‘We Are Not Done’, specifically for the vocals. In the end, How’d you get them to sing like… that?

Seungcheol: Sometimes all it takes is a little push

—

(Wonwoo’s interview with you)

Wonwoo: ‘We Are Not Done’ is such a force of nature. How’d you end up singing it like that?”

You: Well, let’s just say that Seungcheol is really good at what he does.

Wonwoo: And what does he do?

You: He inspires. 

—

The red light flashes again. “Take 32.”

The only thought you have when the blue recording light turns back on is that you fucking hate Choi Seungcheol, but you still want him and you hate that he knows that. 

The track starts. 

Pour me a drink for all the fools made out of me. I can’t live with myself half past 12. I’m used to making games out of broken hearts.  Silly me for trying to play around with yours. I know you’re with someone new, But is that really true  If you’re still thinking of my kiss and my tongue?  I’m your wildest dream. I’m your best nightmare. You and me, baby, we are not done. 

You’re beyond pissed driving home from the studio that day. 

The first fucking day with the reporter and Seungcheol chose to make you look like an idiot. He chose to make you sing that song with Wonwoo sitting behind, taking it all in. 

Not to mention that that was the first time you’ve seen him since he showed up at the party while you were trying to get over him the only way you know how. When he held you in his arms, made you feel so stupidly warm, and then left with someone else’s name on his lips. 

You hate Seungcheol. Maybe joining the band wasn’t worth it. Wasn’t worth him. 

Your vision goes red and all you can think is: isn’t he over this yet? Aren’t I?

Suddenly, there’s a bang. A puff of smoke. The airbag releases. Your entire body clenches, lurching forward and then back again harshly. 

A crash, you register belatedly, staring at the hood of your car folded up like a piece of paper. 

Paper. 

You dig inside your glove box for your notebook and shove your hand in the space between the passenger seat and the center console to find a pen. 

“What the fuck?” The man from the car you hit screams, stepping out of his car.

You ignore it. A song, you had it just then. You had it.

“You hit me!” He yells again, getting closer.

Your pen hits the paper, and it doesn’t stop until the song is on it. Not even when you notice blood drip. Not even when the man starts banging on your window.

Is it over now? Do you have the guts? To call it quits, baby, Say I’ve had enough. Is it over now? Can we say the words? I used to love you, Now I’m not sure. 

(Wonwoo’s interview with you)

Wonwoo: What’s it been like working with the band? From ‘Begin Again’ to now?”

You: Oh, well, ‘Begin Again’ was a totally different story. I wasn’t really part of the group or anything. I was more just an outsider that Jihoon and the label had brought in. I changed up most of the lyrics, but the song was never really mine. I think it’s taken me a while to realize that. But, now, I mean, working on the album together couldn’t be more different. Seungcheol and I co-write almost all of the songs. It’s been a much more collaborative project compared to ‘Begin Again’. It’s been exhausting and tiring and life-consuming, but um, it’s been a lot of fun.

Wonwoo: So, going back a bit, if you rewrote all of the lyrics to ‘Begin Again’, how is it not your song?

You: Seungcheol already had some lyrics written for that song. I was just the one to figure out what he was really trying to say with them. 

Wonwoo: Hm

Wonwoo: So what’s it been like working with Seungcheol? 

You: Well, it definitely wasn’t easy at first.

Wonwoo: Why not?

You: I think we were both just used to writing alone. We learned a lot in those first couple writing sessions, and I think we’ve both grown a lot since then. 

Wonwoo: What’d you learn?

You: We’re very similar people. We think about love very similarly. We have fought the same battles, and we’re both able to turn our pain and struggling into something beautiful. 

Wonwoo: How would you describe you and Seungcheol’s personal relationship?

You: What do you mean?

Wonwoo: Friends, lovers, enemies, etc.

You: We have chemistry, but

You:

You: But I think that to write together there has to be love. What else would all the songs be about?

Wonwoo: Is that what ‘Can You See Me’ is about? Love?

You: That’s for each listener to figure out for themselves.

Wonwoo: You also said that you co-wrote most of the songs with Seungcheol.

You: Yes.

Wonwoo: So, did you guys co-write ‘We Are Not Done’ and ‘Is It Over Now?’?

You: 

Wonwoo: No need to go into details if you’re not comfortable. I’m only really looking for a yes or a no. 

You: It–

You: It’s not as simple as a yes or a no.

—

(Wonwoo’s interview with Seungcheol)

Wonwoo: What’s it been like working with someone else for the song writing on this album?

