#...and rewind because suddenly started thinking about him...

FUCK IT. IF STANDING UP FOR YOU MEANS BEING A PROBLEM, THATS FINE. HES BEEN A PROBLEM BEFORE.

mike has always hated teachers.

not in the funny, haha-school-sucks way that dustin complains about homework, or the way lucas gets annoyed when someone docks him participation points for not raising his hand. mike hates teachers the way you hate something because it reminds you—constantly—that adults get to be wrong and still win. he learned that early.

teachers like to talk about rules as if they’re laws of nature. immutable. gravity. if you drop something, it falls. if you talk back, you get detention. if you’re late, that’s a moral failing. comforting, probably, if you’re the one with the authority. mike learned pretty fast that rules don’t save anyone.

he’s sitting two rows back from you, third period, legs hooked around the chair rung because the desks are too small and the room always smells like dry erase markers and old paper. history class. mr. keller. one of those men who talks like every sentence is a verdict. mike isn’t really paying attention at first. he’s half-writing in the margin of his notebook, half-listening, thinking about how stupid it is that they’re covering the cold war again, like the first three times didn’t get the point across. then he hears your name. it’s not even yelled. it’s clipped, the kind of tone that means the teacher has already decided you’re wrong and is now just building a case.

you’d raised your hand a minute ago. mike remembers that now, retroactively, like his brain is rewinding to find the moment where this went wrong. you weren’t eager, nor obnoxious. just that small, careful lift of your fingers, elbow barely leaving the desk. the universal sign for i might be wrong, but.

mr. keller hadn’t looked at you then. he’d kept talking, voice droning on about ideological tension and post-war policy, chalk squeaking as he underlined something on the board a little too hard. mike thinks every history teacher somehow manages to make the end of the world sound boring, but then he heard your name.

“—and what do you think?” mr. keller had called on you, saying your name like he’d been waiting to use it.

you straighten a little in your seat. you hesitate for half a second too long then speak anyway. “i think the treaty was signed in 1949.”

there’s a pause. mike knows that pause. it’s the same pause adults take when they’re deciding whether to admit a mistake or assert dominance. he’s watched his parents do it. principals. cops. men in suits with government badges who say trust me while holding all the power.

mr. keller tilts his head, his mouth curves into something that might pass for a smile if you weren’t paying attention. “are you sure about that?” he asks.

you nod once. “yeah. i checked.” mike watches your hand tighten around your pencil.

mr. keller exhales through his nose, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “interesting,” he says, turning back to the board. “because according to the material provided—” he taps the underlined year with the chalk, “—that is incorrect.”

mike’s stomach twists. he recognizes the moment you decide not to push it. the moment where you realize the truth won’t help you here. your shoulders draw in slightly, like you’re making yourself smaller. “this,” mr. keller continues, “is why we raise our hands after we’re certain.”

a couple kids snicker. someone two rows over shifts in their seat. the room feels suddenly very aware of itself, like everyone knows something ugly is happening but no one wants to be involved. mike stops doodling. you’re staring at your desk now, quiet, not phased but bored and just choosing to not give the moment any more energy. “if you’re going to interrupt my lecture,” mr. keller keeps yapping holy shit, folding his arms, “you need to be prepared with sources. not guesses. this isn’t middle school.”

mike’s jaw tightens. he knows you had sources. he remembers you sitting on his bedroom floor last night, textbook open, flipping pages back and forth like you didn’t quite trust what you were seeing. “this date’s always wrong,” you’d said. “i looked it up in two places.”

mr. keller turns back to the board. “now,” he says, “as i was saying—”

that’s it. that’s the end of it. the teacher gets to be wrong, and you get to be embarrassed for noticing.

mike feels anger bloom in his chest, the kind that makes his thoughts line up blunt and offended and unfiltered instead of fuzzy. he thinks about all the times adults told him to sit down, stop asking questions, trust the system. about how often the system failed anyway.

he thinks about you shrinking in your seat.

“actually.”

why is it always like this? why does being older automatically mean being right? why do teachers get to be wrong out loud and students have to swallow it? why is respect something that only ever moves in one direction? mr. keller turns around slowly, like he already knows what’s coming and is annoyed about having to deal with it. “yes, wheeler?”

“she’s right. the treaty was signed in 1949.”

he doesn’t even look at mr. keller at first. his eyes flick to you. you’re looking up now, surprised, like you didn’t expect anyone to do this. mr. keller scoffs. “and how would you know that?”

that’s always the move. undermine first, facts later, if ever. “it’s in the textbook,” mike pushes. “page 212.”

“this is not your job,” mr. keller replies. “i don’t appreciate interruptions.”

your job.

mike almost laughs at that. like school is employment. like obedience is a contract he signed. “you asked her if she was sure,” mike says. he leans forward without meaning to. “she was.”

mr. keller’s voice hardens. “are you challenging my authority?”

what are they actually going to do? ground him? yell? act like this is the worst thing he’s ever done? like he hasn’t seen worse. like the world hasn’t already proved that following the rules doesn’t protect you from anything.

there’s a beat where he just looks at mr. keller, and his brain does that thing it always does when authority starts posturing—pulls the curtain back. strips the guy down to what he actually is. not a judge, not a god, just a man with a piece of chalk and a bad attitude who hates being corrected in front of teenagers.

are you challenging my authority?

it’s such a ridiculous question when you think about it. authority over what. a classroom. a worksheet. a date written wrong on a board. mike thinks about all the adults who’ve asked him some version of that question and expected the answer to be no, sir, expected him to fold himself smaller and apologize for noticing things.

he doesn’t feel like doing that today.

“i’m pointing out that you’re wrong,” mike answers. his tone is calm, almost bored, and he knows that’s what really pisses mr. keller off. “which shouldn’t be a big deal. unless you’re insecure about it.”

there’s a sharp intake of breath from somewhere in the room. someone lets out a very badly suppressed laugh. mike feels a flicker of something like satisfaction. not because he wants to humiliate the guy—okay, maybe a little—but because the spell is breaking. the illusion. the agreement everyone makes to pretend teachers are infallible. mr. keller’s face goes red. “watch your tone.”

there it is. the fallback. tone policing when the facts don’t cooperate. “i am.” mike says.

that gets more snickers. a couple kids shift in their seats, suddenly very invested in this exchange. mike knows he’s crossed some line now. there’s no walking this back, and weirdly, that makes everything feel simpler. mr. keller straightens, trying to reclaim the room. “this conversation is over.”

of course it is. that’s how it always ends when authority runs out of answers. “sure,” mike mutters. “just like the lesson, i guess.”

mike can practically feel the teacher losing the room, and it’s almost surreal how fragile the whole thing is. how easily it tips once someone stops playing along. mr. keller’s jaw tightens. “michael,” he says sharply, “you are out of line.”

out of line. mike rolls the phrase around in his head. he thinks about how many lines he’s crossed already. curfews. expectations. lines drawn by people who never had to deal with the consequences when they failed. “at least im not lying to the class.”

“step outside,” mr. keller says. “now.”

mike pushes his chair back and stands, heart pounding, but his head is clear. he grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder. as he turns his eyes find you again. you’re staring at him like you’re not sure whether to be scared or grateful. he gives you the smallest shrug. worth it. then he walks out, already cataloging the fallout in his head, already deciding he doesn’t care. if the system can’t handle being corrected by a teenager, that’s not his problem. if standing up for you means being rude, being difficult, being a problem—

fuck it.

he’s been a problem before.

that’s still the throughline, even as he’s sitting in the guidance office ten minutes later in a chair that is somehow both too small and too soft, like it was designed specifically to make teenagers feel ridiculous. the walls are covered in motivational posters. your future starts now! choices have consequences! there’s a sad ficus in the corner that looks like it’s one bad day away from giving up entirely. mike stares at a crack in the linoleum and thinks about how this is supposed to intimidate him. it doesn’t.

mr. keller does most of the talking when they finally haul him in. lots of words. lots of phrases that don’t actually mean anything. disrespectful. insubordinate. setting a bad example. mike listens with half his brain, nods when it seems socially required, keeps the rest of his attention on not saying something worse.

the guidance counselor—mrs. hendricks, he thinks—keeps giving him this look like she’s trying to find the “real issue.” like this is about feelings. like he’s acting out because of stress or hormones or whatever pamphlet she read last week. “do you understand why this was inappropriate?” she asks.

mike considers lying. decides not to bother. “he was wrong,” mike says. “she was right. he embarrassed her instead of checking.”

mr. keller’s nostrils flare. “that is not the point.”

“kind of feels like it is.” mike defends, before he can stop himself.

there’s a long sigh. the kind adults use when they’re preparing to be very patient and very condescending. the punishment is exactly what he expects. detention. written apology. a warning about “future behavior.” mike signs the paper without reading it. he already knows how this goes. he’ll sit in a room after school one day, do homework he would’ve done anyway, write something that sounds apologetic enough to pass. the system gets its little win. life goes on.

worth it.

he’s dismissed eventually, sent back to class with a hall pass like a scarlet letter. the rest of the day crawls. teachers talk. bells ring. mike takes notes he won’t remember. every so often his mind drifts back to you, to the look on your face when he stood up.

this isn’t new. he’s always been like this with you. always leaning forward before thinking, always bristling when someone talks over you or talks down to you or decides you’re an easy target because you don’t snap back. mike snaps back for the both of you. it’s reflexive.

you’ve been friends forever. long enough that he doesn’t remember a version of himself that didn’t know where you stood in a room, long enough that defending you feels less like a choice and more like muscle memory. the stupidest part is that you don’t need it. you’re popular. people like you. teachers smile at you. upperclassmen know your name. people sit closer to you than necessary at lunch, find excuses to talk to you in the halls. you could absolutely handle yourself.

logically, mike knows that.

it doesn’t matter.

popularity doesn’t stop people from being unfair. it doesn’t stop adults from flexing power just because they can. every time someone does that to you something in mike locks into place and refuses to let it go. a substitute who singled you out. a kid who made a joke that landed wrong. a coach who dismissed something you said without listening. mike always noticed first. always reacted first. sometimes you told him later he didn’t have to, sometimes you didn’t say anything at all.

you never sounded mad.

the final bell rings. mike’s out of his seat before it finishes, bag slung over his shoulder, already moving with purpose. he spots you by your locker, talking to someone else, laughing. easy. bright. completely fine. he feels the familiar, stupid mix of relief and irritation. you look over and see him. your smile shifts, like it’s just for him. you excuse yourself and walk over. “so,” you say, tilting your head. “guidance office?”

“yep.”

“you okay?”

“yeah,” he says automatically. then, more honest, “i’m still mad.”

“i figured.”

you end up at his house without really discussing it. bikes abandoned in the driveway, helmets dropped on the porch. his parents aren’t home—another small mercy—and the house feels quiet in that hollow, weekday-afternoon way. mike dumps his bag by the couch and starts pacing almost immediately.

“he’s such an asshole.” mike says, to no one in particular, then immediately to you. he runs a hand through his hair, pushes it back, then paces again. “i mean, history teachers are already on thin ice,” he continues. “like congrats, you found a way to make the cold war uninteresting. and then on top of that he’s wrong? and smug about it?” he scoffs. “that’s like the worst combination. stupid and confident. pick a struggle.”

you sit on the couch, kicking off your shoes, calm in a way that only makes him more keyed up. mike notices that too. how you’re fine. how you’re always fine. “and the way he talks,” mike rambles. “you know he goes home and tells his wife about ‘a very disrespectful student’ over dinner.” he makes a face. “assuming she still listens.”

you snort despite yourself. “mike.”

“no, seriously,” he insists, stopping in front of you now. “you know that guy has a loveless marriage. you don’t act like that in a room full of teenagers unless something in your life is deeply unfulfilling.” he resumes pacing. “it’s not even about the date. it’s about the fact that he could’ve just checked. it would’ve taken ten seconds.”

you shrug a little. “it’s fine. it happens.”

he stops dead. “no,” mike says flatly. “it’s not.” he exhales through his nose, like he’s trying very hard not to say something worse. “that’s what they want you to think. that it’s normal. that you’re supposed to just .. take it.” he gestures vaguely back toward the school, like it’s still in range. “that place is a factory for that. bells, rules, permission slips. stand up, sit down, speak when spoken to. and god forbid you point out that the adult in charge screwed up.”

you open your mouth. mike cuts in, already anticipating it. “i know you can handle yourself,” he says. “i know you don’t need me to jump in like some idiot.” he hears it as soon as it leaves his mouth. the tone of it. too fast. too defensive. he’s trying to preempt an argument you haven’t actually made.

he stops talking. that almost never happens. there’s this weird lag in his brain, like he’s only just now catching up to the fact that he’s been pacing for ten minutes straight, voice raised, fully dissecting the personal failings of a middle-aged man he technically left behind hours ago. “sorry.” he says, suddenly, the word tripping out of him a little clumsy.

he lets out a short, embarrassed huff of a laugh and rubs the back of his neck. “i didn’t mean to go on like that. i just—” he trails off, because saying i got really mad about it feels insufficient, and saying i got really mad about it because it was you feels like stepping onto unstable ground. he risks a glance at you. you’re smiling. amused, like you’re watching something mildly ridiculous and also familiar at the same time.

