#class reunion

The late afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of Nevermore Academy, casting golden streaks on the polished wood floors. Larissa Weems sat at her desk, her slender fingers gliding over a stack of papers with a practiced ease that had long ago become second nature. Her office, grand and imposing, was filled with relics from the school’s storied past—portraits of former headmasters, thick tomes with spines cracked from centuries of use, and her own neatly arranged awards and commendations.

Yet, for all its grandeur, the room felt unusually small today. Constricting.

The embossed invitation in her hand caught the light, its silver letters shimmering against the black cardstock.

Nevermore Academy — 30th Class Reunion

Larissa stared at it as though it were a portent, its edges sharp with memory. The invitation itself was elegant. Tasteful. Entirely harmless to anyone who did not know better. But old wounds had a way of dressing themselves in pretty things.

Her mouth tightened as images rose unbidden—fragments of laughter echoing down corridors, polished shoes on ballroom floors, the soft humiliation of being admired from a distance but never truly wanted up close. There were bits of insecurity and half-forgotten stings drifting to the surface like debris on a restless tide.

She had been the tallest girl in her class. The poised one. The clever one. The one teachers trusted and peers respected when it suited them while her classmates flitted through their teenage years with reckless abandon. She had learned very young how to make elegance look effortless, how to hold her chin high enough that no one noticed when she wanted to disappear.

But she had also been the girl standing quietly at the edge of the dance floor, pretending not to mind when no one asked.

Admired, perhaps. Respected, certainly.

Chosen? Rarely.

Never first. Always almost. The lingering sting of that truth made her stomach tighten, even now.

Larissa exhaled slowly through her nose and set the invitation down with deliberate care, as if too much force might betray her. It was absurd, really. She was no longer that girl. Her life had taken a different turn since then—an impressive one, by any reasonable measure. Principal of Nevermore Academy. Celebrated alumna. A formidable woman entrusted with shaping the minds and futures of generations of outcasts.

She had built a legacy here. Poured herself into the school as if dedication might alchemize longing into purpose.

And perhaps it had. Mostly.

But for all her accomplishments, there remained a hollow space in her chest that ached whenever she thought about walking into that reunion alone. Not because she needed anyone. Larissa Weems had long ago learned the art of self-sufficiency. Need was an indulgence she could rarely afford.

No, it was not loneliness that troubled her. It was the fear of being seen. Not as the principal. Not as the polished, untouchable woman she had so carefully constructed.

But as the girl she had once been. The girl everyone had looked past. Besides the fear of old insecurities surfacing, it was the quiet realization that she had never really left.

With a sigh, her gaze drifted from the invitation to the slip of paper beside it, where she had written your name in neat, careful script.

That was the other matter occupying her thoughts.

You had come to her office earlier that morning with a request bold enough to be irritating and well-researched enough to be difficult to dismiss. Access to Nevermore’s restricted archives was not something Larissa granted lightly, least of all to someone who did not belong to the academy. The collection contained histories that were dangerous in the wrong hands, relics better left undisturbed, and records so old that even their dust felt accusatory.

But you had not asked with the entitled impatience of a curious amateur. You had come prepared.

You spoke of a series of anomalies in Jericho—brief lapses in time, strange repetitions of events too precise to be coincidence, eyewitness accounts that contradicted themselves in ways no ordinary hysteria could explain. You had traced the disturbances back through town records, private collections, half-burned diaries, and finally, impossibly, to a name Larissa had not heard spoken aloud since her own student days.

The Obsidian Hourglass.

A Nevermore legend. Or, at least, that was what most believed it to be.

An artifact supposedly capable of manipulating time in small but dangerous fractures. It had been dismissed by generations of students as a gothic little myth, the sort of thing whispered about during midnight dares and embellished by bored teenagers looking to frighten one another.

But Larissa knew better than most that legends at Nevermore rarely came from nowhere. And you, apparently, had reached the same conclusion.

You wanted access to the restricted archive records connected to the Hourglass. Not the student-facing accounts or the sanitized histories tucked neatly into public catalogues, but the sealed documents. The ones hidden behind wards, faculty permissions, and several layers of institutional discretion.

Larissa should have refused you outright. She nearly had.

But there had been something about the way you sat across from her desk, composed but not arrogant, careful but not afraid. Something about your unguarded confidence. The ease with which you met her gaze. You had spoken to her not as a gatekeeper to be flattered, nor as an obstacle to be maneuvered around, but as an equal.

That alone had been disarming. Larissa was not accustomed to being disarmed, and you lingered in her mind long after you left.

—

The sound of brisk footsteps in the corridor outside drew her attention. A moment later, there was a knock at the door.

She straightened. “Come in.”

The door opened, and there you stood.

For one irritating, treacherous second, Larissa forgot the practiced expression she had intended to wear.

You looked much as you had that previous morning—composed, curious, with that same quiet magnetism that made the air seem to shift around you. It made her painfully aware of how tightly she had been gripping her fountain pen. There was an ease about you that Larissa found almost indecent. As though the world had tried to make you smaller once or twice and failed to leave a lasting impression.

“Principal Weems,” you greeted, offering a polite smile. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” she replied smoothly, her voice betraying none of the nerves twisting low in her stomach. “Please, come in.”