Seungcheol: It’s been hard. There’s a lot of push and pull for each word in each song, but I think at the end of the day, we’ve been able to put together an almost complete record of songs that we’re both proud of.

Wonwoo: It’s been said that the two of you have chemistry–

Seungcheol: Who said that?

Wonwoo: –do you agree with that?

Seungcheol:

Seungcheol: It’s not what you think.

Wonwoo:

Seungcheol: Look, whatever chemistry people think there is between us, I mean, it–it’s for the music and for the songs, not for each other. 

Wonwoo: Are you saying it’s all fake? 

Seungcheol: No, but it’s not real life either. 

Wonwoo: So you guys fabricated some of it to sell records?

Seungcheol: I just don’t want people to get the wrong idea. 

Wonwoo: Which is what?

Seungcheol: That there’s something between us romantically. There isn’t. 

Wonwoo: Not even a little bit?

Seungcheol: Not even once.

The photo shoot for the album they decided should be in the desert. You’re not really sure why. Probably something to do with the desert show where you and the band first played together. You didn’t have a choice in the matter. If you did, you would have suggested the opposite. Maybe something on the shore. Nonetheless, you let them tell you where to sit and exactly how to do it.

The photographers look between each other after each flash of light in your face. Thank god they aren’t actors. You can read on their faces how much they hate each photo taken. 

“You know what,” the head photographer says to the band, “let’s just take 5.”

You’re up immediately, walking away from the weird set they’ve put together and heading straight to the snack table. You say hi to Jeonghan standing there with a camera around his neck. 

“Did the paper send you or did you come with Seungcheol?” You ask lightheartedly, picking at some grapes.

He laughs, fiddling with the lens. “No, not the paper. I just like to bring my camera with me sometimes. Plus,” he adds with a far off smile, looking up the hill at Joshua, Junhui, and Minghao talking, “reminds me of the old days.”

You look up past those three to where Soonyoung and Seungcheol are laughing at something you wish you were privy to. “I get that.” 

“Actually, Seungcheol and I wanted to talk to you.” He says. His lips look pressed, eyes bright, fighting a smile but also fighting something else far beneath that. “Once the album wraps, we’re, uh, we’re gonna get married.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, I know. It was his idea, but I’m really excited about it too.” He tells you, abashedly. “We’re gonna keep it small, I think. Do it back in our hometown so that our families can be there and everything. I think most of the band is gonna travel back too to be there, and, uh, I know it would mean a lot to both of us if you were there too.” 

You look at Jeonghan. You don’t really think he’s lying about the last part, but that still doesn’t make it any easier for you to swallow. “I don’t really know if that’s a good idea.”

“I do.” Jeonghan doesn’t falter. It reminds you of you before Seungcheol. You wonder where that version of you went. After a moment, his face softens, lips turning down a bit, but eyes looking as kind and as big as ever. You notice that his hair isn’t silver anymore. 

“I know that it’s complicated between you and Seungcheol. And I’m not going to act like I get it because I don’t. But I like you and I know he loves you. If not for anything, then for this.” Jeonghan gestures to the shitty set they prepared. You look at it, chuckling. It’s shitty, yes. But Jeonghan’s right. This must’ve cost the label a fuck ton of money. “He and the band wouldn’t have any of this if not for you. You did that for them.” 

You turn back to Jeonghan. Genuinely, you tell him, “Thank you.”

You open your arms to him. He welcomes it, hugging you back. You exhale. You can barely remember the last time you did. 

“Congratulations, Jeonghan.” You feel him grin. 

“Please come.” He requests. 

You don’t know if you will. But you do know that you’re happy for him. 

—

The next round of photos are no better than the last. You hope at least Jeonghan, who’s moved on to taking pictures of the scenery, is having a better shoot day than the label-hired photographers. 

You find Seungcheol again during the next break, standing in the back at the top most part of the hill, sun shining down directly behind his head.

“Hey.” He says to you, not casually but not maliciously either.

You stop in front of him, just staring. Without you even meaning to, you frown. Seungcheol must notice. He tilts his head. “What’s up?”

You inhale sharply. “You’re getting married.”

His mouth opens, then closes. “I’m getting married.”

You shake your head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I-it never..” He stops trying to find the words. You find that as more of an answer than anything he could’ve said. “I’m sorry.”

“Take me home.” You recite, thinking of the first window you ever had into Seungcheol’s heart. “Welcome me on those familiar roads. Embrace me in your arms. Oh please, tell me I still belong. It was always about him, wasn’t it?”