“it’s okay mike,” you reassure. “really.”

that somehow makes him more flustered, not less. “yeah, i know, i just—” he exhales, shoulders dropping now that the adrenaline’s finally burning off. “it’s stupid. it happened hours ago.”

except it doesn’t feel stupid. it feels immediate. it feels like it just happened again in his head, looping. the moment you went quiet. the way mr. keller’s voice shifted. mike’s brain doesn’t really let go of stuff like that once it’s latched on. this is how it always goes with you. not just today. not just this teacher. it’s a pattern so consistent mike could probably map it if he wanted to, little mental pushpins marking every time something happened to you and he reacted like it was a personal offense. i mean, it always feels personal. to mike anyway. his brain treats it that way without asking permission.

something mildly unfair happens to you → you shrug it off → mike gets progressively angrier over the next several hours.

it’s almost embarrassing, honestly. the delayed reaction, like his emotions need extra processing time, or like they refuse to accept that you’ve already moved on. he’ll still be stewing about it when you’re laughing about something else entirely, and at some point you’ll notice and have to talk him down. it’s okay, mike. really.

this is usually the part where he realizes—belatedly—that he’s been pacing, or ranting, or staring holes into a wall. where he suddenly becomes aware of his own volume. his own intensity, like waking up mid-argument with himself.

he doesn’t do this for everyone. the party, sure, he’ll get defensive if someone messes with them. that’s loyalty. that’s history. with you it’s different. faster. more visceral. his patience evaporates the second someone underestimates you or puts you on the spot or makes you smaller than you are. it’s not because you’re fragile. you’re not. you’re arguably the most socially functional person he knows. you glide through rooms that still feel hostile to him. people listen to you. teachers like you. classmates want your approval. you don’t need mike wheeler, resident problem child, coming to your rescue.

he does it anyway. he always has.

maybe it’s because you never make a big deal out of things. you absorb it, move on, refuse to escalate. maybe his brain mistakes that calm for something that needs defending. or maybe he just hates the idea that anyone could make you feel small, even briefly, even if you won’t admit it. either way, the result is the same: mike taking it harder than you do.

you’ve never really minded it. if anything, it’s kind of endearing, the way he burns so hot for things that matter to him. the way his moral outrage has such a specific trigger. the way you’ll be fine, and he’ll still be furious, and somehow that becomes your job—to reassure him that the world hasn’t ended. it’s backwards, a little ridiculous, but it’s mike, and standing up for you—being mad for you, long after you’ve stopped being mad—seems to be one of the few things he never second-guesses.

so you do what you always do. you ease him out of it. you don’t argue. you don’t tell him he’s wrong. you’ve learned that pushing back just gives the anger somewhere new to latch onto. instead, you redirect, like steering a bike away from traffic without making a big show of it. you let him finish his rant. you let the last few sparks burn themselves out.

mike’s slouched in a chair now, arms crossed like he’s bracing for another round with an imaginary opponent. he mutters something under his breath about teachers unions and ego complexes and the inevitable downfall of the public education system. “so,” you try, casual, like this is a normal transition and not at all a intervention, “did you ever finish that campaign idea you were working on?”

“what?”

“the d&d thing,” you elaborate. “the one you were complaining about last week. with the weird ruins.”

“oh. yeah. i mean. kind of.” his shoulders drop a fraction, like he’s loosening his grip on something. “it’s still stupid. i can’t figure out how to make the villain threatening without just making him evil for no reason.”

“maybe he has a reason. maybe he thinks he’s the good guy.”

mike snorts, a short, almost offended sound. “the good guy? with a flaming sword and a fondness for murdering anyone in sight?” his hands fly up, animated, sketching invisible arcs in the air. “yeah. real sympathetic.”

you giggle. “i mean, he thinks he’s doing the right thing. doesn’t mean he’s right.”

he glares at you, mock accusation flashing across his face, but there’s warmth there, the spark that’s always present when he’s trading barbs with you. “you’re too reasonable sometimes. it’s annoying.”

you shrug, smiling, “can’t help it.”

and somehow that’s enough. mike leans back in his chair, muttering about motivation arcs and the inherent failure of humanity, and without a word you follow him when he stands and eventually you both end up on his bed, sitting cross-legged facing each other, the small space folding around you. he’s got that restless energy still, jittering slightly, but it’s softer here, safer, and the tension in his shoulders has begun to unwind.

he leans in slightly when he laughs, and you lean just a fraction too, not consciously, until the space between your faces is smaller than it should be. words spill out, half thought out, half nonsense, and somehow they’re hilarious to both of you. he’s always been like this with you, explosive and defensive and absurdly passionate, and it’s intoxicating in a way you’ve never quite managed to name.

nancy’s voice from the doorway snaps the spell. “hey, um—” she pauses, tilting her head, clearly not expecting anyone to be on the bed like this. she’s casual, but mike doesn’t hear casual.

“hello.” you answer meekly.

mike, on the other hand, stiffens instantly, eyes narrowing, posture locking. his voice is clipped. “what do you want?”

nancy glances at you cautiously. “oh. just—”

someone is talking at you. he must intervene.

mike’s body tenses the way it always does before he makes a dumb, instinctive choice. it’s ridiculous if you think about it, like a puppy thinking it’s a wolf. his brain is halfway processing the situation—nancy is clearly not an enemy. she’s never been an enemy—but —- “wait,” he says, realizing listening is optional, and fuck nancy. “get out.”

nancy raises her hands. “jeez. i was just gonna say hi.”

you’ve been friends long enough to know this is mike. this is what he does. this is how he shows that he cares. doesn’t matter if you’re popular, don’t need protecting, or could handle any conversation yourself. to him it doesn’t matter. his brain refuses to separate “you are my responsibility” from “people must not wrong you.” he gets worked up for you, ridiculously, and not even something you can explain. it’s just who he is.

nancy blinks, clearly not expecting mike to sound like a tornado warning siren in human form, and retreats quickly, muttering something about “fine, i’ll leave you two alone.” and closing the door behind her. you tilt your head a little, just enough to make your voice gentle but curious. “hey… mike?”

he glances at you, eyebrows pulling together in that way he does when he’s thinking, already bracing for trouble. “yeah?”

you chew the inside of your cheek for a second. you want to phrase it right, not like you’re criticizing. “why do you always… like, get so mad for me?”

“i— uh… what do you mean?”

“like, with nancy just now. or… before, in class… you always jump in.” you shrug, words almost failing you.

mike’s head ducks a fraction, and suddenly his mouth is moving faster than his brain can catch up. “i guess i just—i don’t know. i just get so mad because i feel… you know… and i get so mad.” he lets out a little laugh, nervous, shaking his head, cheeks burning, like he’s trying to pull the words out from somewhere deep inside, only to have them stick halfway down his throat. his eyes flick to yours and back, like he’s scanning for some invisible clue that you already know, or maybe that you’ll just make him stop before he ruins everything. “it’s not—i mean—it’s stupid, probably. not like you’d even care, or… or maybe you would, but i’m not… i’m not good at—” he stops and shakes his head, trying to reset. “it’s just… i just… i don’t like it when… when people—” he jerks a thumb toward the door, and you follow the gesture just enough to catch nancy retreating, “—treat you… wrong. or like… not right. it makes me… mad because… you’re not supposed to… like—ugh, never mind. stupid.”

he huffs, exasperated, looking anywhere but at your face, even though he can feel the heat in his cheeks like it’s radiating off him in waves. “i don’t know, if someone else thinks they can mess with you, or… or talk to you wrong, or take up your time or attention, i get this thing in my chest, right here,” he puts a hand against his sternum, “and it’s… stupid, and i probably overreact all the time, but… yeah. it’s because of you. not… like… in a weird way. just… because you’re… important. to me.” he freezes, realizes he’s halfway there, and then flushes crimson from the base of his neck up to his ears. “i didn’t—i didn’t mean it like—that! it’s just… i just mean… you’re… i don’t know. i don’t—ugh.” he throws up his hands, “i’m sorry. i’m a mess. i can’t say it right.”

“mike,” you say carefully, “do you know why it’s worse when it’s about me?”

his mouth opens. nothing comes out. oh. oh, shit.

his brain is suddenly very aware of the fact that you are sitting cross-legged on his bed. that he can smell your shampoo. that this question has an answer, and he knows it, and the answer is dangerous. he shakes his head, more reflex than decision. “i mean. because we’re friends. right? like. close friends. so obviously i’d care more.”

“is that all?”

the silence stretches. his fingers curl into the fabric of his jeans. “i don’t want to make it weird.” he says finally, barely above a mumble.

your voice is gentle. “you won’t.”

that’s not a guarantee you can actually make, but something about the way you say it makes him believe it anyway. “i just—” he starts, stops, starts again. “i know you’re… popular. and everyone likes you. and you could hang out with anyone you want. so it’s not like—” he winces. “it’s not like you need me hovering around like some… guard dog or something.” you don’t interrupt him. you’re still listening. “but when you laugh at my jokes,” he blurts, “or you sit next to me, or you choose to hang out with me when you could be doing something cooler, it feels like—” he presses his hand to his chest again. “like this. and then someone does something shitty to you and it’s like they’re messing with that. with… us. or… me. or—god, i don’t know.” his face is burning now. there’s no way it’s not obvious. “i know that sounds selfish. like i’m making it about me. i don’t mean it like that. i just—i like you. being around you. a lot.”

there it is. almost.

he doesn’t look up. he can’t. if he looks up and sees rejection, he might actually die on the spot, and that would be really embarrassing. your voice is closer when you speak. “mike.”

he risks a glance. “you’re allowed to like me.” you say.

his breath stutters. “yeah, but—”

“do you?” you ask.

direct hit.

his throat goes dry. his brain is a glitching screen trying to process three different panic levels at once. “yeah,” he stammers, “i do.” the words feel wrong, like he’s admitting to stealing something, even though it’s exactly what he’s wanted to admit forever.

you smile softly. “i like you too.” you say. calm. the kind of calm that makes him want to lean into it, but also makes him panic because what if it’s a trick?

“what?” he blurts, flailing inside his head as his fingers twitch uselessly at his sides. “like… like you like me?”

“yeah.”

suddenly, he’s aware of every detail, your hair, the way your eyes are too steady for him not to panic more, the fact that you’re so close. he can’t help it. he leans forward, testing the air between you. you don’t pull back. his stomach tightens again, and suddenly the fraction becomes all-in. he tips his head awkwardly, unsure, overthinking every millimeter of the movement, and then your lips are there first.

he freezes. he freezes because you’re kissing him. and you’re kissing him. and holy shit, this is actually happening. his hands hover uselessly for a second before landing on your hips. the pause doesn’t last. it can’t. he’s never realized how much he’s wanted this until the second your lips move against his, until he tastes you, until he can’t tell if he’s breathing or just existing to keep the moment alive. and then he’s kissing you back. hard. messy. urgent. desperate. he can’t stop. his hands slide up to your waist, then your back, tugging you closer, pressing you into him.

you stumble back, feet hitting his bed, and he doesn’t even notice the movement; he’s too busy chasing, too busy pressing, too busy. his hands are everywhere he can reach, mapping, holding, desperate not to lose contact. “mike—” you try, breathless, pushing at his shoulders gently, but it’s useless. he’s caught in a loop.

he realizes suddenly that he didn’t know how much he wanted this—wanted you—until he tasted it. until his lips traced yours, until your hands tried to push him back and he felt that it was impossible. impossible to stop. impossible to slow. his lips leave yours, trailing down your jaw, your neck, nipping lightly. the sharp intake of your breath feels like a spark in his chest, igniting every nerve ending, and suddenly he’s kissing you like he’s never going to stop.

he doesn’t even register the bed under him at first. like, the fact that there’s fabric and mattress and gravity and all that boring physics crap is irrelevant when your lips are there. he leans in again, tentative at first, like maybe he’s allowed one more try before disaster strikes, but the second your teeth catch the corner of his lower lip he’s all in. okay, don’t panic, just breathe, except, wait, is breathing even necessary? probably not. probably irrelevant. probably irrelevant to everything right now.

he hovers above you, chest brushing yours, and he notices how your hair is tangled across his pillow. how is that fair? his hands slide over your ribs lightly at first, just testing, then he realizes his fingers are gripping too hard. you gasp a little when his lips brush a particular spot on your throat, the sound barely leaves your throat but it hits him. oh. that’s good.

you push at him lightly, trying to create space. “mike—mike… i need to—hah!—breathe!”

okay, fine. air is important. necessary. but—oh wow, your neck. neck is… also necessary. he moves down, lips ghosting along your jaw, tasting, teasing, nipping just enough to elicit another tiny, gasping sound that he mentally bookmarks for future reference. he can’t stop. the memory of those basement sleepovers floods in, late nights, darkness, stolen glimpses of your lips and profile, the tantalizing hint of softness just out of reach. and suddenly, all that anticipation explodes into this moment, right here, right now, in ways he couldn’t have predicted. your hand reaches out, brushing against his shoulder, trying—he thinks?—to anchor him.

he pauses, just long enough to notice how your hand is still resting on his shoulder, and it makes him want to fold himself into you, shrink the distance, melt into the heat of your presence instead of hovering over you like some idiot. he swallows, eyes flicking to your lips, to your flushed cheeks, to the way your hair falls across your forehead, catching the light in a way that makes his chest tighten. “you’re… really…” he starts, caught somewhere between awe and disbelief, and he shakes his head like that’ll fix it, like words can fix how dizzy he feels.

your eyes are wide, fixed on him, and suddenly he notices how different you look now, soft, flustered. the thought that he just got that passionate about kissing you—that close—makes him tense, because wow, that was fast, too fast, too much, and yet not enough. he wants to touch you everywhere, but he freezes just long enough to realize you’re staring at him like he’s someone new, someone unlocked, and it terrifies him how much he likes that.

he realizes that he doesn’t want to stop—not now, not ever. the moment is thick with everything he’s never said, every anticipation, every tiny look, every time he nearly touched you in the past and didn’t. it’s all here, and he’s hovering, and the world outside the room doesn’t exist, and he’s not sure he’d want it to.

this is based off two requests i got … protective mike u are real to me

STARTED 12.21.2025. POSTED 12.24.2025.

  ⸝⸝  masterlist  .ᐟ  𝜗𝜚

©️ latedeparture

People speculated about the Spiderling all the time. That didn’t mean anything. It definitely didn’t mean—

“Okay, but which ER?” Princess pressed, practically vibrating now, her sneakers squeaking faintly against the tile as she shifted her weight. “Because it could be anywhere. There are like, so many hospitals in Pennsylvania.” 

Robby snorted from somewhere out in the hallway. “Not with that technique.” 

There was a beat. You could practically hear everyone turn to look at him. 

“Oh, here we go,” Perlah muttered, but there was excitement there too, the kind that meant she was already mentally rearranging her entire argument to win. “Go on, Dr. Robby. Enlighten us.” 

Robby leaned against the nurses’ station (you could picture it perfectly without even seeing him, arms crossing, that unimpressed little half-smirk he wore like it was glued to his beard). “You don’t get that fast, that precise, without repetition. High volume, high acuity. That narrows it down real quick.”  

Dana hummed thoughtfully, already halfway to convinced. “Emergency department. Trauma center.” 

“Busy trauma center,” Robby corrected. 

Perlah’s eyes probably went wide (you didn’t need to see her to know). “Oh my gosh.” 

Princess slapped the counter, triumphant. “The Pitt.” 

You dropped the gauze. 

It hit the floor with a traitorous thump that echoed far louder than it had any right to. 

Silence snapped into place like a switch had been flipped. 

“. . . Hello?” Dana called. 

You stared at the box like it had personally betrayed you. Which, frankly, it had. You could feel your brain scrambling for an exit strategy that didn’t exist. 

Think. Think fast. 

You grabbed the gauze, yanked the door open, and pasted on the most neutral expression you could manage, something pleasantly blank, something that screamed I am not currently being hunted by my coworkers’ scarily accurate deductive reasoning. 

“Sorry—uh, butterfingers.” 

Three heads turned toward you immediately. Four, actually; Robby was still leaning against the station, and now he was looking at you with a look you’d dubbed Robby Will Figure Your Shit Out Before You Can Yell “I Need A Doctor.” The one that said he noticed things. Too many things. The kind of look that made you acutely aware of every movement your hands had ever made in your life. 

You smiled. Casually. Normally. Definitely like a person who did not swing between buildings in a red and blue spandex suit and absolutely had not set that exact same type of fracture three nights ago while upside down. 

“What are we talking about?” you asked, because you were, at your core, someone who made very bad decisions under pressure. 

You and your boyfriend were slowly working on that. 

It wasn’t going great. 

Blissfully unaware of your inner turmoil, Princess lit up instantly. “The Spiderling!” 

Of course she did. 

You made a noncommittal noise, setting the gauze down like your hands weren’t suddenly hyper-aware of themselves. 

Please don’t stick. Please don’t stick. Please don’t stick. 

The box set down nicely. 

Score. 

“Oh, yeah?” You raised an eyebrow. “What about them?” 

Perlah leaned forward, eyes gleaming with kind of intensity usually reserved for medical mysteries and reality TV finales. “We’re placing bets.” 

“No,” Robby said instantly. 

“Yes,” Princess said at the exact same time, already pulling out her phone like she’d been waiting her whole life for this exact moment. “We absolutely are.” 

Robby dragged a hand down his face. “This is a terrible idea.” 

“That has never stopped us before,” Perlah shot back without missing a beat. “Come on; it’s harmless. We’re just guessing where they work.” 

Your heart did a very cool, very subtle backflip directly into your stomach. 

You laughed. Because that’s what a normal person would do. “That’s . . . kind of a stretch, isn’t it? Assuming they even work in healthcare.” 

They stared at you. 

Robby raised an eyebrow. “You saw the video, right?” 

“No,” you lied instinctively. 

Princess gasped like you’d just admitted to not believe in gravity. “You haven’t? Hold on—there’s also the subway one, and the alleyway one, and—” 

“No, no, it’s fine,” you cut in quickly, hands waving in surrender. “I’ll . . . look it up later.” 

Preferably never. Preferably after you moved states. 

Or planets. 

Perlah wasn’t deterred. “Okay, but the subway one, tell me a random person knows how to check for pneumothorax like that. They didn’t even hesitate. They listened, counted, adjusted positioning—” 

Dana nodded. “And the alleyway clip? They improvised a tourniquet out of, like, a backpack strap and secured it correctly. No distal pulse loss.” 

“Not too tight, not too loose,” Robby added. “That’s training.” 

Princess clasped her hands together. “Also, they talk people through it. Did you notice that? Like, they’re always explaining what they’re doing. That’s bedside manner.” 

You were about five seconds away from passing out. You took a slow step backward. Then another. If you could just quietly exit— 

“Pokey,” Robby said, not even looking at you. “You in?” 

You froze.

This was it. This was the moment you either played along or looked incredibly suspicious and maybe got tackled in the hallway out of sheer curiosity. 

You turned back, forcing a shrug that felt like it belonged to someone else. “Uh, sure. Why not.” 

Great. Fantastic. Love that for you. 

Dana glanced up. “All right. You can go after we get a few on the board.” She was already typing something into her notes app. “Ground rules. Ten dollar buy-in minimum; you can go higher if you’re confident. Specialty and location. Closest guess takes the pot.” 

Perlah didn’t even hesitate to spit hers out. “ER nurse. Not here. Somewhere smaller. Faster hands, less bureaucracy so they can dip and not get noticed. Fifty bucks.” 

Princess bounced on her heels. “Paramedic. No question. You don’t move like that unless you’re used to chaos. Twenty.” 

Dana tapped her phone, thumbs already flying. “Er tech. Big hospital. I’m saying downtown. Fifty.” 

Robby exhaled slowly, hands running down his face like he was regretting every life choice that led him into this room. “. . . Trauma resident. Rotating. That’s why the technique’s good but not perfect.” 

You choked. 

Not perfect.

Dana tilted her head, amused beyond measure. “You’re critiquing Pittsburg’s greatest?” 

“I’m critiquing their splinting angle,” Robby said flatly. “It was off by, like, five degrees.” 

Princes stared at him like he’d just personally offended her. “You are insane.” 

“Probably,” he agreed. 

More footsteps approached, voices bleeding into the conversation like the betting had sent out some kind of psychic distress signal to the entire department. Dennis, Trinity, Victoria, Frank, Mel, even Donnie because of course this was becoming a group project. 

“What’s going on?” Dennis asked, hand gripping a coffee you knew tasted like sad regret. 

“Betting pool,” Perlah answered. “Spiderling’s specialty and location if they work in healthcare.”   

You considered faking your own death again, briefly and sincerely. 

Trinity perked up, eyes lighting with interest. “Oh, I’m definitely in. Surgical intern. They’ve got that precision. Thirty.” 

Victoria shook her head, arms folding as she leaned back. “You’re all overthinking it. Firefighter. Cross-trained. Twenty.” 

Frank snorted loudly. “Firefighter? Please. That kid’s too agile. Gymnast background. Probably does volunteer EMS on the side. Hundred.” 

Your eye twitched, brain deciding to play all those years of junior gymnastics that never went anywhere much to your aunt’s chagrin that you didn’t turn into an Olympic medalist. 

Mel lifted her head, thoughtful, like she was genuinely mapping it all out. “What if they’re not licensed yet. Like, pre-med or something. Obsessed with medicine, lots of theory, less formal training. Thirty for me too.” 

Donnie pointed at her. “That actually makes sense.” 

No it didn’t. Stop that. Shut that down. I didn’t go through med school to be called not licensed.

Dana was typing furiously now, building what was rapidly become a very real, very incriminating list. “Alright, locations?” 

Places started flying. Midtown, the ER on Fourth Street—someone said the police academy on the other side of the state and were immediately rewarded with eyerolls and spews of they have super strength not super speed, which only made them double down out of spite. Someone else tried to argue that they didn’t even work in a hospital. Princess tried to suggest a bonus category for “best bedside manner.” Perlah insisted she deserved extra credit if she got both role and hospital right. 

You stood there, smiling weakly, nodding at appropriate intervals, feeling like you were watching your own trial unfold in real time while also being one bad answer away from conviction. 

“Okay enough,” Dana said finally, looking up from her phone, “we need at least one person to say the Pitt, or this whole thing lacks spice.” 

Robby groaned loudly. “Do not—” 

“I’ll say it,” Dennis cut in, grinning like he’d been waiting for the chaos. “Why not? ER nurse, the Pitt. Twenty bucks.” 

Perlah cackled. “Delusional.” 

“Statistically unlikely,” Dana agreed, though she still wrote it down right after. 

Princess leaned in. “Honestly though, imagine like they just clock in after saving the city.” 

“Late every shift,” Frank added. 

“Charting would be a nightmare,” Mel said. 

“Reason for delay: web-slinging,” Trinity contributed. 

You laughed. You couldn’t help it, the noise bursting out of you, a little too loud, a little too real, because the image was horrifyingly accurate. They didn’t call you Pokey for being prompt first thing in the mornings. 

Robby’s eyes drifted to you again. 

You sucked the rest of the laughter down. 

Dana looked up. “Last call, Pokey.” 

Every head turned back to you. Your brain short-circuited so hard you were pretty sure there was smoke pouring out of your ears.

Think. Think smart. 

You couldn’t agree with Dennis; that would be insane. You couldn’t get too close to anything remotely accurate. You couldn’t—

“Uh,” you spit out eloquently, forcing the most awkward chuckle, hand rubbing the back of your neck like this was casual, like this was easy. “Okay, yeah, no, definitely no the Pitt. That’s—that’s a lot.” 

Good. Distance yourself. Be normal. Be forgettable. 

Dana nodded. “So, what’s your bet?” 

You scrambled, grabbing the first safe, vague option your brain could strategically assemble. “Um, volunteer. Like, community first responder. Not hospital affiliated. Thirty bucks.” 

There. Safe. Harmless. Untraceable. 

Robby watched you for half a second longer than you liked. 

And against every odd stacked against your double life, Dana wrote it down without a second thought. 

“Okay,” she said, locking her phone with finality. “Bet’s set. We’ll revisit when we inevitably get more evidence.” 

Princess clapped her hands together, absolutely delighted. “This is the best day of my life.” 

Perlah was already pulling up another video. “Wait, wait, you guys haven’t seen the rooftop one—” 

“Play it,” Dennis said. 

You smiled. 

Weakly. 

Because as the video started—grainy footage, a familiar red-and-blue figure dropping into frame with practiced ease (the recorders getting better at tracking your every move with new 4k video equipment), your own voice faintly audible through the mask as you reassured someone you’d got them, you’re okay, stay with me—the entire room leaned in like this was the greatest show on earth.

And you stood there in the middle of it, hands shoved in your scrub pockets, nodding along like you were just another fan. 

All while your coworkers unknowingly built your secret identity against you in real time.

_______________________

By the time the night shift handoff rolled around, the bet had settled into the background like a low-grade fever: present, irritating, and just noticeable enough that you couldn’t fully ignore it. It made itself present in everything.

In charting where Dana had muttered something about “if the Spiderling is an ER tech, their documentation is probably atrocious,” which had nearly made you laugh out loud because . . . well . . . she wasn’t wrong. In triage where Princess had tried (and failed) to casually bring up “hypothetical emergency scenarios” that sounded suspiciously like your three last patrols. In a lull through the afternoon when Perlah had rewatched another video and paused it mid-frame to point out your hand positioning like she was analyzing game footage. 

You had nodded along. 

You had contributed just enough. 

You had not, at any point, screamed. 

Which you still felt deserved recognition. 

Now, though, you were tired. The kind of tired that made your bones feel hollow and your reactions just a fraction too short. The ER buzzed with that particular end-of-shift energy where voices overlapped, monitors chimed, stretchers rolled past, and the hum of movement that never really stopped. 

You hovered near the nurses’ station, arms loosely crossed, pretending to be deeply invested in absolutely nothing. 

“Okay, but I’m just saying,” Perlah was in the middle of arguing, because of course she was, “the way they stabilized that C-spine? That was textbook. Textbook.”

“It was slightly off-center,” Robby commented, flipping through a chart without looking up. 

Princess made an outraged noise. “You are obsessed with being wrong.” 

“I’m obsessed with being correct,” he replied calmly. 

Dana sighed. “Why are we still on this?” 

“Because,” Perlah said like it was obvious, “we’re right.” 

“You’re not.” 

“We are.” 

“You’re not.” 

You considered simply dissolving into the floor. 

Footsteps approached from the hallway, different rhythm, different energy. 

The night shift. 

Relief flickered at the thought of new people, new conversation, new—

“Hey,” Robby greeted, finally glancing up through his round glasses. “Perfect timing.”

Relief died instantly. 

You followed his gaze. 

Jack. 

The night shift attending walked in like this was his natural habitat—awake where everyone else was fading, loose where everyone else was tense, like the night shift flipped some internal switch and suddenly he was running at full battery despite having half the legs of a normal man. His eyes swept the room once, quick and assessing, until they landed on you. 

The hazel softened just for a second. 

You looked away immediately because you had survival instincts. Blubbering in front of your normal day shift humans was fine, but having your brain stall in real time in front of the sexy silver fox of the ER was another. 

Not that you’d ever call him that to his face. 

“Brother,” Robby said, straightening slightly, that easy familiarity settling into his tone. “You ever see those Spiderling videos everyone’s losing their minds over?” 

Jack didn’t even attempt at a contemplative pause. “Which ones?” 

That sexy asshole. 

“The ones where they’re basically doing field medicine,” Princess jumped in, already halfway to pulling her phone out again like this was her personal TED talk. “We’re traying to figure out if they work in healthcare, but now that I said field medicine out loud, maybe they’re on your SWAT team.” 

Jack set his stuff down, movements unhurried. “Oh, yeah?” 

You felt it: the shift. 

The moment your life took a turn for the worse for the second time that day. 

“Yeah,” Robby said. “There’s a bet.” 

Jack’s mouth curved slightly. “A bet.” 

Dana held up her phone. “Everyone threw in guesses. Role, location. Closest wins.” 

He glanced at the device briefly, scanning the other answers as best he could without those glasses he kept on his nightstand. You watched his eyebrows move then lift at the end, at your bet. Your stomach dropped. 

“Anyone say the Pitt?” he asked. 

Dennis snorted, finger pointing at his chest. “Yeah, one idiot.” 

Jack hummed like he was considering adding his own, like he hadn’t already decided to make this everyone’s problem. 

“I’ll put a thousand in.” 

Silence hit hard, like the air itself had stalled along with your cerebral cortex. 

“A thousand?” Trinity repeated, blinking like maybe she’d misheard. 

Dennis barked a laugh. “Okay, sure. Why not make it your entire paycheck while you’re at it?” 

Robby scoffed. “Don’t tempt him.” 

Perlah leaned in, delighted in a way that should have been illegal. “You’re insane.” 

Jack shrugged, completely unfazed. “I’ve been called worse.” 

Dana narrowed her eyes. “You’re serious?” 

“Very.” 

“You don’t even work days,” Frank pointed out. “How would you know anything?” 

Jack leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, settling in like he was about to deliver a lecture no one asked for but everyone was going to listen to anyway. 

“Because,” he said easily, “they drop people off during my shift.” 

There was a beat. 

“Yeah, we know that,” Mel said, frowning slightly. “They’ve brought patients in before.” 

“Once,” Dennis added. 

“Twice,” Princess corrected, holding up two fingers like a witness on the stand. 

Jack tilted his head, just a little, like he was humoring them all while he was actively killing you. So much for the hypocritic oath. 

“More than that,” he said. 

The room still in that specific, collective way where everyone realizes they might have underestimated something. 

“Oh?” Robby said, his interest sharpening immediately, like someone had just handed this old man a puzzle. 

Jack’s gaze landed on you, brief, deliberate, devastating. 

You suddenly found the countertop fascinating. Riveting. Incredible craftsmanship. 

“How many times, Abbot,” Perlah demanded. 

Jack considered that like he was flipping through a mental highlight. “A lot,” he finally said. 

“That’s not a number,” Dana snapped. 

He smiled, completely unhelpful. “It’s an accurate descriptor.” 

Princess leaned forward. “Like—weekly? Monthly? Be specific.” 

Jack pretended once again to think about it, which you knew was all an act. Like, at this point give him an Emmy for being a guest star who makes all the female (and male) viewers go feral for a man who’s hair reminded you of perfectly fluffy clouds. 

“Let’s just say,” he went on, tone light, “if you think you’ve only see them a couple times, you’re not paying attention.” 

Princess’s jaw dropped. “No way.” 

“Way.” 

Dennis’s blue eyes peered at him. “You’re messing with us.” 

Jack raised a brow. “Why would I lie about this?” 

Because you’re having fun, you thought. Because even through the sexy smolders, you’re absolutely the worst, Jack Abbot. 

“Okay, but—what—what do you mean drop off?” Trinity pressed. “Like, do they just, swing in and—” 

“Not swing,” Jack said, and there was something almost fond in the correction, like he was resisting the urge to be too specific. “They’re actually pretty careful about dramatic entrances through the ambulance bay.” 

You stopped breathing. 

Robby leaned forward slightly. “You’ve talked to them.” 

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Depends on what you count as talking.” 

“Oh my gosh,” Princess whispered like she’d just been handed classified information. 

“You cannot say that and not elaborate,” Perlah snapped. 

Jack looked positively thrilled. “I absolutely can.” 

A chorus or protests erupted immediately. 

“That’s not fair—” 

“You’re withholding evidence—” 

“That should be illegal—” 

“You’re ethically obligated—” 

Jack let it all roll over him, completely at ease, like this was exactly the rection he’d been aiming for all along. Which, knowing him, it absolutely was. He continued to just listen while you stood there, silently contemplating every life choice up until this moment, including the one where you decided to share your secret identity. 

And also date him. 

“Night shift gets the fun stuff,” Jack added, almost as an afterthought like he wasn’t actively pouring gasoline on an already raging bonfire. “Less people around. Faster handoffs.” 

“Handoffs,” Dana repeated slowly. 

“Mm.” 

“You’re saying,” she continued very carefully, “that this person consistently brings patients here. During your shift.” 

Jack nodded once. “Pretty consistently.” 

“How consistently?” Robby piped up. 

Jack glanced at you again. 

You stared at a monitor like you were about to diagnose it personally. On its last leg. Pull the plug immediately.

“Enough that I’d recognize their work,” Jack answered. 

Your soul packed its bags and left. 

“That’s—no,” Victoria said, shaking her head, but there was a crack in it now, a hairline fracture in her certainty. “We would’ve noticed.” 

Jack shrugged. “Would you?” 

Multiple rounds of yes flew through the air, though they all held varying levels of confidence. Jack’s smile widened, just enough to be dangerous. 

“You think someone could be doing that,” he gestured vaguely, “and then just . . . blend in here? No one clocking it?” 

“Yes?” Dannis aid, but it came out more like a question. 

“You’d be surprised by how much people miss,” he said. 

The floor suddenly looked like it was a great place to lie down and take a nap. Or die. One of the two. 

Dana was already typing again, aggressively now, like she was personally offended by how much new data she had to log. “All right. Adding Dr. Abbot—one thousand dollars, ER staff, the Pitt—” 

“Day shift,” Jack added. 

She paused. “You’re doubling down on that.” 

“Absolutely.”

Laughter broke out again, louder, messier. 

“Day shift?” Trinity scoffed. “They’d be dead on their feet.” 

Jack scoffed softly. “They are,” he said under his breath. 

You snapped your head toward him so fast it probably counted as whiplash. He was already looking at you with that same, soft knowing look that was normally buried under layers of smug satisfaction. You were absolutely going to have words about that later. 

Your face burned. 

“Pokey?” 

You fought the urge to sneer, nostril curled up with a fake smile. But you swallowed it all down and replaced it with a softer look and a tight smile. 

“Dr. Abbot.” 

He smiled.

He actually fucking dared to smile. 

“Long day?” 

“You wouldn’t even know.” 

Jack hummed like that was very funny to him. 

You, on the other hand, were going to walk straight into traffic. Calmly. Purposefully.

Dana locked her phone with a decisive click. “Bet is updated. We'll bring it back up when we get more evidence.” 

“Oh, we’re getting more evidence,” Princess said, already opening another video like she was gearing up for a full presentation. “Especially now.” 

“Yeah,” Perlah added, eyes sparkling with chaotic intent. “Night shift’s apparently got inside access.” 

All eyes went back to Jack, who had the audacity to look completely unbothered, smug, relaxed like a man who knew exactly how this was going to end and was enjoying the ride. 

“We are the night crawlers after all,” he said, teeth flashing with a smirk when a round of HOO-HA’s sounded through the lobby. 

You, meanwhile, stood there in the middle of it all, smiling like a normal, involved person, nodding at the appropriate moments, doing a fantastic job of pretending your life wasn’t actively unraveling—

Because not only were your coworkers getting dangerously close to the truth, but because your boyfriend was actively making it worse. 

On purpose. 

For fun. 

And judging by the look he shot you one last time before turning away, he wasn’t even close to being done. 

Oh, yeah. The leg was definitely getting hidden when he got back. 

🕷️ AN: Thanks for taking the time to read this! Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! Please let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list!

JINU

It started like a joke. Like the dumb kind of thing you whisper to yourself when you’re three drinks deep after a long night of demon slaying, bruised, blood-splattered, and sore in all the wrong places, “Wouldn’t it be so stupid if I let that cocky little shit Jinu kiss me?”

Except you did. And you let him do a lot more than that.

You know damn well this is wrong.

You’re supposed to hate the Saja Boys.

But then there’s Jinu.

Oh, Jinu.

You know better. You do. But you also know how he kissed you the first time, like he was starving for it, like he’d been thinking about it for weeks, that you’ve been driving him crazy.

Every time you sneak off, telling Mira you’ve got to “clear your head”, lying to Zoey about meeting friends, making up some bullshit mission Rumi would definitely sniff out if she wasn’t so busy being ten times the badass you pretend to be, you end up in Jinu’s room. Usually on his lap. Sometimes against a wall. Once in the backseat of a staff car, which, honestly, was way too cramped for the kind of shit he wanted to try. (But did you complain? No. You just bit his shoulder to muffle the sounds.)

You keep saying it’ll be the last time. Every single time, you tell yourself:

This is it. I’m cutting it off. I shouldn’t be doing this. He’s a demon. I’ll kill him when we’re done.

And every single time, you end up under him again, hips rolling, nails dragging down his back while he whispers filth.

You shouldn’t be doing this. Every second with him is a risk. If Zoey finds out? She’ll be furious. If Rumi finds out? You’re dead. If Mira finds out? You might wish you were.

But fuck… it feels good to be wanted like that.

So no. You’re not telling the girls. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Because that boy is a demon, still.

You can see it in the yellow flickers in his eyes when too much happens to his body. The way his voice changes when he’s angry, the shadow under his skin when his temper spikes, like there’s something inside him, snarling.

Because there is. Gwi-Ma.

You hate that freak. You really, truly do.

He’s not always loud, but when he is, you feel so bad for Jinu.

Sometimes, you’ll catch Jinu zoning out—just for a second—and when he blinks back into himself, there’s this… weight. A bitter taste in the air. You know it’s Gwi-Ma.

You’ll be tangled in Jinu’s sheets, your mouth on his throat, your nails digging into his ribs while he gasps, and then suddenly he’ll choke out a laugh. You’ll ask, “What?” thinking you did something good, and he’ll groan, cover his face and mutter, “Ignore him.”

Like??? Fuck off, Gwi-Ma. (He also once called you “delicious,” which Jinu immediately apologized for by dropping to his knees and staying there for a long time. It helped.)

There was also that one time you were straddling Jinu on the couch in his dressing room, and he went real still, eyes distant, and then just groaned, “Shut the fuck up.” into your neck.

But here’s the thing. Gwi-Ma’s always there—always. Jinu can’t shake him, can’t silence him, not completely. And yet… you don’t feel the urge to pull a blade on him. Not like you would with anything else that dark and dangerous.

You should. You know that. Every instinct in your hunter-trained, scar-hardened body should scream put it down before it turns on you.

But you don’t.

Because the truth is? The demon’s a parasite. But Jinu? Jinu’s not the demon. He’s the boy fighting it. Every single day. You see it when his eyes flash for just a second and he has to swallow it down. You see it in the way he looks at you, like he’s scared you’ll see it, too. The rot inside. The crack in the mirror.

But you already do.

And you love him anyway.

No, wait, you didn’t mean to say that. Not even in your own head. But it’s out here now.

You love him.

He hasn’t said it. Not out loud. But you know. You know by the way he touches you when he thinks you’re asleep. Soft fingertips, trailing your spine, memorizing the shape of you. You know by how he always lets you go first when you argue, even if he hates it. By the way he flinches when you joke about your death like it’s just another occupational hazard.

And sometimes? When you least expect it, he says shit that almost counts.

Like, “I’d burn the world down if anything happened to you.”

Or, “I like who I am when I’m around you. I don’t hear him as much when you’re close.”

And maybe that’s what really fucks you up.

You thought you were just in it for the heat. For the adrenaline. For the sex and the secrecy and the thrill of knowing you were doing something very bad with someone very pretty.

But now? You’re in deeper.

Worse, so is he.

You’re full on dating. Dating dating.

You should be enemies.

Instead, you’re in his bed.

Heart beating fast.

Shirt already half-off.

And he’s looking at you like you’re the last light he can still see in the dark.

You don’t trust this.

You don’t trust yourself.

But when he kisses you, slow and scared and wanting, the demon in him quiet for just a second?

You let him have you.

Again.

And again.

And again.

You also like the tiger. Or cat. Or tiger-cat. Whatever. You still don’t even know what to call it.

You remember the first time you saw it, you thought it was some kind of hellbeast and went for your blade, and Jinu was like, “Waitwaitwait, he’s chill.”

And now? You’ll be at Jinu’s place, half-naked, trying to sneak in a post-mission quickie, and suddenly there’s a 600-pound animal flopping on your legs like it’s a house cat.

Like, sir. Please.

Your vibe is adorable but your mass is inconvenient.

It loves to curl around the both of you like some kind of living, purring barrier. It’d be cozy if it didn’t also come with the crushing weight of “You move, you die.”

And then there’s the bird that hates everyone. Except Jinu. And sometimes, very begrudgingly, you. But only if you bring food. Or if you’re crying, which you hate that he knows. The bird is weirdly intelligent like that.

Sometimes he lands on your shoulder and just sits there while you and Jinu are talking. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t squawk. Just watches. It’s unsettling, but Jinu swears it’s a sign of affection. (You’re not totally convinced it’s not reconnaissance.)

Then, you got caught, babe.

Now, you’re wearing a little shirt that barely reaches your navel and a little black thong. You’re barefoot on your balcony, one hand resting on the railing, the other clutching a soda you don’t even really want. Your legs are sore, your back hurts, your lip’s still split from earlier, and the last thing you need is—

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You jolt. Turn.

“What the fuck, Jinu?” you hiss, slamming your soda down and rushing to him. “What are you—how did you even get up here?!”

He’s grinning. Soft, smug, absolutely useless in his very kissable way.

“Teleported.” he says. “Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”

“Jinu. They’re home.”

“And?”

He says it so easy. So breezy. Like your heart isn’t trying to hammer through your ribs. You grab him by the arm and drag him fully onto the balcony, pressing him into the wall so he’s out of sight from the windows. Your face is close to his now, too close.

His eyes flick down your body, lazy but appreciative. “You’re not exactly dressed for company.”

You slap his chest. “Don’t make me push you off this building.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to die.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move away. Your hand’s still on his chest, and he’s warm under your palm. Steady. Calm. Like nothing can touch him, not even the hurricane that’s about to slam into your life when this secret finally gets out.

“You’re insane for coming here.” you murmur, quieter now. “What if they see you?”

“I missed you.”

That’s it. No drama. No poetic nonsense. Just those three words, spoken so plainly you feel the ground shift under you.

You swallow. Your throat’s dry. Your hand drifts up, fingers brushing the curve of his jaw. “You couldn’t just text? Send a letter with your cat?”

“I needed to see you.”

He leans in, just a little, and you follow because of course you do. His lips brush yours once, just a ghost of a kiss, and it’s enough to turn your knees to—

Gasp.

You freeze.

The sound comes from inside the room.

Both of you turn your heads just in time to see the door swing open, Zoey standing there, eyes wide, mouth fully agape.

“…oh my god.” she breathes.

Then the door slams shut again.

“Oh my god.” you echo, gripping the balcony railing like it’s going to save your soul. “Oh my god. Jinu. She saw you. She saw us.”

“She didn’t knock.” Jinu says, baffled.

“WHY WOULD SHE KNOCK? IT’S MY ROOM.”

You whirl on him, panic spiking like adrenaline in your veins. Your whole face is on fire. Your body’s moving already, ushering him toward the edge of the balcony, trying to think, to fix, to stop the bleeding of this moment from leaking into the rest of your life.

“She’s going to tell Rumi. Mira. Bobby. She’s going to tell everyone. Oh my god.”

“Okay.” Jinu says, still infuriatingly relaxed. “And?”

“And?!”

He’s smiling again, like this is funny, like you’re just being dramatic. He has no idea how bad this is. You shove him toward the railing with a hand to the back of his head, not hard, just enough to make him stumble.

“Go.” you hiss. “Go, now. I’ll fix it.”

“You’re gonna ‘fix’ getting caught half naked with me on your balcony?” he laughs, holding the ledge like he’s deciding whether to leap or wait for you to calm down.

You swat the back of his head again.

He laughs harder.

And somehow… somehow, that helps.

Because he’s not scared. He’s not shaking like you are, imagining Rumi’s furious stare or Mira’s disappointment or Zoey’s lethal level gossip abilities. He’s just… there. Present. Unbothered.

You exhale hard. Press your forehead to his chest for just a second. He lets you. His hands come up, hold your waist gently, swaying with you.

“Go.” you whisper again. “Please.”

He nods. Serious now. The playfulness fades, just a little. He cups your cheek, presses one last kiss to your lips, then steps back over the balcony’s edge.

And disappears.

You’re left standing there. Heart racing. Lips tingling. Whole body humming like you’ve been plugged into an outlet.

Inside, you hear footsteps.

Voices.

Loud ones.

Zoey’s already telling them.

“Shit.” you breathe, dragging a hand through your hair. “Shit shit shit.”

But even with the panic creeping up again, you can’t stop the small, ridiculous smile that curls onto your face.

Because that dumb, beautiful demon boy came here just to see you.

You don’t even bother throwing on shorts. Just storm out of your room in the tiny shirt and thong you were already wearing, not because you’re trying to prove a point, but because fuck it, the point already proved itself.

You race down the hallway, barefoot, still breathless from the sheer velocity of your panic. The walls feel like they’re closing in with every step. And as you reach the living room, it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Zoey’s perched on the arm of the couch. Her popcorn is real. You knew she’d have popcorn.

Mira’s sitting, arms crossed over her chest, legs crossed. Her expression isn’t angry. Not yet. Worse, it’s disappointed.

Rumi’s standing. Her arms are crossed too, and her face is blank in that terrifying way that says: I haven’t decided whether to scream or murder someone.

You stop cold in the doorway.

“…hi.”

No one answers.

You laugh. Short. Nervous. “Okay. So. Surprise?”

Zoey makes a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a cackle. “Surprise? GIRL.”

Rumi’s voice cuts through, quiet and sharp. “Sit down.”

You glance around. “I’m, uh, I’m not really dressed for a—”

“SIT.”

You sit.

“Zoey saw Jinu.” Mira says, voice like ice water down your back. “On your balcony. With you. And not in a friendly way.”

“Wasn’t a kiss on the cheek, hun.” Zoey adds, tossing popcorn in her mouth.

“Zoey.” Rumi scolds gently.

Zoey zips it. Barely. She’s vibrating with drama high. Her foot’s tapping. She’s dying to see how this plays out.

Mira leans forward. “How long.”

You blink. “What?”

Mira’s eyes are lasers. “How. Long. Has this been going on.”

You swallow. “…A while.”

“A while?” Rumi explodes, stepping forward. “Define ‘a while,’ because ‘a while’ sounds like weeks, and if this has been going on while we were out risking our asses, while we were fighting off demons and you were texting your little boyfriend under the table, I need to know that before I go to prison for launching a sword through the next Saja concert.”

You flinch. “Okay, whoa, let’s not—”

“WAS HE AT THE CEMETERY FIGHT?” Zoey blurts, her eyes wide. “Because you said you were on break that day and he was also conveniently there! Oh my god—were you hooking up behind the mausoleum while I was getting bit by that demon?”

“That was one time.” you snap.

“You just admitted it!” Zoey screams, victorious.

“Okay, enough.” Rumi says, holding up a hand. She turns back to you. “Is it serious?”

And you freeze.

Because there’s the real question.

They’re not just mad about the secret. They’re mad because they know what this means. You don’t sneak around for fun. You lie to protect. So if you were protecting him…

Then you weren’t protecting them.

“I care about him.” you say softly. “It wasn’t just sex. It isn’t. He’s not—”

“He’s a demon.” Mira says, flat. Cold. “End of sentence.”

“He’s not—” you start, then stop. Because okay. Yes. He is. But not the way they mean. “There’s something inside him, yes. Gwi-Ma. But Jinu’s fighting it. Every day. He’s—he’s not evil. He’s not one of the monsters we hunt.”

“And what if he loses that fight?” Rumi asks, quiet again. “What if the thing inside him gets stronger? What if you become the liability?”

Your throat closes. Because that’s the worst part, you’ve already thought about all of that. And it still wasn’t enough to stop you.

“I know what I’m doing.” you whisper. “I know.”

“Do you?” Rumi growls. “Because it looks like you’re playing house with a demon.”

“Rumi, stop—”

“No. You lied to us.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You chose him.”

Yeah. You did. Over and over again. Every night you crept out, every time you let him touch you, every second you looked at his face and thought, maybe this could last, you were choosing him.

Even if it meant eventually losing them.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.” you say, finally.

“Too late.” Mira mutters.

“Wait.” Zoey says. “Did you say Gwi-Ma? Like the actual Gwi-Ma?”

“Yeah.” you sigh, rubbing your eyes. “Lives in his head. Won’t shut up. Kind of an asshole.”

Everyone’s silent again.

And then, Zoey: “…Does he also do the tongue thing when he kisses you? Like he looks like he does the tongue thing.”

You close your eyes. “Zoey.”

Rumi sighs. Mira pinches the bridge of her nose. And slowly, slowly, the tension in the room starts to loosen. Not dissolve. Not disappear. But… loosen. There’s still tension in the air. Still betrayal.

“You know we’re supposed to kill them. Right?” Rumi says, loud and clear so you hear it.

You have heard it. You’ve heard it a hundred times. In debriefs, in Zoey’s snide jokes, in the way Mira files her knives after watching Saja Boys interviews with a dead stare. You’ve said it yourself. Weeks ago.

You knew what they were. You knew they weren’t human. And your girls have been tracking, prepping, moving toward this for weeks.

And meanwhile?

You’ve been sleeping with the mark.

“I know.” you say, barely above a whisper.

“You knew.” Mira corrects, her voice a blade.

“I know.” you repeat, louder now. “And I didn’t—I didn’t plan for this. It wasn’t some operation gone rogue. It wasn’t a trick. It just—”

“You tripped and fell onto his dick, huh?” Zoey says, sharp and bitter.

You shut your eyes. “Zoey, not now.”

“No, I really wanna know.” she goes on. “Did you just accidentally fall in love with a guy who’s literally got a demon whispering murder in his ear while we’ve been training to put his head on a spike? Because that’s wild.”

“What was your plan?” Rumi asks, not looking at you. “What was the endgame here? That we’d kill his bandmates but leave him alone because you like his face?”

“No.” you snap, the sharpness surprising even you. “God, no. You think I don’t know how this looks? You think I haven’t been ripping myself apart every night over this? I know what we’re doing. I know what he is. But you don’t know him. Not like I do.”

“Enlighten us.” Mira says, icily. “Please.”

You blink fast, trying to push the burn out of your eyes. You weren’t gonna cry, you swore you wouldn’t, but the pressure’s building.

Silence.

Rumi closes her eyes like she’s trying not to hit something. Mira sits back. Her face has gone to that scary-silent-assassin look that means her brain is moving three steps ahead of everyone else. Finally, she says: “So when it’s time to take them out… what happens then?”

You stare at her. You hate how cold she sounds. You hate how reasonable it is.

Because that is the question, isn’t it?

What do you do when it’s your sword, and his neck, and no one else to make the call but you?

“I don’t know.” you admit, soft. “I don’t know yet.”

“That’s not good enough.” Rumi says, voice rising. “You’re not just putting yourself at risk. You’re putting us at risk. What if he turns on us mid-mission? What if he uses you to get ahead of us? What if this whole time—”

“He wouldn’t.” you say quickly. “He wouldn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t hurt any of you.”

“You can’t know that.” Mira says.

“I do.”

And you do. Deep down. Where all the fear and doubt and guilt live, even under all of that, you know.

He wouldn’t let them touch you.

And he wouldn’t touch them.

Not unless they tried to kill him.

Which they… will.

Soon.

Zoey stands again and walks across the room, pacing now. “So what, we’re just supposed to ignore this? Let you keep cuddling up with your demon boyfriend while we finish the job?”

“No.” you say. “I get it. I’m not asking you to trust him. I’m not even asking you to like me right now. I just… I just need you to understand. I’m not choosing sides. I’m choosing truth. Jinu’s not a monster. Not yet. And I don’t think he ever will be.”

There’s a pause. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

Then, softly, Mira asks: “But what if you’re wrong?”

You look at her. Look at all of them.

And you don’t have an answer.

ABBY

Look. You’re supposed to kill him. Let’s be very clear about that. The Saja Boys are your target. You’ve watched them on stage, off-stage.

The first time you saw him, shirtless and grinning, was some training clip Rumi pulled up on the mission table, purely for recon (allegedly), and even then, you felt your spine short-circuit.

He looked like a human weapon.

Except he wasn’t human.

And you weren’t supposed to want the weapon.

But, you know. Whoops.

He’s huge (like, throw-you-around-the-room, bench-press-you-during-foreplay huge). Arms like steel, voice like “what’s up, babe?” and a smile so cocky it should be registered as an actual threat.

You hated him at first.

You hated him… until you didn’t.

Until one night after a bad mission, your ribs aching, pride worse, your blood still up and nothing in the world feeling good. And then you saw him. Leaning against a wall, flexing like he didn’t know he was doing it and voice dropping into that stupid low register like, “Hey. You okay?”

Game over.

Brain fried.

Panties? Gone.

And then, somehow, you were... kissing. In a stairwell. Covered in blood. Your blood. His blood. Something's blood. Messy. Wrong. And absolutely addictive.

Now it’s… a thing. A secret thing.

Because Abby? He makes you laugh, first of all. He says dumb shit in bed. He says dumb shit all the time. And he’s so proud of it.

And yeah. He’s a demon. You see it. He doesn’t even hide it.

There’s something in him that pulses dark. Wild. Primal. The heat in his body burns wrong sometimes. The shadows cling to him longer than they should. And there are moments, fleeting but undeniable, where he looks at you like he wants to eat you.

Not in the fun way. (Though, to be clear, he definitely wants that too.)

But in the demonic, soul-thirsty kind of way.

And yet. Somehow. You’re not afraid of it. You should be. You’re trained to be. You’ve put down lesser demons without blinking. You know what he is. But something in you doesn’t flinch.

Because under all of that darkness… you know he likes you.

He really, actually likes you. In his dumbass, show-off way.

The first time he said it, he was inside you—of course he was—panting, all flushed and cocky, and he muttered, “shit, I like you too much.” Then he tried to play it off with a kiss to your neck, followed by something heinous you don’t even remember, too busy feeling all of him.

You laughed. And then whispered, “me too.”

He knows you’re a hunter. He knows who you are, what you do. But he keeps showing up anyway. Still winks. Still pulls you into dark corners and picks you up like you weigh nothing. Still teases you like none of this is real.

He trusts you. And that terrifies you more than anything.

Because when the time comes…

When the blades are drawn…

He’s not going to fight you.

And you don’t know what you’re going to do when that moment comes.

But for now? You let him pin you to the wall and mutter, “what, you gonna slay me, hunter?” against your jaw.

Because the worst part isn’t that you’re supposed to kill him.

It’s that a small, aching part of you knows you won’t.

He does shit like carrying your bag when it’s heavy, but doesn’t make it weird. He just grabs it and then slings it over those stupid big shoulders like it weighs nothing. Flexes a little, maybe, but you let him. You even look on purpose. He likes it.

He memorizes what you order from that little noodle shop you go to after late-night sweeps. The first time he brought it to you unasked, still hot, you didn’t even know what to say. He just handed it over with a lopsided grin and went, “See? I got a brain in here.” and then tapped his temple with the chopsticks he’d stolen from the shop.

He warms his hands before touching your face. Doesn’t even think about it. Just always runs them over his neck or into his sleeves first, and then cups your cheeks.

And then there's how he watches you. Not like prey. Not like the demon in him is looking for an opening. But like... you're the funniest, hottest, most precious thing in his world and he can't believe you're even talking to him, let alone letting him see you naked on the regular.

And oh my god, he tied your shoe once. One time. You’re mid-arguing, mid-huffing about something completely irrelevant, and this man bends down, wraps those huge hands around your ankle, ties your shoe with all the careful attention of someone untangling a bomb, then slaps your thigh and stands up.

You were silent for, like, ten minutes.

You hate how much you like it. Hate it. Hate it.

But not enough to stop.

Not when he’s currently got you pressed up against cold tile, his breath warm against your throat, your thigh hiked high around his hip in the almost empty bathhouse the three of you ducked into after a hunt.

You don’t even know how it happened.

One minute, you were soaking in the women’s bathhouse while Mira and Zoey argued over whose blade got the final hit, and the next, you were in the showers and Abby was there. Shirtless. He must’ve snuck in through the back.

You didn’t even try to stop him. You should’ve.

But he’d walked up to you, dripping from a quick rinse-off, and grinned. “Damn. You clean up nice.”

And that was it. That was the moment your common sense packed her bags and left.

Now? Now you’re sandwiched between Abby and the cold wall of the bathhouse’s back corridor. Your towel’s half off, your thigh’s fully up, and Abby’s mouthing your neck like this isn’t a public facility.

“Abby.” you whisper, half-laughing, half-moaning, trying to push him back even though you’re very much not trying that hard. “They’re still here. They could come back any second.”

He just kisses lower. “Then we better make it fast, huh?”

“You’re the one taking your damn time.” you snap, trying not to laugh, and he grins against your skin.

“What can I say?” he murmurs. “My girl’s distracting.”

You shove his chest. It’s like trying to move a wall of warm concrete. “I swear, if they catch us—”

Footsteps.

Voices.

You both freeze.

You don’t see them at first. But you hear them. Zoey’s laughing about something and Mira’s voice is lower, casual, annoyed maybe, like she’s mid-eye roll. They’re just coming back from the sauna. They’ll be rounding this corridor in seconds.

You shove at Abby, harder. “Go. Go now.”

But he’s LAUGHING. The fuckass is laughing, muffling it behind that dumb smug smirk like this is the funniest shit ever.

You smack the back of his head, panicked. “Are you trying to get me killed?!”

He grins harder. “If we die like this, honestly? Worth it.”

“Abby!”

Zoey’s voice: “Wait… why’s the floor wet back here? Was someone—”

She turns the corner.

She sees you.

Sees him.

Sees you, basically naked, thigh still up, Abby shirtless and pressed into you, steam rising off both of you.

Zoey screams.

Mira slams in behind her a half-second later, silent, deadly, her eyes going wide.

Abby, still shirtless, just waves. “Hey.”

You are going to die.

“YOU.” Zoey shrieks, pointing. “ARE YOU INSANE?!”

Mira? Mira’s face is stone. Pissed. Her arms are folded. Her jaw is clenched. And she’s staring directly at Abby’s glistening chest.

You, meanwhile, are red. Not pink. Not flushed. Red. Half-wrapped in a towel. Half-tangled in him. All of you exposed, literally and emotionally, in the worst way possible. You’ve barely had time to stumble back and yank your towel up around your chest when he decides to speak.

“Yo.” Abby says with the most unbothered, dumbass charm in the world. “Heeeeeeey girls.”

He actually lifts a hand. Like he didn’t just get caught shoving his demon tongue down your throat in a public women’s bathhouse.

Zoey looks like she’s about to scream a second time. Possibly kill you. Possibly him first.

And what does this stupid man say next?

“You know what,” he continues, glancing between them and then at you. “I feel like… you guys got some things to work out. Real important girl talk. Imma… just.” He gestures vaguely toward the exit, completely unapologetic. “Slide out. Give you all some space. Respectfully.”

You gape. “Abby—”

He turns, halfway out the door, then glances back at you, slow, like he’s throwing a whole-ass grenade at your friendship. And then, he calls:

“Catch you later, babe.”

Babe.

In front of them.

AND THEN THE BASTARD WINKS.

Winks, flexes without flexing, and vanishes.

You are.

So.

Fucked.

You’re clutching your towel to your chest, dripping water, heart hammering so loud it might as well be a war drum. Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words. Just a stupid, guilty sound like, “Uh—”

“How long.” Mira says, deadly quiet,

You blink. “I—”

“HOW LONG?!” Zoey practically screams, her arms thrown up like she might start flinging bath sandals at you. “You’ve been sneaking off to tongue wrestle with a Saja Boy?!”

“It’s not like that—”

“Oh, it’s not?” she snaps. “Because from where I was standing? It looked exactly like that. Unless ‘chest licking in a sacred women’s bathhouse’ means something different in demon-speak.”

“Zoey.” Mira says again, voice low. “Let her talk.”

“Why?! So she can lie again?”

You feel it. The shame. The guilt. The sting of it.

Because you didn’t tell them. Not when you should’ve. Not when it started. Not after the first time. Not after the sixth. Not even after you knew it was something real, something that wasn’t going to just go away if you pretended hard enough. You stayed quiet. Let them think you were just normal. Still loyal. Still on-mission.

But you weren’t. You’d fallen into bed with the enemy, and now it’s your best friends staring at you like you’re the monster.

“Okay.” you say, quietly. “Okay. Look.” You take a breath. It comes out shaky. “Yes. It’s been going on. And yes. I know how it looks.”

“You lied to us.”

“I didn’t lie—”

“Bullshit.” Zoey hisses. “You snuck around behind our backs with the very thing we’ve sworn to eliminate. You let one of them turn you into his little secret side piece—”

“Stop.” you snap, louder than you meant to. “Don’t talk about me like that.”

Silence again.

“I’m not a side piece.” you say, quieter. “And he’s not just… whatever you think he is.”

Zoey’s expression warps into something like heartbreak. “You’re in love with him.”

You look away.

“Oh my god.” She covers her face.

“I didn’t plan for this.” you try, pleading now. “It just—it happened. And I know it’s wrong. I know what he is. But I also know what he’s not. He’s not—” You gesture weakly toward the steam he vanished into. “He’s not hurting people. Not the way we thought.”

Mira steps forward, eyes sharp. “And what happens when he does? When we take him out? What then?”

You swallow. You don’t answer. Because you don’t know. And they see that.

After the bathhouse blowout, the tension clung to your skin worse than the towel.

Mira and Zoey walked ahead of you the whole way home, Mira silent, Zoey muttering to herself in rage, still trying to process the abomination of seeing you with Abby’s abs all up in your personal space. You trailed behind, wrapped in shame, hair dripping, stomach doing flips that had nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with impending doom.

“Let me tell her.” you said, the second the elevator doors opened to the penthouse. “Let me tell Rumi myself.”

Mira turned to you, her jaw clenched. “You sure?”

“No.” you said. “But I’m going to.”

They just exchanged a look, silent agreement, and then headed to the kitchen like they weren’t absolutely going to lurk by the hallway to hear every single word.

You find Rumi in her room. She’s standing by the window. You almost leave. Almost. But then she turns. “You need something?”

Your throat closes.

Yeah. Just your life exploding.

“Can I talk to you?” you ask, voice trembling. “It’s… personal.”

She gestures toward the chair. You don’t sit. You can’t. You’re vibrating with nerves, practically bouncing out of your skin. You pace instead, like if you move enough, the words will come easier. They don’t.

“Okay, so—so.” you start, hands waving like you’re trying to draw the sentence into existence. “So, you’re gonna be mad. Just—please, can you let me finish first before you say anything? Just let me get it out all at once, because if I stop, I won’t say it, and I have to say it because it’s already—happened, and Zoey and Mira know, and you’re going to find out anyway, and I need it to come from me.”

Rumi’s arms cross slowly. “You’re stalling.”

“I’m dating Abby.” you blurt.

Silence.

You say it again, just to fill the space. “I’m dating Abby. From Saja. The one with the abs and the arms and the—yeah. Him.”

Still no reaction.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen. It wasn’t, like, some weird betrayal thing. I didn’t go into this planning to screw around with the enemy, I swear. It just—he was there, and he’s funny, and stupid, and sweet, and he’s not like what we thought. And yeah, I know it’s a conflict of interest. I know it’s dangerous, and I know we’re supposed to be hunting them, and it’s all wrong, but it doesn’t feel wrong when I’m with him. It just feels like… mine. Like something I chose. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

You finally stop.

You wait.

“…You’re joking.”

Your heart drops. “I’m not.”

You’ve never seen Rumi this mad without even raising her voice.

“You’re sleeping with a demon.” she says, cold. “A Saja Boy. One of the five. Our primary targets.”

You flinch. “It’s not like that—”

“Did he charm you? Manipulate you? Feed off you?”

“No! Rumi, he hasn’t even—he hasn’t taken anything from me.”

“Oh, but he took you, huh?” Her voice cuts like glass. “He gets the girl, the inside scoop, the trust, and we get what? A betrayal?”

You step forward. “I didn’t betray you.”

“You didn’t tell me. You kept it a secret. You let this go on while we’ve been risking our lives—my life—hunting down his kind. You don’t think that’s betrayal?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Because you did. You did lie. Maybe not in words, but in silence.

“You’ve compromised our entire mission.” she hisses, turning her back on you. “You think this is just about sex or feelings or whatever he gave you to keep you quiet? It’s bigger than that. He’s dangerous. And you let him in.”

“I didn’t let him in.” you snap, suddenly defensive. “He got in because he wanted me. Because he likes me. Because I like him.”

“And when the time comes,” she says, turning back around, eyes locked on yours. “and you have to choose between us and him, what’s your play?”

You’re shaking.

You can’t answer.

And Rumi sees it.

“…Get out.”

“Rumi—”

“Get. Out. Before I say something we both regret.”

You stagger back. One step. Then another.

And as you open the door—Zoey and Mira. Absolutely planted on the other side. Zoey straightens so fast she almost falls into a lamp. Mira just steps back, arms crossed, deadpan. Neither of them says a word.

You don’t say anything either.

You just walk away.

ROMANCE

Ohhh baby. You’ve just opened Pandora’s box with Romance.

The first time you and Romance crossed paths just the two of you, it was bloody. And violent. And frankly, stupid hot in hindsight.

You were rooftop hunting, your blade humming with enchanted energy, adrenaline in your teeth. The Saja Boys were slippery—always were—but he showed up like he’d been waiting for you.

You fought.

He was strong, too strong. Slippery. Every move came with a smirk, a breathy compliment, some infuriating “ooh, I like it when you’re rough.” You were sweating, pissed, cornered on the edge of a skylight.

But you didn’t back down.

You clocked him, hard, elbow to the jaw, leg sweep, blade to his throat, and he went down. Fell like a sack of demons with a ridiculous grunt and a flutter of his pretty shirt.

You stood there panting, blade raised.

Victory. Yours.

You even kicked him, toe of your boot to his ribs. “Dead?” you muttered.

He grabbed your ankle, fast as lightning, yanked, and dragged you straight to the ground with him. The breath left your lungs. Your body slammed to his. And suddenly? You were chest-to-chest with him, both breathing hard. His smile was bloody and filthy.

“Now this,” he purred. “is foreplay.”

You tied him up after that. You had to. Found rope in the storage unit of the building, tied his wrists behind his back, looped around the support beam. He didn’t fight it, no, of course not. He just watched you. Smirked. Made comments.

“That grip.” he said. “Ever thought of moonlighting in bondage? You’ve got talent.”

You should’ve killed him. Should’ve. He was just lying there, helpless, caked in blood.

But something in you faltered.

So you left him. Said it was a warning.

Before you left, he looked at you with those bedroom eyes and said, “Next time, bring better rope. You’ll be the one staying.”

And you did.

You came back. In the dead of night, alone.

And he wasn’t tied up anymore.

No, that time you were the one in knots.

Literal ones. Spread out, mouth covered in tape, eyes wide while he knelt between your legs, chin lifted and so fucking pleased with himself.

He whispered things you still feel heat up your spine when you’re alone in the shower.

That was the real beginning.

You’re not blameless. You like it. You like the chase, the secrets, the tension in every stolen second.

Romance doesn’t ask. He offers. He tempts. He brushes his fingers along your collarbone in passing, whispers filth into your ear just to see you shiver. He invites you to meet with him night after night. You go. Every time.

You’d call him a slut, except he only ever wants you.

He’s also attentive. Not the good boy kind, no. He’s too much of a tease for that. But he knows when you’re stressed, when you’re insecure, when you need to be fucked out of your head or just held while he brushes your hair. Super senses like he has do wonders in him getting your little feelings. Romance also has a memory like a thief. Remembers everything you say, down to the way you phrased it.

He’s obsessed with you. Openly.

But he also won’t stop flirting with other people in front of you just to rile you up.

(You’ve slapped him for it. He moaned. It didn’t help.)

He knows exactly what you are. A killer. A blade. Something sacred and trained and dangerous.

And he adores it.

“God, baby,” he’ll murmur while trailing his mouth down your thigh. “do you know how hot it is that you could murder me and choose not to?”

You don’t tell the girls. Obviously. They’d lose their minds.

Because you’re supposed to be on a mission to exorcise his ass from the planet—not get your back blown out on rooftops between hunts.

For an example, you let him tie you up again last night. He read you poetry while he did it. From memory. Filthy, ancient verses in a demon tongue you didn’t know—but understood perfectly from his eyes alone.

And when he made you scream his name, you think the whole street heard it.

Even when he’s being a tease—pulling your panties to the side in an alley or teasing you with promises he has no intention of letting you walk away from—his hands are always reverent. Worshipful.

He runs his fingers down your back when you’re not even paying attention. Laces your fingers together when you’re not touching him.

Then, it started with a bra strap.

Well, a glimpse of it, really, something delicate, lacy, red, peeking just above your sports tank when you bent down to pick up your dagger from the training mat. You didn’t even notice. But Zoey did. She always does.

Zoey squinted. “Since when do you wear matching sets for patrol?”

Mira glanced up from her weights, brow cocked.

You just shrugged. Played it off. “Self-care.”

They didn’t buy it.

And then it happened again.

The next night. And the next.

A different set this time, satin, black, barely-there. They weren’t judging you for it. Please. You’re hot, you’re allowed to feel yourself. But there was a pattern emerging, and it had nothing to do with confidence and everything to do with how you were always glowing when you came back from “walks.”

Your cheeks flushed. Your lips bitten. The scent of perfume that wasn’t yours clinging to your jacket.

And the final straw? Rumi walked into your room to grab something and saw an empty condom wrapper on your nightstand. You weren’t even home.

That night, the three of them made a decision.

They were going to follow you.

It’s late.

You thought you were slick—slipping out the back stairwell in your “casual clothes” (which just so happen to include a barely-buttoned blouse and lace-trimmed thigh harness under a trench coat). Hair glossy. Lip gloss glossier.

You head toward a park a few blocks away. A little bench nestled between two massive trees. Always quiet. Always shadowed.

And sitting there, legs crossed, coat open over a shirt unbuttoned just enough is Romance.

He looks up, sees you, and grins. That slow, wolfish, I’m-gonna-undress-you-without-touching-you kind of smile.

“You’re late.” he says.

“You’re early.”

“I’m always early. It gives me more time to think about you.” He says it like a whisper. You bite back a smile, step closer, the night air curling around your ankles like it knows this is wrong and wants in.

He reaches for your hand, brushes his thumb over your knuckles. Doesn’t even glance at your dagger strapped to your thigh.

You lean in, eyes half-lidded. “What if I was here to kill you this time?”

“Then tie me up first. You know how I like it.”

You laugh. It’s soft. Intimate. Familiar.

That’s the sound that does it.

Zoey’s voice, “Whaaaaaaaat.”

You whirl around.

Rumi. Zoey. Mira. Standing just behind the tree line, like they’d been parked there for ten whole minutes, watching your little forbidden lovers’ reunion.

Your blood goes cold.

Romance just sits back, arm along the bench like this is hilarious.

Zoey’s eyes are bulging. “Are you seriously making out with Romance?! As in Saja Boy, Romance?! Mister demon dick himself?!”

Mira’s arms are crossed, her voice dry. “So that’s what all the lace was about.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

Romance, unbothered, lifts two fingers in a lazy salute. “Ladies.”

“Don’t you ladies me.” Zoey snaps, stomping forward. “What the fuck, Y/N?!”

You stumble over your words. “I—I didn’t mean—well, I did, but not like—okay, not like this. I wasn’t using him or betraying anyone or—”

“Oh my god, are you in love with him?!” Zoey howls.

Romance leans closer to you, whispers, “Say yes.”

You elbow him in the ribs so hard he wheezes. But he’s laughing. This fucker is laughing. And that laugh? It seals your fate.

Rumi steps forward, voice cold as glass. “Go home. Now.”

You look at Romance. He gives you a wink. A wink. He’s enjoying this. He is.

You turn to leave.

And you know they’re right behind you. Their silence is heavier than their words. Zoey’s arms are flailing in disbelief. Mira’s jaw is tight. Rumi says nothing, but you can feel her disappointment.

Back at the penthouse, everything feels louder. The walls feel tighter. Every footstep echoes like judgment.

You try not to flinch as the elevator closes behind you, sealing you inside with three of the people you love the most, and who now all look at you like you’re a stranger.

No one speaks.

You want to say something, break the silence, offer an explanation, but your throat’s tight, heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape before Rumi cuts it out herself.

When the elevator dings open at your floor, it’s Zoey who moves first. Quiet. Shoulders tense. Mira walks out after her. Rumi walks last, slow and composed, her silence ten times more dangerous than if she’d yelled.

You don’t even make it to the living room before Mira turns on you. “What the actual fuck, Y/N?”

You swallow. “I was going to tell you—”

“When?!” Mira snaps. “After you fucked all of them? Or just after the Saja Boys rip our hearts out?! Which was it?!”

“I didn’t—” You exhale, hands up, trying to keep your voice steady. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t plan this. I didn’t mean to fall into something with him.” You’ve gone over it a thousand times in your head. Every rule you broke. Every kill order you ignored. Every night you slipped away when your best friends were asleep, trusting you to be one of them, not one of the fucking enemy’s bedwarmers. “I know what I did.” you say, quieter. “I know it’s wrong.”

Zoey finally speaks, voice soft. “Then why did you keep doing it?”

You look at her. And she looks like she’s not angry like Mira, not composed like Rumi. Just… hurt. Her arms are folded across her chest.

“I don’t know.” you admit. “He’s a demon. He’s everything we’re trained to kill. But—”

“But you let him charm his way between your legs and now suddenly that makes it okay?” Mira’s voice is sharp. “You endangered us. All of us.”

“No.” you snap, louder now. “I would never let anything happen to you. I’m not stupid. I’m not just lying there letting him feed off my soul—he hasn’t even touched that part of me. I wouldn’t let him. I’m not a liability, Mira.”

“You are.” Mira spits.

Silence again.

You feel it in your stomach, a cold pit of shame. But beneath it, there’s something else. Something like defiance. Because yes, maybe you’re making a mistake. Maybe you crossed every line. Maybe you’re betraying the oath, the cause, the sisterhood.

But it wasn’t just sex. Not with Romance.

He sees you. Wants you. Not your blade, not your strength, not your usefulness to the mission.

Just… you.

“He cares about me.” you say, quietly.

“That doesn’t matter.” Rumi says. Her voice is so soft. “You’re a hunter. You don’t get to fall for the monsters. You kill them. Or you compromise everything we’ve built.”

Oh Rumi, we know why you think that.

Zoey bites her lip, voice shaking. “Are you in love with him?”

You hesitate.

And that’s the answer.

Mira throws up her hands. “Un-fucking-believable.”

Rumi looks at you like she’s assessing whether or not to kick you off the team. “We’re here to stop them, Y/N. All of them. We don’t get to make exceptions because they kiss nice or talk pretty.”

You nod slowly. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Rumi steps closer. “Because the second he snaps his fingers, and decides he’s hungry, you’re the first soul he’s going to devour.”

Do you really think that Rumi, or you’re just making shit up to stop your beloved Y/N from making the same mistake your mother did?

You want to scream that it’s not like that. That Romance—for all his bullshit, his flirting, his filthy mouth—has never once made you feel prey. You’ve never seen him lose control. Never once doubted he would stop if you told him to.

But even you know that doesn’t make it safe.

You glance between them, the three people you’ve fought with, bled with, survived with, and it feels like you’re in the wrong. You are.

Zoey steps forward finally, hand brushing yours. “If you really love him… then please be careful. Don’t make us bury you because you thought he was different.”

Her voice breaks at the end.

And Mira won’t even look at you.

Rumi just turns and walks toward her room. Before she disappears down the hall, she says one last thing:

“You have one chance to fix this. Or next time, it’s me that puts a blade in his chest.”

The door slams.

Your pretty underwear under your clothes feels stupid now.

But even through all that, you know, deep down?

You’re not going to stop seeing him.

And that’s the problem.

BABY

Oh, Baby.

You hate(d) his name.

Baby.

You don’t even know when it started.

Just that one second you were fighting, and the next?

You were… not.

It was supposed to be a quick hunt. You’d gotten separated from the girls for like five minutes—five whole damn minutes—and then bam. He was there.

Backstage, right behind the curtains at some underground venue, blinking at you like you were the surprise, not him.

Did he say anything?

No.

Just smirked.

And you knew it was a smirk, even if his mouth barely moved. Something about the way his eyes narrowed, chin tilted. The unbothered little lean against the wall, arms crossed. Hair too shiny. Mouth too glossy. Pretty in a way that made you want to scratch it up.

So you drew your blade.

He didn’t move. Just blinked again. Like you were the one being ridiculous. Then you lunged. He blocked you, lazy, like your movements were predictable. A joke. Your blade barely missed his throat, and he laughed. Not even like a proper laugh. Just this airy “heh” with his head tilted like, Is that all?

And you? Furious. Mortified. Already picturing the way Mira would roast you for getting played by the baby demon.

So you kicked his leg out from under him. Hard.

The fight got into close combat from there, your blade dropped to the floor. And the two of you just… went at it. Not even fighting anymore, just grappling, rolling across concrete with all the force and heat of a catfight.

His fingers in your hair. Your hand around his throat. Neither of you speaking, just panting, growling, gritting teeth. And his face?

Still blank. Still bratty. Still beautiful.

Until your knee landed in a very strategic place and he grunted—actually made a sound—and somehow that flipped a switch.

Next thing you knew?

You were on your back, shirt pushed up, his mouth on your tits, sharp little teeth teasing your skin as you hissed at him to fucking go.

“The girls are almost on. I have to go.” You hissed.

His response? A slow blink. Like you’re so loud and he was busy. Then he kissed a bite-mark over your nipple like it was his fucking signature and pulled back, shirt half untucked, his lips all red, and not a care in the world.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t wink. Didn’t flirt. Just looked at you like he expected you to come back later. Like he knew you would.

You did.

Because Baby is… different.

He doesn’t do the “Oh, I want you so bad” stuff. That’s Romance’s thing. Doesn’t do the “I’ll protect you, angel” softness. That’s Jinu. Doesn’t even do the “Come here, babe, sit on my lap” gym rat boyfriend vibes. That’s Abby. Doesn’t let you control him like Mystery does.

Baby ignores your ass half the time.

You text him that you’re downstairs? He doesn’t even buzz you up. You have to break in. You say something flirty and he shrugs. You try to make plans and he answers with a yawn.

But when you’re alone? When you’re in the dark corners of club basements or dressing rooms or the stairwell no one uses between the 6th and 7th floors of the broadcast building?

He’s all teeth and tongue and whispers against your throat. Biting. Mouthing. Slouching against you like he doesn’t care but always pulling you closer.

He talks more with his mouth on your body than he ever does out loud.

His affection comes in weird little ways. Like slipping your favorite drink into your bag without saying anything, which he clearly stole from someone. Like swiping the exact eyeshadow palette you complimented on a make up staff member.

Like blowing off fan meetings just to sit in the dark and watch you stretch, head tilted.

And every time you call him out on it?

He gaslights you. Fully.

“What palette?”

“You bought it, didn’t you?”

“You said I could come in.”

“You didn’t say stop.”

Smug. Rude. Hot as fuck.

And for all his demon blood and dead-eyed stares, there are moments—tiny, barely-there glimpses—where you think he might actually care about you. Like really care.

He is the worst, but underneath that generally insufferable personality, he actually kinda likes you.

He still ignores the fuck out of you.

Deadass. You’ll walk into a room and Baby won’t even glance up. You’ll say hi and he won’t say anything back. Doesn’t even nod. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve told him to move. He never moves. Just slowly looks at you like you’re interrupting.

But the second you’re smiling on your phone, texting?

Laughing too hard?

Not paying attention to him?

He’s right there. Doesn’t say a word. Just drapes himself over you like a cat and sighs against your neck like this is what I had to resort to?—then nips at your collarbone.