You stepped inside, and the faint scent of leather and pine accompanied you. Larissa gestured toward the chair opposite her desk. As you sat, your eyes moved briefly around the room—not prying, but observant. Taking in the portraits, the shelves, the careful order of her space. There was curiosity in your expression.

And, unless Larissa was mistaken, admiration.

She folded her hands neatly atop the desk. “I’ve been giving some thought to your request.”

Your posture shifted, attention sharpening. “And?”

“And,” she said, allowing the word to settle between you, “it is unconventional. Potentially dangerous. Almost certainly inadvisable.”

Your brow arched slightly while a faint smile tugged at your mouth. “That sounds like the beginning of a no.”

“It would be,” Larissa replied, “if the circumstances surrounding your research were less concerning.”

Your amusement faded slightly. She noticed. Of course she noticed.

Larissa reached for one of the folders on her desk and opened it, revealing the notes she had compiled since your first meeting. Reports of clocks stopping simultaneously across three blocks of Jericho. A student insisting she had lived the same conversation twice. A shopkeeper swearing that an hour vanished between one breath and the next. Nothing dramatic enough to stir panic. Nothing obvious enough to demand intervention.

But patterns rarely announced themselves politely.

“You believe these anomalies are connected to the Obsidian Hourglass,” Larissa said.

“I think they might be,” you replied. “I’m not claiming certainty. Not yet. That’s why I need the archive.”

“The restricted archive.”

“Yes.”

“Which exists precisely because certain knowledge should not be handled casually.”

“I’m not casual about this.”

“No,” Larissa said, studying you. “I don’t believe you are.”

The admission seemed to surprise you. Your expression softened by a degree, and Larissa disliked the way some small, unguarded part of her responded to it.

She closed the folder.

“Even so, allowing an outsider access to sealed Nevermore records is not a favor I grant lightly.”

“I understand.” You leaned back slightly, though your gaze remained steady on hers. “I wouldn’t ask if I had another way forward.”

Larissa believed you. That was the problem. Belief was a dangerous thing. It opened doors that caution preferred locked.

Her eyes drifted, despite herself, to the black invitation resting near the edge of her desk.

You followed her gaze. For a brief moment, neither of you spoke.

Larissa resisted the urge to turn the invitation facedown like something indecent. Instead, she let her fingertips rest lightly against the desktop, perfectly still.

“I may be willing,” she said at last, “to consider a limited arrangement. Something I need assistance with.”

Your brow arched. “An arrangement?”

“Yes.”

The word steadied her. Arrangement sounded practical. Controlled. Administrative. It did not sound like loneliness. It did not sound like old hurt. It did not sound like the terrible, humiliating desire to walk into a room full of ghosts and not have to face them alone.

You leaned forward, intrigued. “I’m listening.”

Larissa held your gaze. “In three weeks, Nevermore is hosting its thirtieth reunion for the class of 1996.”

“The invitation,” you said.

“Quite.”

“And you need...?”

She hesitated. Only for a second. Only long enough to despise herself for it.

“As principal, I am expected to attend,” Larissa continued, her tone measured. “As an alumna, I am expected to participate. Smile. Reminisce. Endure several hours of pleasantries with people who have varying degrees of interest in pretending they remember me fondly.”

Your expression shifted, something almost sympathetic passing through your eyes.

Larissa’s spine straightened. She had not asked for sympathy. “I require a date,” she said crisply.

Silence.

Your lips parted slightly.

Larissa met your gaze with all the poise she possessed, her blue eyes unflinching though she could feel the faintest warmth rising beneath the high collar of her blouse.

“A date,” you repeated.

“Preferably one charming enough to endure small talk, clever enough not to be intimidated by Nevermore alumni, and discreet enough to understand that the arrangement is mutually beneficial.”

The corner of your mouth lifted.

There it was again—that almost-smile that suggested you had found the one loose thread in her composure and were considering whether to pull.

Larissa braced herself for laughter, for dismissal, for the kind of polite, casual rejection that had haunted her in her youth.

“Principal Weems,” you said, voice light but not unkind, “are you asking me to fake date you?”

Her lips twitched, caught somewhere between a smirk and a scowl. “I believe the more accurate term is a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“Of course,” you said gravely. “Very professional.”

“Entirely.”

“And in exchange?”

Larissa allowed herself to breathe.

“In exchange, I will grant you supervised access to the restricted archive materials concerning the Obsidian Hourglass. Limited access,” she clarified. “Nothing leaves the archive. Nothing is copied without my approval. And if I determine at any point that the research poses a threat to this school or its students, the arrangement ends.”

Your teasing expression sobered.

“That’s fair.”

“I have not finished.” Larissa’s eyes sparkled with quiet challenge. 

You sat back, visibly fighting another smile. “My apologies.”

“You will also keep all information obtained from the archives confidential unless disclosure becomes necessary to prevent harm.”

“Agreed.”

“And,” Larissa continued, lifting her chin slightly, “you will not wander the grounds unaccompanied, charm my staff into violating protocol, or attempt to circumvent any wards, locks, or faculty restrictions.”

Your hand moved to your chest in mock offense. “You wound me, Principal.”

“I rather suspect you would recover.”

That made you laugh softly. The sound was warm. Unexpectedly so. Larissa looked down at the folder, though she did not read a word on the page.

The banter was easy. Too easy. It slid between you with a naturalness she had not anticipated, and it unsettled her more than your original request ever could. Larissa had prepared herself for negotiation. For suspicion. For the tedious necessity of maintaining authority while managing risk.

She had not prepared herself for the possibility of enjoying you.

“Well,” you said after a moment, “I suppose that depends on what being your date entails.”

“Nothing untoward, I assure you.” The words left her too quickly.

Your eyes brightened. Larissa hated that she had given you that.

“I would simply require you to accompany me for the evening,” she continued, more evenly. “Engage in conversation. Maintain the impression that we are... close enough for your presence to be unremarkable.”

“How close is close enough?”

Larissa’s gaze sharpened. “I trust you possess enough social intelligence to improvise within reason.”

“That sounded almost like a compliment.”

“Do not let it go to your head.”

“I’ll try to remain humble.”

“A quality I am certain comes naturally to you.”

You grinned, and Larissa found herself irritated by how pleased she was to have caused it.

She reached for the reunion invitation and slid it toward you across the desk. Your fingers brushed the edge of the cardstock, and her attention caught—briefly, foolishly—on the shape of your hand against the black paper.

You glanced over the details. “Formal attire?” you asked.

“Naturally.”

“Dancing?”

“Likely.” Larissa confirmed.

“Former classmates with unresolved emotional baggage?”

Larissa’s expression cooled by instinct. Your teasing softened at once. It was subtle, the adjustment. Barely there. But she saw it.

“Yes,” she said. “I imagine there will be a great deal of that.”

You studied her for a moment, and Larissa had the uncomfortable sense that you were seeing more than she had intended to reveal. She had learned long ago how to make herself unreadable. Students saw authority. Parents saw polish. Staff saw competence. Alumni saw success.

You, apparently, had the audacity to see a person.

“How convincing do you need this to be?” you asked, quieter now, thoughtful.

Larissa’s throat tightened. There were several answers she could have given. Convincing enough that no one pities me. Convincing enough that no one wonders why I came alone. Convincing enough that I do not feel seventeen again.

Instead, she said, “Convincing enough that no one questions it.”

You nodded slowly. “Then we should probably discuss the details before the reunion. If we’re meant to seem close, we’ll need to know things about each other.”

Larissa arched a brow. “You seem very prepared for deception.”

“I prefer the term narrative consistency.”

Despite herself, Larissa smiled. A small thing. A dangerous thing.

“Indeed,” she said. “Then perhaps we should meet somewhere less formal to establish the necessary... narrative consistency.”

“The Weathervane?” you suggested.

Larissa considered it. Neutral ground. Public enough to remain appropriate, private enough if one chose the right table. She could already imagine the ridiculousness of it—the two of you sitting across from each other over coffee, exchanging curated facts like actors rehearsing intimacy.

And yet, some traitorous part of her did not dislike the thought. “The Weathervane will do,” she said.

“When?”

“Tomorrow evening. Six o’clock.”

You nodded. “It’s a date, then.”

Larissa’s eyes narrowed. You looked entirely too pleased with yourself. “A planning meeting,” she corrected.

“Right. A planning meeting where I learn how to convincingly fake being your date.”

“Precisely.”

“Which is very different.”

“Drastically.”

The amusement between you lingered, delicate and bright, before settling into something quieter.

You rose from the chair, smoothing a hand over your jacket. “Then we have a deal?”

Larissa stood as well. It was unnecessary, perhaps, but she found herself unwilling to remain seated while you looked down at her—even if the difference was negligible. Her height had always been one of the few advantages she trusted without question.

“We have a preliminary agreement,” she said. “Contingent upon your continued discretion and good behavior.

“My good behavior is usually negotiable.”

“I would advise against testing the limits of my patience.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

You extended your hand. Larissa glanced at it.

There was no reason for hesitation. She had shaken countless hands in this office—parents, donors, faculty, mayors, inspectors, alumni with too much money and too little humility. A handshake was nothing. A formality. A seal on a practical arrangement.

Still, when she placed her hand in yours, the warmth of your palm seemed to startle something loose in her chest.

Your grip was firm but not forceful. Grounding. Larissa held it for precisely as long as politeness required and not a second longer.

At least, that was what she told herself.

When you released her, your smile had softened again. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Principal Weems.”

“Larissa,” she said.

The correction surprised both of you. For one suspended moment, the office went still.

Larissa recovered first, though only barely.

“If we are to appear familiar,” she said, folding her hands before her, “you may as well begin practicing.”

Your smile deepened, but you did not tease her this time. “All right,” you said. “Larissa.”

Her name in your mouth was an astonishingly inconvenient thing.

She gave a single, composed nod. “Until tomorrow.”

You inclined your head and turned toward the door. Larissa watched you go, her expression carefully arranged, her mind already racing with contingencies. Archive permissions. Ward access. Reunion schedules. Alumni lists. The foolish risk of allowing you anywhere near the sealed records.

The even more foolish risk of allowing you anywhere near her.

The door closed behind you with a soft click. For several seconds, Larissa remained standing. Then, slowly, she looked down at the reunion invitation still resting on her desk.

It had not changed. The same elegant cardstock. The same silver lettering. The same promise of an evening spent among old ghosts. But now, beside it, lay the folder containing your research notes.

The Obsidian Hourglass. Missing time. A dangerous artifact that might not be legend after all.

And you.

Larissa lowered herself back into her chair, pressing her fingertips lightly to the place where your hand had held hers.

It was a foolish thing, this arrangement. Reckless, even. She knew that.

And yet, as the late afternoon light thinned across her office floor, Larissa found herself staring not at the invitation, but at the empty space you had just occupied.

The Good Kind of Trouble

There’s a particular kind of cruelty reserved for high school kids—the way they zero in on insecurities like vultures circling a wounded animal. You remember it well because you were their favorite target.

You were twelve years old when you first realized you were an outsider. You sat in the corner of the cafeteria with a book propped up against your tray, quietly reading while the rest of the world buzzed around you. Your mom always packed you elaborate lunches—bento boxes filled with kimbap, fruit cut into stars, and little handwritten notes telling you how much she loved you.

You thought it was sweet. The other kids thought it was hilarious.

“Is that octopus in your lunch, Kwon?” someone sneered as they walked by. A hand shot out, knocking over your juice box.

Cue the chorus of laughing.

“Leave her alone,” a boy’s voice said.

You looked up to see Hoseok, the chubby kid from gym class, standing with his arms crossed and a determined look on his face. He was red faced and sweating, probably from chasing the bus earlier that morning—he always cut it too close.

“Are you gonna cry, too, chubster?” another kid mocked.

Hoseok didn’t cry.

He simply grabbed his own tray, plopped down next to you, and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “What’s wrong with octopus? It’s better than that soggy pizza you eat every day.”

From that day forward, Hoseok became your person. The two of you were inseparable, united by a shared love of bad jokes, obscure trivia, and a mutual disdain for the rest of your classmates. You were each other’s safe haven, a buffer against the relentless teasing. It didn’t matter how cruel the world outside was because when you were together, it felt like you could survive anything.

You remember sneaking out of P.E. class together, hiding behind the bleachers while everyone else suffered through the mile run.

“They’ll notice we’re gone,” you whispered.

“Nah,” Hoseok huffed, still out of breath from the warm up. “They expect us to come in last anyway. We’ll just jog in dramatically at the end and say we were pacing ourselves.”

You did exactly that and just like Hoseok said, no one questioned it.

Then there was the time in eighth grade when you both tried to dress up for picture day, hoping to finally get a school photo where you didn’t look like deer in headlights. You wore a skirt your mom picked out, and Hoseok slicked back his hair with enough gel to make it look bulletproof.

“We look amazing,” he said confidently as you both checked your reflections in a classroom window.

“We look ridiculous,” you corrected.

When the photos came out, his hair had flopped forward in weird chunks, and you blinked at the exact moment the camera flashed. The next day, he shoved a wallet sized photo into your locker, the back scribbled with, ‘At least we match. – Hobi’

And then there was the night of the school dance—one neither of you planned on attending until you heard a rumor that the class president had rigged the votes for king and queen.

Naturally, you both showed up with the sole intention of causing a little chaos.

Hoseok spent the night sneaking way too many cookies from the dessert table while you orchestrated a plan to unplug the speakers right before the winners were announced. In the end, you chickened out, but Hoseok still declared the night a success when the two of you slow danced dramatically to a song neither of you knew, twirling across the gym floor like you were in a ballroom instead of a poorly decorated school cafeteria.

“When we’re famous, people are going to love this story,” he joked.

“Famous for what?” you asked.

“Dunno. Something cool.”

You laughed at the time, but now, years later, as you sit at a bar in a city far from home, the memory stings.

Why does it feel like a lifetime ago?

Now, as you sit at the bar nursing your second gin and tonic, you wonder if those same kids would even recognize you. Platinum hair, a statement red lip, and an expensive black dress that hugs your curves immaculately. You look nothing like the awkward wallflower you used to be. This version of you is confident, cool, and entirely unapproachable.

At least, that was the idea.

The bartender slides a drink toward you, accompanied by a suspicious smirk. “This one’s on the guy at the end of the bar.”

Your gaze follows his nod to the man seated at the far end. Tall, lean, and dressed in an inconspicuously expensive sweater and Louis bomber that hasn’t even hit the runway yet, he’s the kind of man you’d usually steer clear of. Too good looking. Too confident. It reads as cocky if you’re being honest. But there’s also a certain something about him. The way he’s leaned back against the bar, swirling his drink and looking around like he’s already sized up the room and is over it.

He catches you looking and his smirk quickly shifts into a beaming smile that you guess is supposed to be just for you.

Against your better judgment, you pick up your drink and walk over.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, setting your glass on the bar beside him.

He takes a sip of his whiskey, his eyes trailing lazily over you in a way that makes your skin feel too warm. “And miss out on talking to the most beautiful woman in this place?”

The corners of your lips twitch despite yourself. “Should I be flattered or suspicious?”

“That depends,” he says, tilting his head. “Are you always this cautious when accepting free drinks?”

“It’s not caution—it’s self preservation.”

When he chuckles, it’s too genuine and bright and, fuck that smile is entirely too tempting. “Then consider it my good deed for the evening.”

You roll your eyes, even though your pulse skips under his gaze. “You know, buying a drink doesn’t guarantee you a conversation.”