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything. You know him too well to think he would. Instead, he sucks in his bottom lip and turns his gaze to the ground. You bend your neck to see his face, see his red eyes. This is the only time you’ll have him like this again. This is it.

The only thing you have left to say to him is: “I hope you’re happy.”

—

When you go home that night, you drink yourself past consciousness. It’s only when you wake up with a pounding head the next morning do you see the song sitting next to you, written in sloppy, drunken handwriting. 

Tell me was it worth all the pain Tell me would you do it over again Tell me was it worth the lights and your name Tell me was it worth the sound of my shame Tell me was it worth the album and the songs That I only sang thinking they were about us Tell me some it was true, not in my head Did we only kiss to sound how you wanted?

I know I’m not yours But let me your wildest dream You think of again On a bad night After a bad fight

(Wonwoo’s interview with you)

Wonwoo: Who wrote the last song on the album: ‘Not Yours’?

You: I did.

Wonwoo: When?

You: Right after the album cover shoot. 

Wonwoo: What inspired it?

You: Well

You: I think that song had been singing in my heart for a while before I finally wrote it. 

—

(Wonwoo’s interview with Seungcheol)

Wonwoo: ‘Not Yours’ is such a heart-breaking song. What was it like recording it?

Seungcheol: Believe it or not, it was one of the easiest. 

(Wonwoo’s interview with Jeonghan)

Wonwoo: It’s nice to finally meet you.

Jeonghan: You too. If I can be honest, I really didn’t expect to be called about this piece.

Wonwoo: Oh

Wonwoo: I just like to get all sides of it. 

Jeonghan: Okay.

Wonwoo: I wanted to talk to you about the album photo shoot. 

Jeonghan: Oh yeah of course.

Wonwoo: From my understanding, the picture that was chosen as the cover, was one that you took. Is that correct?

Jeonghan: Yeah. I took it during one of the breaks. 

Jeonghan: I mean props to the photography team that was hired, I’m sure they’re amazing, but it wasn’t hard to tell that they were really struggling to photograph the band. 

Jeonghan: I just happened to have my camera on me, and you know, I had photographed the band in the past, so I just kind of knew what to look for. And when I saw Seungcheol and them go off to the side to talk, my eyes just happened to follow them. And

Jeonghan: Well, I don’t know what they were talking about, but you can see it in the photo, you know? 

Jeonghan: They’re looking at each other like it’s a very important conversion. And well, let’s just say that I know Seungcheol very well, and he’s never been a good actor, so it must have been. And, and the sky is so blue and so clear behind them which, I don’t know, to me sort of represents how there’s nothing coming between them in this moment either. There’s nothing that isn’t being said.

Jeonghan: 

Jeonghan: When I saw that, I just knew I had to capture it.

Jeonghan:

Jeonghan: I had no idea that Jihoon would want to use it for the album cover. I wasn’t thinking like that. 

Wonwoo: Was it weird at all?

Jeonghan: How so?

Wonwoo: To capture a picture of your finance and his bandmate looking at each other like that?

(Wonwoo’s interview with Jihoon)

Wonwoo: So does the album have a name?

Jihoon: Yeah. Of course.

Jihoon: Aurora

Wonwoo: Can you tell me anything about the band maybe going on tour?

Jihoon: Well, can’t say anything for sure yet, but there’s definitely been some talk from the label about it.

Wonwoo: If there were to be a tour, are you able to give us a sneak peek as to what it’ll be like?

Jihoon: Hmm

Jihoon: Did you happen to see the band play the festival in the desert?

Wonwoo: No, I did not.

Jihoon: Well, I’ll tell you what anyone who saw that show would say.

Wonwoo: Which is?

Jihoon: Get ready for the best fucking show of your life. 

(Wonwoo’s interview with you)

Wonwoo: I heard most of the band is heading back to their hometown for the break. 

You: Yeah, they are.

Wonwoo: Do you plan on joining them?

You: No.

You: I don’t think I will.

Wonwoo: What do you plan to do during your time off?

You: Well, I bought a one way ticket to Italy, so that should start something. Maybe I’ll go to Nepal or Japan or Brazil after that. I haven’t really decided yet. 

Wonwoo: So, traveling.

You: Yeah, I guess. 

You: Can you believe that the festival show we did is the farthest I’ve ever been from home?

You: It’s time I saw a little more of the world.

Wonwoo: The fans are really looking forward to a tour. Can you speak to when you will be coming back?

You: