#comfort fluff

miu's corner ✦ soo! for mee this is my best creation srslyyy likeee uhhh the weather the romance I was able to just write my feelings and all the romance in my heart into this fic. If you like my work don't forget to follow and support<33

The rain had been falling for hours.

Not the violent kind that rattled windows and made people nervous.

This rain was softer.

Steady.

Patient.

The sort of rain that transformed the entire world into something gentler.

Everything beyond the glass had dissolved into silver.

The streets below were blurred beneath a veil of mist and water, streetlights glowing like tiny stars trapped inside clouds.

You sat curled on the window seat of James's apartment, knees tucked beneath a blanket while rain tapped endlessly against the glass.

The room smelled faintly of coffee.

And James.

A familiar mixture of detergent, cedarwood, and whatever comfort itself might smell like.

Outside, thunder rumbled lazily in the distance.

Inside, everything felt warm.

Safe.

Quiet.

Your fingers traced absent patterns through the condensation on the window.

You didn't hear James approach until warm arms wrapped around your shoulders from behind.

A content sigh escaped you immediately.

"Found you."

His voice was sleepy.

Like he'd just woken from a nap.

You smiled.

"I wasn't hiding."

"Mm."

His chin rested atop your head.

"Still found you."

The smile tugging at your lips became impossible to suppress.

That was very James.

Simple.

Affectionate.

Completely sincere.

He stayed like that for a moment.

Just holding you.

No conversation necessary.

The rain filled every silence beautifully.

After a while, his nose brushed your temple.

Then your cheek.

Then your jaw.

You laughed.

"James."

"What?"

"You're being weird."

"I'm being affectionate."

"You're sniffing me."

"I'm appreciating my girlfriend."

His lips pressed against your shoulder.

A quick kiss.

Then another.

Then one more.

You laughed harder.

"Stop."

"No."

A kiss.

"No."

Another.

"James."

One directly against your neck.

You squealed immediately.

His laughter vibrated through his chest.

"There she is."

"You menace."

"You love me."

Unfortunately.

He was right.

You turned within his arms, intending to glare at him.

The attempt lasted approximately three seconds.

Because James looked unfairly handsome.

Soft dark hair falling over his forehead.

Comfortable hoodie.

Sleepy eyes.

The kind of expression that always made him look like he was carrying a secret smile.

You hated how weak it made you.

His gaze dropped briefly to your lips.

Then returned to your eyes.

The smile deepened.

"Hi."

You rolled your eyes.

"Hi."

"You're pretty."

"There it is."

"There what is?"

"The reason you came over."

He gasped dramatically.

"Unbelievable accusation."

"You wanted to flirt."

"I always want to flirt."

Fair point.

Before you could answer, he leaned forward and kissed your forehead.

Slowly.

Tenderly.

The kind of kiss that lingered.

Not rushed.

Not playful.

Just affectionate.

His hand settled against your cheek.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

The rain continued beyond the window.

Thunder echoed somewhere far away.

The city felt distant.

Like the apartment existed separately from everything else.

A tiny universe made for only two people.

James looked at you for a long moment.

Then kissed the tip of your nose.

You groaned immediately.

"Oh my god."

"What?"

"That was illegal."

"It was cute."

"It was embarrassing."

"It was adorable."

You shoved his shoulder.

He laughed.

The sound filled the room.

Warm and bright.

Like sunlight trying to break through rainclouds.

—

Later, you found yourselves sitting on the floor beside the couch.

A movie played quietly in the background.

Neither of you were paying attention.

James sat beside you with one arm draped lazily around your shoulders.

Your head rested against him.

The rain had somehow become even heavier.

Water streamed endlessly down the windows.

Thunder rolled overhead.

You should have been listening to the movie.

Instead, you found yourself watching James.

The way his eyes followed scenes.

The occasional smile.

The tiny habit he had of rubbing circles against your arm without realizing.

James noticed eventually.

Of course he did.

His eyes shifted toward yours.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Liar."

You smiled.

"Maybe I like looking at you."

His ears turned red immediately.

The reaction made you grin.

Every single time.

No matter how long you dated him.

No matter how much affection he gave.

He still became flustered.

"You can't just say things like that."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Because what?"

His gaze dropped.

Then returned.

"Because I don't know what to do."

You laughed softly.

"Yufan."

"What?"

"You're cute."

The poor man looked seconds away from combusting.

You reached forward and kissed his cheek.

Then the other.

Then his forehead.

He stared.

Completely stunned.

The expression lasted precisely three seconds before he recovered.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"Oh, we're attacking each other now."

Your eyes widened.

"Wait—"

Too late.

He caught your wrist gently.

Pulled you closer.

And immediately buried kisses along your jaw.

One.

Two.

Three.

You burst into laughter.

"James!"

He continued.

Your cheek.

Your temple.

The corner of your mouth.

Each kiss accompanied by increasingly smug satisfaction.

"This is revenge."

"For what?"

"Emotional damage."

"You're ridiculous."

"And yet."

His lips brushed yours.

Gentle.

Warm.

"So in love with me."

Your heart betrayed you instantly.

Because you absolutely were.

The kiss that followed was soft.

Not rushed.

Not desperate.

Simply familiar.

Comfortable.

The sort of kiss that felt like coming home.

His thumb brushed your cheek.

Rain drummed against the windows.

Thunder rolled overhead.

Everything else disappeared.

There was only James.

Only warmth.

Only this.

When you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved very far.

Foreheads resting together.

Breathing the same air.

Sharing the same smile.

─

The storm intensified around evening.

Lightning flashed across the sky.

Briefly illuminating the entire apartment.

The lights flickered once.

Twice.

Then disappeared completely.

Darkness swallowed the room.

You blinked.

Silence.

Then:

"Well."

James's voice emerged from somewhere nearby.

"That's unfortunate."

You burst out laughing.

Within minutes candles had appeared.

Tiny golden flames flickering throughout the apartment.

The atmosphere transformed immediately.

Everything became softer.

Warmer.

More intimate.

The storm outside felt distant despite shaking the windows.

You sat together beneath a blanket on the couch.

Shoulders touching.

Watching rain slide down the glass.

For a long time neither of you spoke.

There was no need.

The silence wasn't empty.

It never was with him.

James eventually shifted closer.

His arm tightened around your waist.

You glanced up.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You definitely have something to say."

He smiled.

A small one.

The kind he reserved only for private moments.

"You know."

"What?"

"I think this is my favorite kind of day."

You looked toward the storm.

The candles.

The blanket.

Then back at him.

"Why?"

His gaze softened.

Because of course it did.

James always looked at you like that.

Like you were something precious.

Something worth protecting.

"Wanna know?"

You nodded.

His hand lifted.

Tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Then his lips brushed your forehead.

Another lingering kiss.

Slow.

Intentional.

"Because you're here."

Your heart nearly stopped.

Not because the words were dramatic.

They weren't.

James rarely spoke dramatically.

That was what made moments like this dangerous.

Every word was honest.

Every feeling genuine.

You leaned closer instinctively.

His nose brushed yours.

A smile touched his lips.

"So cheesy."

"You love it."

You did.

Unfortunately.

Hopelessly.

Entirely.

The realization made you laugh softly.

His gaze followed the sound.

Then drifted lower.

To your lips.

Back to your eyes.

There was something impossibly tender there.

Something that made your chest ache.

Not with sadness.

With affection.

The overwhelming kind.

The kind that made every ordinary moment feel beautiful.

You reached up.

Your fingers brushed his cheek.

James immediately leaned into your touch.

The sight alone nearly melted you.

"You know," you murmured.

"Hm?"

"I think this is my favorite kind of day too."

His smile appeared instantly.

Bright.

Genuine.

Beautiful.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

The kiss that followed wasn't playful.

Or teasing.

Or even particularly passionate.

It was simply intimate.

A quiet promise.

His hand resting against your waist.

Your fingers tangled in his hair.

Rain falling endlessly beyond the windows.

Thunder humming softly overhead.

The world reduced to warmth and candlelight.

To two people sharing a couch.

Sharing a blanket.

Sharing a life.

When you finally separated, James rested his forehead against yours.

Neither of you moved.

Outside, the storm continued.

Inside, everything felt peaceful.

His eyes fluttered closed briefly.

A content smile lingering on his lips.

And in that moment, listening to the rain while held safely within his arms, you realized something.

Love wasn't always fireworks.

Or grand confessions.

Or impossible gestures.

Sometimes it was this.

A rainy evening.

A warm apartment.

A thousand tiny kisses.

And the quiet certainty that no matter how loud the storm became outside, home would always be wherever James was.

The soft hum of the ceiling fan is the only sound in your shared apartment when you open your eyes. The pale light of dawn seeps through the thin curtains, painting the room in muted gold. You hear movement from the other side of the room, the rustle of fabric, the faint clink of a watch being fastened, and the subtle scent of cologne that has, over the last month, come to mean Jay.

It’s strange how quickly a scent can become familiar. Comforting, even.

“Morning,” his voice comes, deep but gentle, the way it always is before he fully wakes up.

You manage a small smile. “Morning.”

Jay stands by the dresser, adjusting his tie. He looks composed, neat as always. The perfect picture of someone who knows what he’s doing, someone who was probably ready for marriage long before you were. He glances at you briefly in the mirror, and the corner of his lips lifts just a little. It’s shy, tentative like he’s still unsure if smiling at you is something he’s allowed to do freely yet.

“You don’t have to get up now,” he says, reaching for his watch. “You looked tired last night.”

You hum in response, trying to sit up but wincing when a sharp pain twists low in your abdomen. It’s that dull, throbbing ache that you’ve known since your teens, the kind that doesn’t listen to logic or medication. You mask the pain with a quick inhale, hoping he doesn’t notice.

“I’ll get up soon,” you mumble. “Need to go to work, too.”

He nods, slipping on his jacket. “You’ll have breakfast before leaving?”

“Yeah,” you lie easily. “Of course.”

You can feel his eyes on you for a second longer than usual, as if he wants to say something else, maybe ask if you’re alright, but he doesn’t. That’s how it’s been since the wedding: small silences filled with almost-questions, the kind that hover between two people still learning how to fit into each other’s worlds.

When he finally heads for the door, he pauses, hand on the knob. “I’ll be back by seven,” he says softly. “Text me if you need anything.”

You nod again, forcing another faint smile. “Okay. Have a good day, Jay.”

“You too.”

The door closes with a quiet click, and just like that, the apartment feels too big again, the silence pressing against your ears. You stay there for a moment, staring at the empty space he left behind, before curling back under the blanket, pressing a hand to your abdomen as another cramp ripples through you.

You whisper to yourself, “It’s fine. Just another day.”

But it isn’t. Not today.

By the time the clock hits nine, you’re supposed to be halfway through your commute with coffee in one hand, headphones in, pretending to be functional.

Instead, you’re curled up on the couch in your oversized sweatshirt, a half-filled hot water bag resting against your stomach, the muted hum of the TV doing its best to distract you from the pulsing ache inside your body.

It’s one of those days. The kind where every cramp feels like a wave, rising and crashing without warning. You’ve had bad cycles before, but this one… this one feels like your body’s waging a quiet war.

You reach for the pain patch you’d bought last month, stick it onto your lower abdomen, and wait. Ten minutes later, it does almost nothing. The painkillers dull it a bit, but not enough. You sip warm water, then curl tighter into the couch, pressing the hot bag harder until it almost burns.

“Why today?” you mutter to no one, your voice small against the sound of a drama rerun playing on TV.

You think about calling in sick and after another sharp cramp that has you squeezing your eyes shut, you finally give in. You text your manager, “Not feeling well today. Taking the day off.”

It feels like a tiny relief, though guilt flickers somewhere behind it.

You switch off your work notifications and let yourself drift into a lazy rhythm. The day moves slowly. You nap, wake up, eat a few bites of the instant noodles you’d made, and then reach for the chocolates in the fridge. The sugar helps. A little comfort, small and familiar.

When afternoon light spills across the room, you’re lying on the couch surrounded by snack wrappers and an empty mug of hot chocolate. You think, fleetingly, about Jay.

He’s probably at work, neat suit, quiet voice, polite smile. You remember the way he always checks if you’ve eaten before he leaves in the mornings. He doesn’t say much, but the way he folds your laundry when you forget, or leaves a note reminding you to drink water- those small things have started to mean something.

It’s strange how care can be so quiet.

You sigh, pressing the hot bag against your stomach again. “He’d probably think I’m so dramatic if he saw me like this,” you whisper, almost laughing at yourself.

You picture his reaction, maybe that small frown he gets when he’s confused or worried. You’ve seen it once or twice, and somehow, it always makes your heart clench.

By the time the sun starts to dip below the horizon, the pain has eased just enough for you to sit up and switch on the lamps. You pull your hair into a messy bun, look at the clock - 6:42 p.m. Jay will be home soon.

And that’s when the panic hits.

The apartment looks like a snack tornado hit it. You shuffle to the kitchen, groaning softly as you gather wrappers and dishes, trying to make it look less like you’ve spent the whole day fighting for survival.

You’re still holding the half-empty chocolate bar when you hear the sound of keys turning in the lock.

Jay’s home.

Your heart skips. You’re not sure why. Maybe it’s because you don’t want him to worry, or maybe because you’re still learning how to let him see you like this.

You take a deep breath and turn toward the door just as it opens.

The door opens with its usual soft click, and Jay steps in with the faint chill of the evening following him. He looks the same as he did this morning: tie slightly loosened, hair a bit tousled from the long day, his expression calm but tired.

“Hey,” he says, voice low as he closes the door behind him. “You’re home?”

You straighten up quickly from the couch, trying to look less… pathetic. “Yeah,” you say, forcing a small smile. “I, um, took the day off.”

His brows rise, just a little. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you answer too fast, then soften your tone. “Just- wasn’t feeling too great this morning. Thought I’d rest.”

Jay nods, slipping off his shoes and hanging his coat neatly on the rack. You watch him quietly; he’s always so methodical, so put-together. Even his small movements carry that calm steadiness that you envy sometimes.

He glances at the coffee table that has the evidence of your day: the empty mug, the snack wrappers you missed, the rumpled blanket. His lips twitch in what might be amusement.

“You’ve had quite the day off, huh?” he teases lightly.

You laugh weakly, rubbing the back of your neck. “Yeah, something like that.”

He doesn’t press, just hums and disappears briefly into the kitchen. You hear the fridge open, then close, and when he returns, he’s holding two bottles of water. He hands you one wordlessly before sitting down on the couch beside you. The space between you is close but not touching, the kind of distance that still feels charged with awareness.

Jay looks at you for a moment, studying your face. “You don’t look too great,” he says, tone gentle but honest. “Want to skip cooking tonight? We can order something.”

You blink, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. “You don’t mind?”

He shakes his head, already pulling out his phone. “Not at all. What do you feel like eating?”

You hesitate. It’s small, but the fact that he’s asking, that he notices something off, makes your chest tighten a little. “Maybe… something warm? Comfort food?”

He glances up, meeting your eyes. “Ramen?”

You smile faintly. “With extra eggs?”

He chuckles under his breath. “Got it.”

Within minutes, he’s ordering, not just ramen, but your favorite side dishes too, and when he thinks you’re not looking, you catch him adding your favorite brand of ice cream to the order. Your heart does a quiet, inconvenient flip.

When the food arrives, you both eat at the low table, knees almost brushing, the warmth from the steaming bowls filling the quiet apartment. You find yourself relaxing more than you expected. Jay keeps the conversation light, talking about a coworker’s mix-up at the office, about a street musician he passed on his way home.

He doesn’t ask about your day again, doesn’t push. And somehow, that feels like the kindest thing of all.

After dinner, he leans back against the couch, looking thoughtful. “Want to watch a movie?” he asks. “Something funny maybe? Or do you want to pick?”

You hesitate, the dull ache in your abdomen starting to pulse again. “I think something light would be good,” you say softly. “Just… to take my mind off things.”

He nods, grabs the remote, and settles beside you as the movie starts to play, some old rom-com you both vaguely remember. The room fills with soft laughter from the screen and the glow of the TV.

And for a while, you almost forget the pain. You almost forget that you’ve been trying to hide it.

Almost.

But as the night deepens, and the cramps return sharper and meaner than before, you find yourself curling slightly inward, pressing your hand against your stomach. You bite your lip to keep from making a sound.

Jay laughs quietly at something on-screen, then pauses. His expression shifts.

He’s noticed.

You tell yourself to stay still. To breathe through it. To not make a sound.

But the pain is relentless tonight. A twisting, heavy ache that makes your eyes sting. You shift slightly, trying to ease it, pressing a pillow against your stomach, willing yourself to focus on the movie instead.

Jay laughs again, but when you don’t respond, his voice fades mid-sentence.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You okay?”

You blink quickly, wiping at the corner of your eye before he can see. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Just… tired.”

He studies you, the glow from the TV reflecting in his eyes. “You sure? You look pale.”

You give a weak smile, trying to deflect. “It’s fine, really. Just a long day.”

Another cramp hits, sharp and mean, and this time, you can’t hide it. Your breath catches, your fingers clench around the blanket. A quiet, involuntary sound escapes you.

Jay immediately pauses the movie. “Hey, wait-” he starts, worry breaking through his calm tone. “You’re not fine. What’s wrong?”

You shake your head quickly, heart pounding with embarrassment. “It’s nothing, really, I just-”

“Y/N.” His voice is firm but gentle. “Tell me.”

You hesitate, eyes dropping to your hands. This isn’t something you ever imagined explaining to him. You’ve only been married a short while, polite dinners, small talk, hesitant touches when passing each other in the hallway. This kind of vulnerability feels too much.

But the pain doesn’t let you stay silent anymore.

“I’m…” You swallow hard. “I’m on my period.”

Jay blinks, processing, and you rush to add, “The cramps just get really bad sometimes. It’s not a big deal, it’ll pass.”

The words sound small, apologetic. You hate that they do.

Jay’s expression softens immediately, the worry deepening into something warmer, gentler. “You should’ve told me earlier,” he says quietly. “You’ve been in pain all day?”

You nod, biting your lip. “It’s not always this bad. I tried to handle it.”

He exhales, the kind of breath that sounds like he’s trying to steady himself. “Okay. Just- stay here for a second, alright?”

Before you can ask what he’s doing, he gets up and disappears into the kitchen. You hear cabinets opening, the faint rush of water. A few minutes later, he returns with a hot water bag, your painkillers, and the half-finished chocolate bar you’d been eating earlier.

You blink at the sight, feeling a sudden lump in your throat. “You didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to,” he says, quiet but certain. “Here.”

He hands you the water bag first, and when you press it against your stomach, the warmth is instant relief. He sits down beside you again, close enough that your knees brush. Then, carefully, he offers you the painkiller with a glass of water. You take it silently, trying not to let your hands shake.

For a while, neither of you speak. The only sound is the movie resuming softly in the background. Then Jay shifts slightly, turning toward you.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s go to bed. You’ll be more comfortable.”

You nod, letting him guide you to your feet. He places a steady hand on your back as you walk, not too close, not too hesitant. Just… warm. Safe.

In your bedroom, he helps you lie down, pulling the blanket up to your shoulders. He sets the chocolates on the nightstand and the hot water bag back on your abdomen. Then, without a word, he turns off the overhead light, leaving only the dim bedside glow.

You watch him quietly, your chest tight. He’s moving around with such quiet care, like he’s afraid to disturb you, like every small gesture matters.

When he finally lies down beside you, there’s a pause. The kind that hums with newness, with the question of is this okay?

You shift closer, unconsciously seeking warmth. Jay hesitates, then carefully wraps an arm around your waist, his palm resting over the blanket.

The heat of his touch seeps through, soothing in a way the hot bag never could. He starts rubbing gentle circles over your stomach, slow and steady.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice a low whisper near your ear. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

Something in you breaks at that. All the quiet strength you’ve been holding onto all day dissolves. Your eyes fill again, but this time, it’s not just from pain. It’s from the softness of it all. His care, his gentleness, the way he’s here even though you never asked him to be.

You turn slightly, burying your face in his chest. His heartbeat is steady under your ear.

Jay’s hand moves up to stroke your hair, his other arm pulling you a little closer. He whispers again, almost absently, “You did well today. Rest now, okay?”

You don’t even realize when your breathing evens out. The pain dulls, your muscles loosen, and the world slips away in the warmth of his arms.

For the first time since the marriage, it doesn’t feel like you’re sharing space with a stranger.

It feels like something is quietly, irrevocably changing.

When you wake, the first thing you notice is the sunlight filtering through the curtains. It was warm, golden, and too soft to belong to early morning. You must’ve slept longer than usual.

The second thing you notice is him.

Jay is lying beside you, still half asleep. His arm is draped loosely around your waist, fingers lightly curled against your hip, his breathing slow and even. His hair falls messily over his forehead, a rare sight, you realize, because you’ve only ever seen him composed, neat, perfectly put together.

You don’t move at first. You just lie there, staring at the way the sunlight touches his face, at how peaceful he looks. It hits you then, how different this feels.

Last night isn’t something you can file away as a small act of kindness. It wasn’t a polite gesture. It was real. Gentle. Human.

And it’s the first time since your arranged marriage that you’ve felt like you belong next to him.

You shift slightly, the movement stirring him awake. His arm tightens instinctively before he blinks, eyes opening slowly. When his gaze lands on you, a soft smile touches his lips, sleepy and unguarded.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough from sleep. “You okay?”

You nod, smiling back. “Better,” you admit. “Much better, actually.”

He looks relieved, really relieved. “Good,” he says quietly. “You scared me last night.”

You flush a little, your cheeks warming. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just didn’t want to make it awkward.”

Jay’s brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face. “Awkward? You were in pain.”

“I know, but…” You hesitate, picking at a thread on the blanket. “We’re still… figuring things out. I didn’t want to dump something like that on you.”

He watches you for a long moment before sighing softly. “You don’t have to hide things from me, you know.” His voice is low, steady, but there’s a hint of something vulnerable beneath it. “I know this marriage wasn’t something either of us planned, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

You look up at him then, really look. There’s no hesitation in his gaze now. Just warmth.

“I know,” you whisper. “And… thank you. For last night.”

He smiles, the kind that starts small and then reaches his eyes. “Anytime.”

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It’s full of things unsaid, of quiet beginnings. You realize you’re still lying close to him, your fingers brushing his wrist. When he notices, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he shifts closer, his thumb gently tracing the back of your hand.

“You should rest more,” he says softly. “Do you want breakfast? I can make something.”

You chuckle lightly. “You cook?”

“Not well,” he admits, laughing too, “but I can manage pancakes if you promise not to judge.”

You grin, warmth spreading through you, not just from his words but from the effort, the way he’s trying.

“I’d like that,” you say.

He nods and reluctantly pulls away, stretching before heading to the kitchen. You watch him go, heart doing that quiet flutter again. The pain in your stomach is still there, but it’s gentler now, bearable.

You sit up, leaning against the headboard, wrapping the blanket around you. From the kitchen, you hear faint clattering and Jay muttering under his breath, something about burning the first pancake. You smile to yourself.

It’s domestic and imperfect, but it feels right.

When he returns, he’s holding two slightly uneven pancakes on a plate, wearing an expression that’s half proud, half sheepish. “Don’t laugh,” he warns.

You take a bite. It’s not great, but it’s not bad either. You make a show of considering it. “Not bad, chef Jay.”

He smirks, sitting beside you. “You’re lying.”

“Maybe,” you admit with a small laugh, “but I appreciate the effort.”

He looks at you for a long moment then, his gaze soft but searching. “You really do look better,” he says quietly. “I was worried I’d overstep last night.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t. You… made me feel cared for.”

Jay exhales slowly, his shoulders relaxing. “Good. That’s all I wanted.”

You reach out then, it’s instinctive, and place your hand over his. “You did,” you whisper.

The air between you shifts again, delicate and new. Jay squeezes your hand gently, then lets it linger there, a small promise in the space between your palms.

Later, as you finish breakfast, you find yourself leaning against him again on the couch, the same spot where the night before had unravelled into quiet intimacy. The difference now is that the silence feels comfortable, shared.

You glance up at him, your voice soft. “Jay?”

“Hmm?”

“I want to try,” you say, almost a whisper. “With this… marriage. With us.”

His expression changes, surprise first, then something deeper, something tender. “Me too,” he says. “We’ll figure it out together, yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He smiles, slow and genuine, and pulls you gently into his arms again. His hand finds yours, his thumb tracing small circles over your skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And as the morning stretches quietly between you, the soft rustle of the curtains, the faint warmth of sunlight, the fading ache of yesterday, you realize that maybe love doesn’t always begin with fireworks.

Sometimes, it starts with care. With gentle hands, warm blankets, and whispered words in the dark.

And sometimes, it begins with a hot water bag and a boy named Jay who stayed when you needed him most.

Three months later, the apartment feels different.

Not because the furniture has changed or because the sunlight falls any differently through the curtains but because the air itself feels warmer now. Lived-in. Shared.

Your mug sits beside his on the breakfast table, his tie draped over the back of a chair, your sweater hanging from the arm of the couch. Tiny things, scattered like pieces of two lives that have begun to intertwine without either of you noticing exactly when it happened.

Jay hums softly as he moves around the kitchen, hair still damp from his shower, sleeves rolled up, flipping pancakes with surprising ease now. You can’t help but smile. He’s improved a lot since that first disastrous morning.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, catching your gaze with a half-grin. “I told you I’d get better.”

“You did,” you tease. “Still not as good as mine though.”

He laughs, setting a plate in front of you. “One day, I’ll make you admit otherwise.”

You grin, taking a bite, and realize this is what comfort feels like.

The kind that comes from learning someone’s rhythms: how he always hums when he’s focused, how his right eyebrow twitches when he’s pretending not to smile, how he automatically reaches for your hand when you’re crossing the street together.

Jay sits beside you now, sipping his coffee, scrolling lazily through his phone. You lean your head on his shoulder, a soft habit that’s formed naturally over the last few weeks.

“Big day today?” you ask, tracing small circles on the back of his hand.

He shakes his head. “Just meetings. You?”

“Nothing major,” you say. “Though I might stop by the store on my way home.”

He nods. “Need me to pick you up later?”

You smile. “You’re too good to me, Jay.”

He shrugs, pretending nonchalance, but his lips curve up. “You make it easy.”

You stay like that for a while. The quiet between you filled with morning sounds and a comfort that no longer feels new but beautifully familiar.

Then Jay sets down his cup, glances at you, and tilts his head slightly. “Hey,” he says softly, “are you feeling okay today? No cramps or anything?”

You blink, surprised. “You remembered?”

He nods, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Of course. You looked miserable last time. I told myself I’d make sure you never had to go through that alone again.”

Your chest tightens, eyes stinging a little with warmth. “You really didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to,” he says simply, the same words he used that night.

It hits you again how steady he is, not loud about his care, not dramatic. Just there. Always there.

You reach out and cup his cheek lightly, your thumb brushing against his skin. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

Jay smiles, soft, real. “Maybe I do.”

You lean forward, and this time, you don’t hesitate. You kiss him. It is a low, unhurried, full of everything you haven’t said in words. When you pull back, he’s still smiling, his hand finding its familiar place against your waist.

“I’m glad we’re doing this,” you whisper.

“Me too,” he says. “I think we’re getting pretty good at it.”

You laugh, resting your forehead against his. “Yeah. Pretty good.”

Outside, the day begins, the distant noise of the street, the smell of coffee, the gentle hum of life continuing. Inside, everything feels still, safe, and right.

And as Jay presses a quick kiss to your temple before heading out, you realize that love didn’t rush in all at once.

It grew slowly, quietly, through care, through laughter, through the kind of mornings that feel ordinary but are anything but.

The kind of love that started with a small act of kindness on a painful night and became the softest, surest part of your life.

The end~

“Why do you two look like a tragic drama finale?”

You jerked back, nearly dropping your mask. Keeho straightened himself so fast he looked like someone hit the upright button on a robot. Jiung raised a brow, arms crossed, clearly judging everything happening in front of him.

“She has to leave,” Keeho said, waving weakly in your direction. “We don’t want people thinking… you know.”

“That we’re dating,” you added, cheeks heating even under your disguise. “If someone caught us, it’d blow up instantly.”

Jiung stared at you both like you had announced the sky was purple.

“Blow up?” he repeated. “You mean… again?”

Your stomach dropped. “Again? What do you mean again?”

Jiung let out a dramatic sigh, the kind that only someone who had been living with Keeho for years could perfect. Then he pulled his phone out and held it between you like a mirror reflecting your worst fear.

On the screen: dispatch photos. Crystal clear. You and Keeho, hand in hand outside a café from two days ago. Another shot of him laughing at something you said. A headline bold enough to poke you in the eye.

You blinked. Keeho blinked. The world blinked with you.

“Hold on,” Keeho said, jaw dropping. “We were off our phones since Friday.”

“No shit,” Jiung said, sounding far too pleased with himself. “We were scared that you two were dead or something."

You snatched the phone and scrolled through the comments, bracing yourself for disaster. Except… it wasn’t disaster. It was the opposite. Supportive messages. Fans joking about being the last to know. People saying you looked cute together. A few dramatic “I knew it!” comments sprinkled in.

Keeho leaned over your shoulder, reading them with wide eyes. Then he looked at you. You looked at him. A grin tugged at your mouth. His mirrored it like a reflex.

Jiung groaned instantly. “I know what this means.”

Keeho was already nudging you gently back toward the hallway. “Well, since the secret’s out…"

“And I'm still here ,” you added.

“Ew,” Jiung said, pointing at both of you like a fed-up parent. “Just go back to his room already."

But Keeho was laughing now, hand warm on your back as he guided you away. You let him, feeling lighter than you had all morning.

The door closed behind you, and Jiung’s annoyed muttering faded out. You and Keeho looked at each other again.

No more running. No more hiding. Just the two of you, finally breathing.

Theo

The late afternoon in Seoul felt like someone turned the city’s volume knob all the way down. The streets were quiet, the shadows long, and you and Theo walked side by side with warm coffee cups cradled between your palms. Both of you wore caps and masks, bundled in the usual “please don’t look at me” idol disguise. It worked well in a neighborhood like this, where even stray cats seemed too lazy to care.

“So you have filming on Monday,” Theo said, squinting at the sky like his brain was trying to organize clouds into a calendar. “And Tuesday?”

“Dance practice. All day.”

Theo made a noise that could only be described as a defeated hum. “That leaves… Wednesday night?”

“Recording.”

He sighed into his coffee as if it might magically rearrange your schedule for you. “Okay. Thursday?”

“Rehearsal.”

“Friday?”

You winced. “Music show.”

Theo stopped walking, staring at you like your planner personally offended him. “How are we supposed to date if the universe keeps booking you like a hotel during festival season?”

You laughed, bumping your shoulder into his. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Still, the problem lingered between you like a puzzle missing half the pieces. You pulled out your phone anyway, checking your schedule again, hoping some miracle gap would appear.

Except… you didn’t even make it to your calendar.

Because right on top of your notifications sat a Dispatch article. With your name. And Theo’s name. And a thumbnail that made your heart stop.

A photo. A car. Your faces close, his hand on your cheek, your lips definitely, undeniably touching.

Your breath caught. “Theo…”

He looked over your shoulder, and his eyebrows shot straight up. “Wait. That’s us.”

“Yeah,” you whispered, already tapping the article with trembling fingers. “From last week. After dinner.”

The article loaded, full of dramatic language and arrows pointing at the exact pixels where your romance lived. You felt your face heat under your mask, dread rising like a tide.

But then you scrolled.

And the comments… They weren’t furious. They weren’t cruel. They were celebrating.

They’re adorable together.I knew Theo was seeing someone, he’s been glowing.Honestly? Good for them.Protect them at all costs.Power couple energy.

Theo leaned closer, shoulder brushing yours, reading along. Slowly, a soft laugh slipped out of him, warm like melted chocolate.

“Well,” he said, setting his coffee on a nearby bench. “That’s… not what I expected.”

You shook your head, stunned. “Me neither.”

For a moment, you just stood there, letting the relief melt every knot in your chest. Then Theo reached up, hooked a finger under the elastic of his mask, and pulled it down.

“What are you doing?” you asked, eyes wide.

He took off his cap too, letting the late-afternoon light touch his face. He gave you a gentle, almost shy smile, the kind that made you feel anchored.

“We don’t have to hide anymore,” he said simply.

Your heart did something soft and ridiculous. You reached up, pulled off your own mask and cap, the cold air brushing your bare cheeks for the first time all day.

Theo stepped closer. His hand found yours. And with the city as your witness, he kissed you. Not a rushed, hidden, don't-get-caught kiss. A real one. Right there on the quiet street.

Jiung

Your phone balanced on your pillow as Jiung’s face filled the screen, warm lamplight painting him in gold. He looked tired, but the kind of tired that still somehow made him look annoyingly handsome. You curled deeper under your blanket, smiling at the way his eyes softened the moment he saw you.

“I miss you,” he said, voice low and sincere, like he had been holding the words in his mouth all day.

“I miss you too,” you sighed. “It sucks that we can’t just… show up whenever we want.”

Jiung nodded dramatically. “Yeah. I should be allowed to teleport. Or at least steal the company car.”

“You’d crash it,” you said with a laugh.

“I’d crash it boldly,” he argued, hand over his heart.

The two of you drifted into soft flirting, letting the distance fade for a little while. Jiung stretched out on his bed, hair messy, expression playful.

“So,” he said, voice dipping into a jokingly smooth tone, “what are you wearing?”

You rolled your eyes so hard it practically echoed. “Really?”

“I'm kidding!” he said, breaking into laughter. “Well...Mostly.”

You shook your head, smiling too much to pretend you were annoyed. Just as you were about to fire back with a line of your own, your phone buzzed with a text notification. Your manager.

A single message. A link.

You frowned. “Hold on, my manager just sent me something.”

Jiung’s eyebrows knitted together. “What is it?”

You clicked the link. A Dispatch article opened. And there you were. And Jiung. Walking side by side a few days ago, your hands almost—but not quite—touching. Another picture caught him looking at you like he was memorizing your smile.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

“Um… Jiung?” you said quietly.

He sat up immediately. “What’s wrong?”

You turned the camera so he could see the article. “We got leaked.”

He froze. Breath held. Eyes wide. His whole body tensed like he was preparing for impact.

“What? When? How—” His voice cracked slightly. “Is everyone freaking out? Are you okay? Do I need to talk to the company or—”

“Jiung,” you cut in, scrolling down. “Wait.”

You reached the comments and blinked. Then blinked again.

Because the fans weren’t mad. They weren’t barking. They weren’t declaring the end of civilization.

They were… thrilled.

I KNEW IT. LOOK AT THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER.Finally, a healthy relationship in this industry.I ship them so hard.He’s so soft around her. Please let them date in peace.Power couple, I said what I said.

Jiung stared at your screen like it was a glitch in reality. “Wait… they like us?”

“Apparently,” you said, laughing softly. “A lot of them already shipped us anyway.”

He blinked, shook his head, blinked again. “This cannot be real.”

“It is,” you said. “Look.”

He leaned closer to his camera, eyes wide with disbelief. A small, breathless laugh left him.

Then he went completely still.

“Jiung?” you asked.

The call ended.

Your screen went black.

You sat up instantly. “What—? Jiung?”

Before you could even call back, a text arrived.

JIUNG: I’m on my way to you. Don’t move.

Your heart thudded. Another message popped up immediately.

JIUNG: If the whole world knows now, then I’m not wasting any second.

You stared at your phone, a blush rising slowly, impossibly warm.

He was coming. He was really coming.

Intak

The red carpet shimmered under the lights, a stretch of crimson that felt more like a stage floor than a walkway. Cameras flashed like a swarm of electric fireflies, each one snapping pieces of the night into little rectangles of chaos. You stood with your group, smiling and posing, doing the usual choreography of grace and glamour.

But every so often, your eyes drifted sideways.

Intak stood with P1Harmony a few meters away, dressed too well for your heart to behave. When the crowd noise dipped, you caught him sneaking a glance at you. He bit back a smile when your eyes met, and you had to look away before your face betrayed everything.

Your leader nudged you. “You’re smiling like you’re in a romance drama.”

You ignored her. Mostly because she wasn’t wrong.

Just as your group shifted to the interview zone, an interviewer stepped forward with a grin sharp enough to warn you trouble was coming.

“So,” he said cheerfully, “how do you feel about the leaked photos of you and Intak?”

Your smile froze. “I’m sorry?”

“You haven’t seen them?” He held up his tablet, already swiping. “Dispatch posted them this morning.”

Your stomach tightened. You leaned in. There it was. A series of photos of you and Intak from days ago. Laughing together outside a studio. Walking a little too close. And one where his hand brushed your waist in a way that definitely didn’t look “just friendly.”

“Oh…” You blinked. “Those.”

The interviewer chuckled. “Fans are loving it, by the way. Most of the comments say you two are adorable.”

That part hit you harder than the photos. Fans… excited? Supportive?

You looked around, heart thudding. On the other end of the carpet, Intak was being shown the same pictures by another interviewer. His eyes went wide, then wider, then he looked up directly at you.

You both froze. Two deer in the brightest headlights known to man.

The interviewer at your side spoke again. “So, are you two dating?”

You swallowed, heat blooming across your cheeks. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your mind buzzed with the fans’ reactions, with the pictures, with the way Intak looked like someone just unplugged him and plugged him back in.

Then — he moved.

Intak offered the interviewer a rushed apology, stepped away from his group, and crossed the carpet like a man walking toward his fate. Cameras turned instantly, catching every step. Your group members gaped. Someone whispered “oh my god” under their breath.

He reached you, breath a little unsteady, and paused just long enough to search your face.

Then, with a soft exhale, he slid an arm around your waist in full view of every reporter, fan, and camera on planet Earth.

The crowd gasped. The staff froze. Your heart went airborne.

You looked at him, stunned. He shrugged, a reckless spark lighting his eyes. “Well… fuck it now.”

A laugh bubbled out of you — helpless, wild, relieved. “Yeah. Fuck it.”

The carpet erupted in flashes as he leaned in and kissed you.

Not a timid whisper of a kiss. A real one — warm, certain, the kind you give when you finally stop hiding from the thing you want.

People screamed. Someone dropped a mic. Your leader nearly fainted.

But Intak’s hand on your waist kept you steady, and when you pulled back, both of you were breathless and smiling like you finally stepped into the world you’d been pretending not to want.

Soul

Your dorm was quiet except for the soft hum of the heater and the faint rustle of blankets. Soul lay beside you, half-tucked under your comforter, hair messy from the way he’d been nuzzled into your shoulder minutes earlier. His eyes flicked toward you, curious, when you sat up and reached for something on your nightstand.

“Oh wait, I made you something,” you said, holding out a small bracelet.

It was simple, woven with two colors — yours and his — tied neatly with a careful knot. Soul sat up a little straighter, blinking at it like it was a treasure.

“For me?” he asked softly.

“Who else?”

He took it between his fingers, inspecting each bead with a kind of quiet wonder that always made your heart ache in the best way. Then he lifted his gaze to you, lips curling at the corner.

“So…it's a friendship bracelet?” he teased lightly.

You scoffed, leaning in and kissing him before he could run with the joke. His smile grew against your lips.

“More like a love bracelet,” you whispered.

His cheeks flushed the sweetest shade as he slipped it onto his wrist. “Guess I’ll have to wear it forever.”

You melted a little at that — okay, a lot — before you climbed out of bed to grab drinks from the kitchen. It took maybe thirty seconds. But when you returned, Soul wasn’t lounging lazily anymore. He was sitting fully upright, staring at his phone like it suddenly learned how to talk.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, stepping closer.

He turned the screen toward you.

Dispatch. Photos. You and him entering a building together, your heads bent close, him holding the door like he always did. Another picture of him looking at you with that soft-eyed expression you thought only you ever noticed.

Your breath caught. “Oh.”

Soul nodded slowly, still processing. The article didn’t sound harsh, though. Not scandalous. And the comments… your eyes widened.

They were full of heart emojis. Jokes about how obvious it had been. Messages cheering him on. Fans saying they shipped you two already.

You glanced at Soul. His expression wasn’t panicked — just overwhelmed, unsure, hesitant. He looked like he was waiting for instructions he didn’t want to need.

“Hey,” you said gently, sliding onto the bed beside him. “You don’t have to do anything. Not a single thing. No pressure. No rush. Not unless you’re ready.”

His shoulders loosened at once, relief washing through him visibly. Then he leaned in and kissed you — slow, grateful, full of quiet feeling.

“Thank you,” he murmured against your lips. “I just… want to do it right.”

You smiled. “You always do.”

Later that evening, you curled up on your couch, phone propped against your knees as you watched the newest P1Harmony interview. Most of it was normal — jokes, smiles, Intak being endlessly chaotic — until the interviewer paused, leaning forward.

“Soul, is that a bracelet? It’s really cute.”

Your heart stopped.

Soul lifted his wrist toward the camera. The bracelet gleamed under the studio lights.

“Oh,” he said calmly, “this is from my girlfriend.”

The room on screen erupted — members laughing, fans in the live chat going feral — but Soul only sat there with the softest, proudest little smile.

You covered your face with your hands, grinning so hard it hurt.

He didn’t just accept being leaked. He claimed you.

And he did it wearing your bracelet.

Jongseob

Jongseob’s dorm was warm, lit only by his desk lamp and the glow of his phone screen. He sat leaned forward in his chair, scrolling through the live chat as thousands of comments zipped by like neon fish in an aquarium. You lounged on his bed behind the camera, half-watching the live, half-scrolling your own phone.

“Hyung, show us your new rap!” “Seob, why is your hair perfect today?” “Blink twice if Intak stole your snacks again!”

He chuckled quietly, answering questions here and there with his usual calm charm. You loved watching him like this — focused, relaxed, totally in his element.

Then a comment shot across the screen in all caps.

DISPATCH POSTED PICS OF YOU AND Y/N!!!!

He paused mid-sentence.

You sat up instantly.

Another comment followed. Then another. And another.

THE PHOTOS ARE CRAZY CLEAR OMG YOU TWO LOOK SO CUTE IS IT TRUE??

Jongseob blinked, staying composed for the camera, but you could see the confusion ripple through him like a skipped heartbeat. He didn’t react right away — just kept answering another question to buy himself time.

Behind the camera, you scrambled to search your phone. And there it was.

Crystal-clear dispatch photos. You and Jongseob walking out of a small studio together. Your hand on his arm. His hoodie draped around your shoulders. Both of you smiling like you’d forgotten the world existed.

Your stomach tightened. But the comments… They weren’t hateful. They were ecstatic.

You stood up and quietly stepped behind his chair. He glanced back at you, brows slightly raised, and you held your phone out to him.

The photo glowed between you.

For a second, neither of you moved. Then Jongseob’s lips curled into a slow, amused smirk.

He looked from the phone to you, then back to the phone. Then he nodded once, small but decisive, like he’d already made up his mind.

You smirked back. Because of course he would turn a leak into a power move.

His live chat exploded as soon as you stood and stepped into frame. The comments became a storm.

NO WAY THAT’S HER?? THEY’RE TOGETHER?!?! I’M CRYING IN THE CLUB I KNEW ITTTTT THIS FEELS ILLEGAL AND YET??? I SUPPORT.

Jongseob calmly scooted his chair back, creating space beside him. You sat down next to him, trying not to laugh at how absolutely chaotic the chat became.

He looked into the camera, completely composed except for that tiny mischievous spark in his eye.

“Well,” he said, tilting his head toward you, “at least we can be honest now.”

The comments combusted.

Before you had time to breathe, he slid an arm around your waist and pulled you gently but confidently toward him. Your breath caught, but the warmth of his hand at your side steadied you instantly.

Then he kissed you.

Not a shy kiss. Not a hesitant one. A sure, quiet, real kiss — soft and certain, like he’d been waiting for this moment to be allowed.

Fans screamed in the chat. Hearts flooded the screen so fast the app almost glitched.

Jongseob pulled back only enough to meet your eyes, his voice still calm but his cheeks definitely pink.

“I guess the secret’s out,” he murmured.

You laced your fingers through his, leaning your head against his shoulder.

You knew you were sick when Barry stopped teasing you.

No smug remarks. No playful eyebrows. Just soft eyes and the gentlest hands imaginable tucking you into bed like you might dissolve if he moved too fast.

Which was ironic, really.

Because Barry Allen always moved fast.

But not with you.

Not when you were like this—pale, weak, sweating through your pajamas and shivering under three blankets. Not when you could barely lift your head without groaning.

Not when he was scared.

He didn’t say it, of course.

He never did. Not the way most people would.

But you’d been together long enough to know what fear looked like on Barry Allen.

It wasn’t panic. It was quiet.

It was the way he slowed his steps when he walked into your bedroom. The way he held your tea like it was something fragile. The way he’d pressed a hand to your forehead and murmured, “You’re burning up,” and then didn’t let go for five whole minutes.

The way he never left your side without promising, “I’ll be right back.”

Like you’d slip away while he wasn’t looking.

You’re half-asleep when he comes back this time—arms full, hair windblown, still dressed in sweats and a hoodie that definitely wasn’t his when you fell asleep (Cisco’s? Maybe? You’re too feverish to care).

He sets a tray down on your nightstand, all soft clinks and quiet care. You blink up at him, dazed.

“Soup,” he says gently. “Tea. Ginger chews. Two kinds of cough drops. And—” he leans closer, grinning, “a new thermometer. Because I know the old one lies to me.”

You huff a tired laugh. “You bought a new thermometer?”

He shrugs, clearly unrepentant. “I may have stolen it from STAR Labs.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” he replies, kneeling beside the bed. “It’s a terminal condition.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart squeezes.

Barry reaches up, brushing his knuckles along your cheek. You lean into his touch instinctively.

“How’s the fever?”

“Still awful.”

He hums, reading your face. “Headache?”

You nod.

“Sore throat?”

You nod again.

He kisses your forehead softly, then mumbles, “Don’t move.”

Before you can ask why, he’s gone.

Gone-gone. Speedster blur gone.

You blink. He’s back three seconds later holding—

“A cool rag,” he says proudly, tucking it behind your neck like he’s just performed a miracle. “Dampened to exactly 74°F.”

You squint at him.

“I used my watch,” he explains.

You sigh. “You’re gonna set the bar so high for other men it’s gonna mess with the timeline.”

He smirks. “Good. Let them fear me.”

You open your mouth to tease him again but dissolve into a coughing fit. It racks through your chest, makes your eyes water. Barry’s there instantly, hand rubbing slow, soothing circles between your shoulder blades, whispering the whole time:

“I’ve got you. Breathe. I’ve got you.”

And when you finally go still, exhausted and slumped against him, he whispers something even softer.

“I hate seeing you like this.”

You rest your cheek against his collarbone. “I hate feeling like this.”

“I know.”

His arms stay wrapped around you as you drift again, body warm but safe, heart fluttering slow under the press of his.

Barry sits behind you in bed, legs on either side of yours, your blanket-swaddled body resting against his chest like a human marshmallow. You’re tired, overheated, and grumpy, but he’s determined to get you to eat something before you pass out again.

So now? He’s got a spoon in one hand and your hair tucked behind your ear with the other.

“C’mon,” he coaxes gently, bringing the spoon to your lips. “Just one more bite.”

You groan. “No more. I’m a sick little sack of soup now. I’m done.”

“You’ve had, like, six spoonfuls.”

“Which is, like, five more than I wanted.”

He chuckles softly, pressing his nose into your hair. “You’re dramatic.”

“Says the man who sped across town for three brands of cough drops.”

He shrugs. “Your suffering makes me reckless.”

You laugh—quietly. It hurts your throat. But it’s real.

Once he’s finally convinced you to sip some tea, he sets everything aside and settles in again. His arms wrap around you automatically, blanket and all, his hands rubbing lazy circles over your ribs through the fabric.

“Feel a little better?” he asks.

You nod against his shoulder. “Warm. Full. Safe.”

He presses a kiss to the side of your head.

“That’s kinda my whole brand.”

You don’t mean to fall asleep.

You just sort of drift.

Your head tucked under his chin. His hands never leaving you. The sound of his heartbeat steady in your ear, rhythmic and grounding.

And in that hazy, half-conscious space between dreaming and waking, you murmur:

“I think I wanna marry you.”

It’s soft. So soft you almost don’t hear it yourself.

But Barry goes still.

You’re too far gone to notice—eyes closed, breath even, fever making the world heavy and slow.

But he hears it.

He feels it.

And god, he’s never been so in love with anything in his life.

He holds you a little tighter. Presses a kiss to your temple. And whispers, almost inaudibly:

That is, until your body betrays you again.

You jolt upright, heart hammering against your ribcage like it’s trying to escape. Breath shallow, fingers trembling uncontrollably, a sickly wave of nausea crashing through you. The sheets feel damp. Your skin, cold and clammy. The world spins in jagged half-turns.

You brace yourself on the mattress, vision swimming.

And then you feel it—

a soft rustle of feathers.

Sunday shifts beside you. He doesn’t speak at first. His golden eyes open slowly, catching the dim glow of the cabin lights like twin suns behind clouds.

"...You're awake," he murmurs, voice quiet and smooth, but the tension behind it betrays his calm.

You nod, barely. Your teeth are chattering too hard to form a proper sentence. It’s hard to even breathe, let alone explain the panic rising in your chest.

In seconds, he’s upright, a hand reaching out to steady your shaking shoulder. His touch is cool, grounding—not demanding or overwhelming, just there. Present. A gentle anchor.

“Shh... I’m here. Stay with me,” he says softly, his halo flickering with subtle pulses. “Try not to push it away. Just... breathe. As slowly as you can manage.”

You attempt to mimic his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. But it catches, and tears sting your eyes as your throat closes again.

“I know,” Sunday whispers, his wings gently unfurling as he slides behind you on the bed, wrapping one around your back like a soft, living blanket. “It feels like you’re drowning. Like your body’s forgetting how to be your own. But you are here. You are safe.”

You lean back against his chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm behind your shoulder blades. He begins to hum—low, melodic, like a lullaby sung through centuries. It doesn't erase the panic, but it cuts through it. Anchors you, again.

His hand slips into yours, thumb stroking across your knuckles. “You don’t have to hide this from me,” he says, quieter now. “Even if it breaks the peace of night, even if it shatters the illusion of serenity I’ve clung to—I would rather see you like this than never see you at all.”

Eventually, the trembling subsides. The nausea fades. The heartbeat in your chest slows to something more manageable. Sunday’s wing remains around you, steady and soft.

“I used to think dreams were the only place safe from pain,” he murmurs into your hair. “But even nightmares can be shared. And that... makes them gentler.”

You drift back to sleep like that, wrapped in warmth and quiet understanding.

You don’t know what wakes you first—the nausea, the clammy cold, or the sense that your own body is turning against you.

Your eyes fly open and you gasp, sitting upright too fast. The room tilts violently. Your hands won’t stop shaking. A buzzing fills your ears. Like panic and vertigo had a baby and cranked the volume to max.

You barely register the sound of the door opening until a low voice breaks through the chaos.

“Well, well. You’re either trying to win an Oscar for Most Dramatic Midnight Wake-Up, or something’s wrong.”

Aventurine steps into the room, shirt only half-buttoned, rose-tinted glasses pushed up on his head. The usual smirk fades the moment he sees your state—your hunched posture, your wide eyes, the way you're clutching the blanket like a lifeline.

He moves faster than you expect.

“Okay. Hey. Hey—look at me,” he says, dropping to one knee in front of you. He cups your face with a gentleness that borders on reverence, despite his casual tone. His hands are warm, gold rings cool against your fevered skin.

“You’re shaking like a bad investment, sweetheart. Talk to me. Panic attack? Apnea? You gotta give me a clue here.”

“I—I can’t—breathe,” you stammer, chest rising in shallow bursts. “Everything’s... spinning. Heart’s... too fast—”

“Okay. Noted. Not ideal, but fixable,” he says, already kicking into action. He shrugs off his overcoat and wraps it around your shoulders like armor. “Lean into me. Focus on the sound of my voice. Count if you have to. Or pretend I’m saying something charming—it’s not hard, really.”

You try to smile, but the tremor won’t leave your lips. Aventurine notices. His expression softens.

He slides up beside you on the bed, looping an arm around your back and pressing your forehead to his shoulder.

“Let me guess—you woke up like this, no warning? Body’s staging a coup?”

You nod faintly. He exhales, eyes narrowing. Not with annoyance—never at you. But at whatever did this to you.

“I hate this. I hate seeing you like this. Not because it’s messy. Not because it’s ugly. But because I can’t gamble my way out of it. No dice roll, no strategy, just... waiting it out.”

You shiver violently, and he tightens his hold, murmuring into your hair.

“But here’s the thing. I’ll wait. As long as it takes. You can shake, you can cry, you can throw up on my fancy blazer if you need to—I’ve got more. I’ve got you.”

Minutes pass.

The storm in your chest begins to subside, slowly replaced by exhaustion and the heavy lull of safety. You slump against him, drained.

Aventurine kisses your temple, lingering. “There we go. That’s my favorite sound—when your breathing finally slows.”

You mumble a weak apology. He snorts.

“Apologize again and I’ll fake a heart attack just to make it even,” he teases. “Next time this happens, wake me. I don’t care if it’s 3am or if I’m giving a speech to the IPC Board.”

He tilts your chin gently.

“You’re not a burden. You’re the only bet I’d stake everything on.”