“I know.” He leans closer, his voice dipping. “But I couldn’t resist.”

For the first time in years, someone leaves you speechless. You’re not sure if it’s the whiskey in his glass or the confidence in his tone, but you find yourself leaning in too.

“Got a name mister good deed?”

He hesitates, his smile faltering for a fraction of a second before he smooths it over. “Jay.”

You raise a brow. “Jay, That’s it? That’s not suspicious at all.”

He laughs again, and this time, you catch the way a dimple peeks out, softening his sharp jawline. “And you?”

“Lia,” you lie smoothly, the name is your usual go to for the strange men you meet at bars.

“Well, Lia,” he says, dragging out your name, “what brings you here tonight?”

“Liquid courage,” you admit, swirling your gin. “I’ve got a reunion tomorrow, and I’d rather walk barefoot through broken glass than spend an evening with people who still remember my braces and bad haircuts.”

He grins. “Sounds like we have that in common. Maybe we can survive it together.”

“Tempting offer,” you say, letting the corner of your mouth curl. “But what if I have no plans to survive it?”

His eyes flicker down to your lips, and the heat between you crackles like a live wire. “Then I’d say we’d better make tonight count.”

For a hot second, you forget how to breathe. The bar fades into the background, replaced by the elephant shaped tension thrumming between you.

“Bold of you to assume I’m interested,” you tease, your voice is softer now. Cutesy, sexy flirty mode activated.

Jay leans in, his warm breath brushing against your ear. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You don’t. Instead, you down the rest of your drink and cock your hip. “You’ve got one shot. Don’t waste it.”

His grin is all perfect, pretty teeth and promises. “Trust me, Lia—I don’t waste anything. Come find me in five minutes.”

It’s reckless, and impulsive, and the exact opposite of what you’d planned for tonight. But his hand brushes yours when he heads toward the barely lit hallway at the back of the bar, and you can’t really bring yourself to care.

The hallway leading to the bathrooms has that kind of lighting that makes everyone look a little more mysterious, a little dangerous—except you, of course, when you trip over a raised floor tile right after opening the bathroom door and nearly eat it.

Your heels clack loudly as you try to find your balance.

Good Samaritan—no, Jay, you remind yourself—catches your arm just in time. “Whoa, easy there,” he chides, his lips twitching. “Are you always this eager, or is it just me?”

You glare at him while straightening your dress and what’s left of your dignity. “That floor was uneven.”

“Sure it was,” he says, but he doesn’t let go of your arm, instead he slides his hand down until his fingers curl around your wrist. The touch sends a jolt through your nervous system.

You give him a look that says ‘don’t push it’, but the smirk he sends back says ‘oh, I absolutely will’.

Somehow, you make it to the bathroom without any further humiliation. It’s a single stall, which is both a blessing and a logistical nightmare.

Jay—tall, sinewy , and very much in your personal space—glances around the tiny room and raises an eyebrow. “Cozy.”

You roll your eyes. “Are you getting shy on me now?”

He snorts. “Shy? No. Just wondering if we’ll both make it out of here alive.”

You arch a brow. “What, afraid of a little elbow bumping?”

He grins, eyes darkening. “Lia, I’m afraid of knocking over that soap dispenser and concussing myself before I get to kiss you.”

You laugh, maybe a little too loudly, but you can’t help it. The sheer absurdity of the moment—the cramped space, the sexual tension, the fact that you’re both clearly trying too hard to be smooth—is almost too much.

But then Jay moves, pressing you against the sink, and suddenly, the laughter gives way to that sexual tension that’s been brewing. His fingers slowly skim up your arm, but you feel it everywhere in little tingles.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, heart hammering.

“I like looking at you.” He admits, and fuck. You like how it sounds when he says it.

You gasp at his boldness. Trying to figure out how you both keep bouncing between silly shit talking and shooting sexy ‘fuck me’ eyes back and forth, simultaneously.

“Are you going to kiss me, or are we just going to stand here making goo-goo eyes at each other all night?” you ask, tilting your chin up.

Jay chuckles, eyes glinting. “Goo-goo eyes? Lia, that’s the least sexy way you could have said that.”

“Maybe,” you say, smirking. “But you’re still going to kiss me.”

And then he does.

He comes in slowly, like he’s testing to see if you’ll pull away. But you don’t. You lean in, fisting the sides of his jacket and pulling him closer. That’s all it takes for you both to stop holding back.

The kiss deepens, turning from a teasing game of tongue into needy moans and nips. His hands slide down your waist, gripping your hip tightly and making your breath hitch. Your fingers tangle in his hair and give a sharp tug, and the groan he lets out makes your knees go weak.

Then, chaos ensues.

You shift, trying to maneuver against the sink, and your elbow knocks against the soap dispenser. It falls onto the counter with a thunk, startling you both.

“Shit,” Jay mutters, breaking the kiss to glance at the mess. “I knew that thing was a liability.”

You dissolve into giggles, your forehead falling against his chest. “God, we are so bad at this.”

“Speak for yourself,” he says, even though he’s laughing too. “I’m very good at this.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” You glance up at him, embarrassingly enamored. “Prove it.”

And he does.

When he kisses you it feels like he’s been thinking about it for longer than he’d like to admit, slow enough to savor, firm enough to make your pulse skip and stomach explode with butterflies.