You tell him to go away. He doesn’t.

You shove at him. He goes heavier.

You call him annoying.

His answer:

“Mhm.”

You’ll be pouring tea, being the sweet, functional human being you are, and he’ll just… slide his mug over. No eye contact. No “please.” Not even a “yo.” He just tugs on your sleeve once and you already know.

You always say the same thing: “I’m not your maid.”

To which he always responds by… waiting.

Not moving.

Just standing there like …so?

So you pour the tea.

Every. Damn. Time.

(And then he takes a tiny sip and says, “Too hot.” And you fantasize about kicking him in the shins.)

He has the nerve to walk around with that adorable, sweet little face. Wide eyes. Lashes for days. Little nose. Pink lips. He blinks at people and they melt.

“Oh my god, is he shy?”

“He’s so precious!”

“Aww, he’s like a little bunny!”

LIES.

Baby is a demon.

A predator.

A horrible little shit who absolutely uses his face as a weapon.

Don’t even get me STARTED on his voice. It does not match him. At all. It’s low and slow and filthy, like it’s meant for whispering horrible things directly into your ear. And he knows it. He uses it. He’ll say your name in that voice, right behind you, when he wants something. And every time it works, you hate yourself a little more.

You hate him.

You want to climb him like a tree.

You’re the problem.

He likes you though. He really does.

He doesn’t say it. Obviously. But you know.

He shows up at your window at 2 a.m. and does not leave you alone, that’s his love language. You wonder what Gwi-Ma thinks about that. Does he insult the poor boy in his head? Leaves the topic alone? A wonder, really.

He doesn’t care about people. Not really. Not like you do.

He’s selfish. Bratty. Condescending.

He never says “I love you.” Never writes sweet notes. Never says “I miss you” or calls you beautiful.

But he stays. He lingers. He lets you run your fingers through his hair when he’s tired. He lets you sleep on his chest when you both sneak off after dark. He lets you see the version of him no one else gets to.

You’re not sure if this is love, or madness, or both. But you keep crawling back. Keep letting him tug you close. Keep pretending it’s not dangerous, even though it’s the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done.

Yeah.

He’s terrible.

But you like him that way.

Anyways, your room is big. Like, stupidly big. The girls fought tooth and nail for this penthouse, and somehow, you ended up with the one room that had its own damn sitting area, fireplace, and balcony. Probably because you “never bring people over.”

Ha.

Right now, you’re sitting on your bed, one leg bent, your hair damp from a shower, some oversized shirt slipping off your shoulder. You’re glowing, content, the kind of comfort that only comes when your secret demon boyfriend is stretched out across your silk sheets.

Baby, flat on his back, hoodie pushed up just enough to expose his stomach. He’s got one arm under his head, and the other lazily dragging over your thigh.

And you’re telling him a story. Some stupid one from earlier. About Zoey trying to cook eggs and somehow setting off the fire suppression system, and Mira slipping in the foam and cussing in three different languages, and Rumi trying to keep everyone calm.

He doesn’t say much—he never does—but every once in a while, he makes this little “hn” sound that means he’s listening. His eyes flutter closed, long lashes brushing his cheeks, and you gently run your fingers across the curve of his bare stomach as you speak.

Just light touches. Lazy, mindless. Your thumb sweeping around his navel. Tracing the faint v-line that disappears under his waistband. And he just takes it. Like he deserves to be pet.

His hips shift just slightly, subtle little rolls into your hand. His lips twitch. He hums.

“You’re distracting.” you mutter, dragging your fingers down his side.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t even open his eyes. Just tugs on the hem of your shirt like he wants it off but can’t be bothered to do it himself.

You laugh a little and lean over him, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. He lets you. He always does. Touchy and spoiled and acting like he’s the one doing you a favor by being here.

His fingers brush the back of your knee. Slide higher. God, he is so touchy. Not in a Romance kind of way, not in a flirty, dirty whisper way. Just clingy. Needy in a wordless, bratty little way. Always tugging at you. Always reaching. Not because he wanted attention, but because he expected it.

You’re just about to crawl into his lap when he suddenly opens his eyes—not startled, not alarmed, just blank. “Behind you.”

You blink. “What?”

“Door.”

You frown, confused. Turn to look, and your soul leaves your body.

Zoey. Mira. Rumi. Peeking through your bedroom door, all crammed into the tiny sliver they must’ve pushed open while you were distracted. All of them with their mouths slightly open. Eyes wide.

They must’ve been watching you for minutes.

Baby waves to them lazily.

The second your eyes meet theirs, they jerk back like they’d been slapped and slam the door shut.

SLAM.

Silence.

You stare at the door.

Baby stretches behind you, unfazed.

“You forgot to lock it.” he says, yawning like this is the most boring turn of events that’s ever happened to him.

“You watched them watch us!” you hiss, slapping his chest.

He shrugs. “You looked cute. Figured they’d agree.”

You launch a pillow at his face. He lets it hit him and doesn’t even blink.

You shoot to your feet like you’ve been lit on fire. You’re not even fully dressed, just the shirt, some thin little shorts, no bra, and your heart is thrashing in your chest because oh my god they saw. They saw everything. “You couldn’t have warned me earlier?!”

He gives a lazy shrug. “Didn’t think they’d stay.”

You smack him in the chest, hard.

“OW—what?!” he complains, still not even bothering to sit up. “You were telling a story.”

“Get out.” you whisper-yell, frantically waving your hands. “Go, go, GO!”

He groans dramatically, sitting up like it physically pains him. “You’re so loud.” he mutters.

But he stands anyway, tugging his hoodie down and making zero effort to look guilty. His hair’s a little messy, lips pink, eyes smug. He’s glowing like a man who’s very satisfied with his life choices. He is casually stretching his arms over his head. Right before he leaves, he pauses, looks at you, and then? Then he raises his voice just enough for the hallway to hear: “BYE GIIIIIRLS.”

He snorts to himself, satisfied with how he fucked up this for you even more, and leaves you there. Alone. Staring at the spot he just vanished from.

Okay, yeah, alright. You take a deep deep breath and walk over to your door to open it.

Rumi. Zoey. Mira. All standing in the hallway, backlit by the soft pendant lights. Their expressions? Zoey looks like she’s on the verge of tears but holding it together with sheer willpower. Mira’s pacing, fists clenched so hard her knuckles are white. Rumi is just staring at you, arms crossed, completely still. That’s the scariest part.

“Okay,” you say, voice cracking like the ice you’re walking on. “that was—”

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.” Mira explodes. Her hands fling up like she’s physically restraining herself from throwing them at you. “You had him in your room?! While we were home?!”

“It’s not like I—”

“Don’t.” Rumi says. Soft. Controlled. Dangerous. “Don’t say it’s not what it looked like.”

It was what it looked like.

Zoey finally speaks. Her voice is so small it hurts. “You… you’re with him?”

“I didn’t—” you start, stepping forward instinctively, “I wasn’t gonna— I mean, I was, I just—” You sigh and rake both hands through your hair. “Yeah. I’m with him.”

Silence.

Rumi’s brows lift slightly. “For how long?”

You look at the ceiling. “A while.”

“Did he brainwash you?” Mira snaps. “Are you cursed? Are you fucking STUPID—”

“Mira.” Rumi’s voice cuts like a blade.

“No, I wanna hear her say it.” Mira hisses, rounding on you. “Do you even care that he’s a demon? That he’s probably feeding off you? That he’s probably laughing with the rest of those Saja freaks about how easy it was to get a Hunter to spread her legs—”

“Shut the fuck up, Mira.” Your voice isn’t loud, but it lands.

Mira steps back.

“…I know what he is.”you say softly. “I know what we are. I’m not confused. I’m not cursed. I’m not being controlled. I know what I’m doing.”

Zoey’s lip trembles. “Then why?”

You glance away. Chew your lip. Feel your chest ache. “Because he’s not what I thought demons were. Not all the time. Not with me.”

Mira scoffs. “Oh, my God.”

Rumi stares at you, then she says, “Go to your room.”

“I—what?”

“Go. To your room. Now.”

You pause for half a second, wanting to argue. Wanting to stand your ground. But you’ve already shredded the ground beneath your feet. So you do as you’re told. You walk back in. Close the door. Sit down on the bed.

The sheets still smell like Baby.

MYSTERY

You like him. God help you, you really do.

It started during one of their meet-and-greets. A crowd full of obsessed fans screaming over them, while you stood in line like a regular human, hair tucked under a cap and sunglasses on your face, just scoping the scene.

That’s when you noticed him in the back. Standing off to the side like he wasn’t even part of the group. His mic wasn’t on. He wasn’t smiling. Just kind of… existing.

You don’t know what possessed you, maybe it was the odd way his hands were twitching around the prop mic, or the slight crease in his brows as he watched the crowd, but you stepped toward him. Just a little. Close enough that he looked up. Or at least, lifted his chin.

He was holding a lightstick upside down.

And god, something about that made your heart ache. Because he looked so confused. So detached. So alien in that moment. Like he didn’t get what any of this was for.

So you’d whispered, “Turn it around. Other way.”

He blinked. Glanced at it. Turned it slowly, obediently.

You reached out and twisted his fingers to hold it right. “There. Like that.”

He didn’t speak. Not yet. But he watched you. All of you. Your hands, your mouth, your face.

And when you turned to go?

“…Thanks.” he said. So small. So low. Barely audible.

After that, he kept noticing you. You’d catch him watching from across rooftops during a hunt, or from the shadows of backstage areas. Silent. Unmoving. A presence. He never approached you directly—you had to do that—but he let you. Which, coming from him, was kind of massive.

You started sneaking around. Sitting next to him when you knew the other Saja boys wouldn’t be around. Leaving stupid little notes for him where you knew he’d find them. One time you brought him a chocolate bar and he ate it. Quietly. Slowly. Then murmured, “Too sweet.” and handed the wrapper back.

You’ve learned to read his silences. Every little shrug or pause or twitch is a language now. One you understand. But he also talks, like:

“You smell good.”

“Don’t go yet.”

“You looked sad today.”

He didn’t have to be sweet with you. Or quiet. Or gentle.

He just chose to be.

Once you were in the alley behind a club where both your crews had performed. The others were still inside fighting. But he had slipped out. And so had you. Not nice, you know, but it felt right.

He had his back against the wall, shoulders relaxed.

You had asked him, “Why are you always so quiet?”

He shrugged. “Nothing to say.”

You rolled your eyes. “There’s always something to say.” And then you turned toward him, shoulder brushing his, and whispered, “Like… if you wanted to kiss me.”

His breath stilled.

You watched his lashes lower behind his heavy hair. You could barely see his eyes, but you could feel them.

And then, softly:

“…Can I?”

You nodded.

He kissed you. No tongue, no hands, no hunger—not at first. Just lips.

Then you leaned in harder. Slid your hand up his chest.

Then he moved.

And after that? It was on.

It was a relationship—even if the word felt too loud, too bright, too human. You didn’t label it. You didn’t talk about it. But you felt it every time he waited for you. Every time he slipped into your space. Every time he murmured your name.

Don’t even get me started on the patterns on his dick. It’s weirdly attractive.

WHO SAID THAT?!

And then you got caught.

It had been weeks. The girls were suspicious, but they hadn’t figured him out yet. The others? Sure. But Mystery? Who could tell what he was even thinking, let alone who he was touching?

So that night, you got bold.

It was late. Everyone else was asleep. You were in the upstairs sunroom, one of your favorite places because it overlooked the whole city. Mystery was curled up with you on the wide window ledge.

Your hand was in his hair. His breath was on your neck. You had just whispered something—you don’t even remember what. Something dumb and soft and sweet.

He turns his face to you and said, “I like it when you talk.”

You blink. Smile. “That so?”

He nods once. “Your voice is warm.”

And you arw about to say something else when Zoey’s voice rang out behind you:

“…You’re kidding me.”

Your whole body jerks.

You turn so fast you almost knock Mystery out the window.

Zoey stands in the doorway, hoodie sleeves pushed up, jaw slack. Mira right behind her, looking like she was about to throw up. And Rumi is staring at Mystery.

And he—fucking audacious—is just sitting there. Calm. Not moving. One arm still around you.

He’s kinda evil so he’s definitely doing that on purpose.

“Okay—okay, listen—”

But Mira is already marching forward, murder in her eyes. “You’re sleeping with him?!”

“He’s not what you think—!”

“He’s a DEMON!”

Zoey looks betrayed. Like it physically hurts her to see you like this.

Rumi just says: “Leave. Both of you.”

Mystery doesn’t move until you move first. He stands slowly, brushing off his shirt. Then he reaches out, tucks your hair behind your ear, and whispers: “I’ll wait.”

Then he vanishes.

You walk back into your room, listening to Rumi. Like your best friends didn’t just see you wrapped up in one of the five you’ve all sworn—sworn—to destroy.

You don’t cry. You don’t know if you can. It’s just this huge, pulsing silence in your chest, like someone rang a bell inside you and then walked away.

To Rumi, this was personal.

We know why.

And she just saw you—her best friend—wrapped up in the arms of something she sees as rot.

Of him.

It’s not even about him being a Saja Boy. Not completely. It’s the idea that you’re letting something like that close to your heart. That you’re flirting with what her bloodline forced on her.

And she’s scared.

You sit there for what feels like forever.

Mystery’s scent still clings to your collar. You wonder if he’s out there waiting like he said. You wonder if the girls will ever look at you the same again.