His hands are on your waist, sliding down until his fingers are gripping the hem of your dress. He pauses, like he's waiting for a sign, and you give it to him by wrapping your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss with a roll of your hips.

He groans, his hands tightening before he lifts you onto the edge of the sink. Your legs part to make space for him between them.

"This dress," he mutters against your lips, fingers tracing the hemline. "Is driving me insane."

You smirk, breathless. "That was the goal."

His laugh catches in his throat before his mouth finds your neck, pressing hot kisses along your skin. Your head tilts back against the mirror with a soft thud, but you don't care. Not when his hands are sliding higher, tracing the shape of your thighs.

Then—bang.

You both jolt as the soap dispenser crashes to the floor, spilling liquid soap in a sad, sticky mess near the toilet. There's a few seconds of silence before you both bust out laughing, the mood temporarily ruined.

"I swear to God," Jay groans, forehead resting against your shoulder as he shakes with laughter.

"This bathroom is out to get us."

You press a hand to your mouth, trying to stifle your giggles. "I think we're just cursed."

He lifts his head, eyes glinting. "Nah. I think we just need to be more careful."

His hands slide back to your waist.

You bite your lip, nodding, and just like that, you're back where you started—pressed against each other, bodies burning with the need to close every inch of space.

His lips crash against yours, the kiss is slicker this time, with a lot more tongue. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping, squeezing. You fight back a moan as he traces the seam of your pussy from behind your thong.

“The soap’s not the only messy thing in here.” He purrs, stroking once, twice, teasing as he nips at your collar bone.

“Cleanup on aisle me,” the words are out of your mouth before you have time to comprehend what exactly you just said. You groan and bang your head against the mirror, mortified by how un-sexy you are.

Jay bursts out laughing, and it bounces off the walls of the tiny bathroom as you pray to any and all gods to just wash you down the sink.

“That was hilarious.” He says, eyes crinkled with a grin.

“More like, embarrassing,” you sigh, “you leave first, I’ll wait a few minutes.” You run your hand through your hair, trying to look anywhere but at Jay. It’s just like you to ruin a good thing with your big mouth.

He presses himself closer, the friction of his jeans quickly derails your escape plans. “I’m not going anywhere.” You look up to find the sexiest smirk you’ve ever seen sitting on his pretty lips. “And neither are you.”

His fingers slip past your thong and dive into the pool of slick between your thighs. Your arch your back in pleasure, breasts thrusting in his face as every nerve in your body lights up like a switchboard. His long fingers carve out sensations, unlike anything you’ve ever felt before with long languid strokes.

You don’t realize how loud you are until he seals his lips over your own. “If I knew you moaned that loudly I would’ve taken you back to my place. Fuck you feel so good.” He pants as your pussy chokes his fingers, the calloused pads stroking deliciously at your g-spot.

You can’t think of anything witty to reply, too focused on the way you’re high tailing it up the mountain of pleasure building.

“Ah, I—I’m gonna cum.” You stammer, whining when his lips slide over your clothed breast.

“Please do.” He rasps, his other hand slips the straps of your dress down. Tugging until you feel your nipples tightening in the cool air of the bathroom. “Fuck you’re beautiful.”

“Don’t flatter me, just keep doing this.”

He chuckles, increasing his pace between your legs and wrapping those way too pretty lips around a pert nipple.

“Oh, fuck!” You keen, hips rocking against his hand, desperate to reach your peak.

You have just enough clarity to not to bang your head against the mirror behind you when your orgasm hits you head on. Electricity jolts through your veins, lighting you up like the tacky neon sign hung above the bathroom door.

“All of this for me, trouble?” His voice is raspy with lust, but the pet name he gives you sends you back in the past. Memories of your childhood friend and all of the times you stood up to school bullies on each other’s behalf flicker across your mind.

But now is not the time to be thinking about Hoseok’s chubby cheeks.

As you come down from your high, eyes settling back on the man in front of you from where they’d rolled back in your head your fingers make quick work of the sweater he’s wearing.

“There’s more where that came from.” You pant.

“Prove it,” he throws back at you before shoving his glossy fingers in his mouth with a groan.

You push the soft material up high enough to trail your fingers over the contours and slopes of his muscled abdomen, dragging a nail down from his belly button to the top of his jeans. Jay shivers slightly under your touch, exhaling sharply.

“Take it off.” You command, tightening your thighs around his hips. He hisses when your nails drag up over his abs, scraping over his nipples to push the sweater over his head.

“So bossy,” He laughs, a pained look in his eyes as he watches his jacket and sweater fall to the bathroom floor.

And then the dangerous energy you picked up on at the bar intensifies. He’s back on you, tongue sliding across the seam of your lips asking permission. You part your lips, sending the kiss from a good seven to a scorching hundred.

There’s a flurry of hands and mouths and mumbled curses as you both scramble to make this work in the limited space. It’s messy and awkward—the belt loop of his jeans gets caught on your heel at one point, your wrist nearly snaps when you try to brace yourself against the wall—but somehow, it’s also hot as hell.

Jay’s hands grip your thighs like they’re the only thing stopping you from floating away.

With the way he slips and slides along the seam of your pussy, you just might. You’re just about to beg him to stop teasing when logic kicks in.

“You have a condom right?” You moan into his mouth when the crown of him slips over your clit.

“Yeah,” He pants, one hand leaving your thigh to dig out the foil packet from his wallet. He goes to pull away, and something in your jeans forward. Not wanting to be parted from him so soon before you really can connect.

You barely know this man but the chemistry between you is magnetic.

“L-Let me.” You reach for the pack and rip to open. He inhales sharply when you roll the condom down over his shaft. Touching him so intimately lights a flame in you, a low hazy moan slips past your lips. You’ve got him in the palm of your hands, quite literally, and that makes you feel damn good.

Jay presses his hips to your own with a renewed hunger. His hands cup your cheeks as he plants another fiery kiss on your lips. The feeling of him teasing your folds is a little different this time around but not at all unwelcome. You moan into the kiss, pressing your hips forward, a wordless grant of permission.

Your lips part, head falling back as he slides forward a bit, stretching you around him. Sending pleasure rushing out to the tips of your toes and fingers.

He groans retreating for barely seconds before easing back in another few inches. You wrap your legs around his slim waist, the fire in your belly building with every thrust of his hips.

“Mm, you feel amazing.” He says, voice thick with ecstasy, forehead pressing to your shoulder when he finally sinks into you fully.

“I’d give you an eight out of ten.” You shrug and can’t help but grin at the fire that bursts to life in his eyes. Said grip falls immediately off your face when he drags his dick along your sensitive walls, ripping a gasp from your throat before surging forward. He doesn’t stop, rocking up into you with fervor as a hand cups to your breast trapping your nipple between his fore and middle fingers as he palms it.

You hold on to his shoulders, mouth open in bliss as he fucks you somewher perfectly between deep and hard.

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop.” You chant, nails digging into his back. Feeling the way the muscles under his skin contract and ripple, bouncing you on his cock.

“That’s—an awful lot of begging for mediocre dick.” He bites out, dragging his teeth across the tender skin of your neck.

You cry out when his thumbs slides over your clit, slick and swollen.

“Not…oh my god—mediocre. Eight out of—ah, yes!”

He leaves your breast to rest his hand limply around your throat, no pressure at all. Just the promise of what he could do with it.

“Don’t repeat it, or you’re gonna get us kicked out of this place with how hard I’ll fuck you.” He rasps.

His hips roll forward again, sinking into you with ease. Chest to chest, hips chasing pleasure with his hand around your throat, fireworks erupted behind your eyelids. Jay slots his lips across yours as he follows you reaching his own peak, groaning into your mouth.

Things slow down, your heartbeats trying to unsync and go back to their respective rhythms. You’re fixing your lipstick, watching Jay in the mirror adjust the front of his sweater as he tucks it into the top of his jeans. You both jump when a shrill screech echoes of the walls.

The paper towel dispenser flashes green before going silent.

Your eyes meet for a fraction of a second before you both burst into giggles. He comes to stand behind you, arms wrapping around your waist, burying his face into your neck.

“This was fun. A ten out of ten.” He grins when you pout into the mirror. “Please be safe getting home and enjoy the rest of your night.”

“Yes, dad. Enjoy your reunion.” You smile, laying your hand over his and offering him your cheek for a kiss.

You catch your reflection in the mirror, smoothing your hair and fixing the corner of your lipstick. He watches you do it, his gaze lingering a second too long, like he wants to say something but thinks better of it.

Instead, he exhales sharply and gives you one last lopsided grin. “You too, trouble.”

You meet his eyes in the mirror. “Regrets?”

His smirk deepens. “Not a single one.”

You nod, satisfied. “Good.”

And with that, he slips past you, opens the door, and steps out into the bar like nothing ever happened.

Adrien closed his eyes and gulped. It was his first time singing in front of his friends.

'I can do this.'

See , I can't wake up

I'm living a nightmare,

That keeps playing over again

Locked in a room so hung up on you and you're cool with just being friends,

Left on the side lines,

Stuck at a red light,

Waiting for my time and I can't see

When the duet began, Adrien turned his head towards his partner and smiled as Marinette sang beautifully along with him. She belted out the melody, perfectly.

Why don't you love me,

Touch me,

Tell me I'm your everything

'Wow. Marinette's just as amazing as always.'

The air you breathe,

And why don't you love me,

Baby,

Open up your heart tonight,

'cause I could be all that you need,

Oh,

Why don't you love me?

Why don't you love me?

As Marinette began to sing her part, Adrien found he couldn't look away from her.

See I'm just to scared to tell you the truth,

'cause my heart, it can't take anymore.

Adrien took a step back, as she suddenly turned and looked at him as she sang. Suddenly, it was like she was only singing for him. It was hard to fight the blush that was trying to take over his face.

Broken and bruised,

Longing for you and I don't know,

What I'm waiting for.

Left on the side lines,

Stuck at the red light,

Waiting for my time,

Taking a deep breath, Adrien returned the melody with as much passion as she did.

So just tell me,

Why don't you love me.

Adrien couldn't help but smile, as a blush overtook her face when he sang back to her.

Touch me,

This time her eyes were on him.

Tell me I'm your everything

The air you breathe,

And why don't you love me,

Baby,

Open up your heart tonight

'cause I could be all that you need

Oh

Why don't you give me a reason?

Give me a reason

Please tell me the truth

Please tell me the truth

You know, that I keep believing

I keep believing

'til I'm with you

Adrien slowly reached out and grasped Marinette's hand.

Why don't you love me?

Startled, Marinette quickly looked at their hands, before returning her gaze back at him. Only when she looked up, she found he had closed the gap, bringing their hands to his chest.

Kiss me

She couldn't help but look away.

'Why does it feel like I'm begging for a kiss?' she wondered.

I can feel your heart tonight

It's killing me (killing me)

So why don't you love me?

Touch me

Tell me I'm your everything

The air you breathe

And why don't you love me?

Baby?

Open up your heart tonight

'cause I could be all that you need

Oh

Why don't you love me?

Why don't you love me?

Why don't you love me?

Why don't you love me?

Why don't you love me?

As the song ended, Marinette quickly set down the microphone and hurried to her seat. She took a deep breath as she calmed her traitorous heart.

'It wasn't a confession; I have Nathaniel! I can't fall for Adrien again! This is suppose to be my time to get over him!'

Confused, Adrien sets down his mic on the stand. As he went to his seat, he noticed Alya looking at her phone.

'Was I that bad?'

"Congrats, Man! You killed it with that song!" Nino claimed, clapping him on the back.

"You both harmonized beautifully." stated Luka.

Mari blushed in response and took a sip of her drink. Luka had never said that about her and Nathaniel. She decided it was best to ignore him, missing Alix elbowing him in the ribs.

"Hey, I found someone." called Nathaniel as he entered the room.

"Adrien!" Lila cried, throwing her arms arounf him.

"Lila?" he questioned.

"I tried calling you when I got here, but-" she sniffed.

'I completely forgot she was coming. I was having fun, too.'

"She was a little lost and once she mentioned Nino, I figured she was with us." intervened Nathaniel, while Lila buried herself in Adrien's shirt.

"Thanks, Nathaniel. Sorry, I had the first song so none of us heard my phone go off." Adrien winced.

Lila took a look around the room. It really was people from their college days, including Marinette. Lila smiled in Mari's direction, as she hugged Adrien tighter. Marinette rolled her eyes in response to Lila's childishness. Adrien sighed at the girl's actions towards each other.

'Right, they never got along. Marinette was the only other person who figured out Lila's a scheming manipulator.'

"It's so nice to see everyone again!" greeted Lila.

Adrien ignored the excitement in the room, as Nathaniel went over to Marinette and took the seat next to her.

Five more songs were sung before the alarm on his phone went off.

"Sorry, everyone." Adrien stated as he stood up, "I have to head out. I have a shoot at dawn."

"Yeah, better get your beauty sleep, Model Boy." teased Alya.

Everyone quickly pulled their old friend into a hug.

"Do you still play?" asked Luka, as he patted him on the back.

"Yeah." the model answered.

"We should try and jam on one of your off days." Luka insisted.

"Right, cause those exist." Adiren chuckled, "Maybe one of these Wednesdays, whenever we hit your place."

"Sounds great!" replied Luka, "Mind if I get your number?"

"Oh, me too!" cried Alya.

"Same!" shouted Ivan.

Soon everyone was inputting their number into his phone. Lila latched onto his arm as everyone played 'Pass the Potato' with his phone.

"Oh, I forgot the best part!" Adrien interjected, before she could try and talk her way out of it, "Lila is staying! She told me how much she was excited to see everyone again. Right?"

"Of course!" she smiled.

'Again! How does he keep ruining everything? It wouldn't have taken much to walk out to the car with him for some privacy and leave these losers here. At least I have a toy to play with. Time to go for the kill.'

"So, Marinette." Lila prodded, knowing that being with Adrien must be killing the so-called designer, "How long have you and Nathaniel been together?"

Marinette giggled, "Four months."

"What's so funny about your dating life?" she asked, catching Nathaniel attention.

"I can see why you and Adrien are going out." Mari answered, "You're so much alike."

"What do you mean?" Lila questioned.

"Adrien also asked about my dating life." Mari smiled, as Lila simmered in her anger.

'This is not how this was suppose to go!'

"Adrien asked about us?" asked Nathaniel.

"Yeah, well, you were in the restroom and he asked if I was here by myself. Once I told him I was here with you, he asked 'how long' as well." Marinette said, before clapping as Alya took the stage.

'Why would Adrien want to know about if Marinette was here by herself? He's dating Lila; a model! At least she didn't deny it, right?'

"Did you ask about us?" asked Lila, interrupting his thoughts.

"Nope. In fact I had no clue he had a date til you arrived. We sang the duet, at Alya's insistence. He sang since it was his first night and Nathaniel wasn't here." replied Marinette, as she looked at the drink menu.

Lila simmered throughout the night as her scheme crumbled. Marinette didn't seem remotely jealous of her relationship with Adrien Agreste. She was too busy dating the redhead. It made her sick to see them so affectionate with each other.

Marinette on the other hand was eager to get home. Nathaniel was acting weird. She wasn't one for PDA. They had held hands and she's kissed him on the cheek before rushing off to class, but for him to drape his arm around her...it was too much. Mari smiled and lowered his arm off her, before excusing herself to go to the bathroom.