ISABELLA'S RADIO STATION ❪ BROOKLYN BABY – LANA DEL RAY ❫
The heavy bass pounds so hard against the sticky floorboards of the venue that you can feel it vibrating right in your teeth. It’s loud and the kind of place you usually avoid, but tonight you don’t give a damn.
Because up on that dimly lit stage is Jay.
He’s a vision of shattered perfection. His hair is sweaty as he leans to speak into the microphone. He’s wearing that oversized vintage leather jacket you absolutely love— the one which makes his shoulders look impossibly broad, draped perfectly over a faded graphic tee that rides up just a sliver when he reaches for the mic.
He strums a chord, but his eyes? They’re glued entirely to you. Like you’re the only breathing person in this entire dive bar. Like you’re the oxygen in the room.
It’s completely unfair. It’s exactly the kind of obsessive stare that settles in your gut and spreads like liquid fire through your veins, ending in a faint, traitorous flush on your cheeks. You look away first, opting to stare at your plastic cup of water, though you’d rather die than admit he still gives you butterflies after an entire year of dating.
When the set finally ends, the crowd thins out into a disorganized mess. You weave through the sweaty bodies towards the back of the room to wait by the green room door.
That’s when you feel it. A clammy hand wrapping around your waist. Too tight. Too presumptuous.
“Hey sweetheart, you look a little lost,” a voice slurs near your ear, smelling sickeningly of tequila.
You stiffen, instantly pushing at the guy’s chest to create space. “I’m waiting for my boyfriend. Back off.”
“Oh, come on. He’s not here right now, is he?” The guy steps closer, his fingers digging uncomfortably into your hip. You open your mouth to yell, but suddenly the comforting scent of sandalwood wraps around you —a scent that is quintessentially Jay.
Before the creep can even blink, a hand clad in chunky silver rings clamps down on his shoulder and rips him backwards with a violent force.
“She said she’s waiting for her boyfriend,” Jay snarls, his voice dropping into a register so dark and threatening it sends a shiver straight down your spine.
The drunk guy stumbles, gets his footing, and wildly swings a fist. Jay doesn’t even flinch. He sidesteps the sloppy punch and drives his own fist directly into the guy’s jaw. A loud crack echoes under the fading house music, and the guy crumples to the sticky floor, groaning.
Jay takes half a step forward to finish the job, his chest heaving, dark eyes completely feral, but you grab the back of his leather jacket. “Jay. Stop. Let’s just go.”
He freezes instantly at your touch. The raging edge melts out of his posture as he turns around, wrapping a protective arm around your shoulders and practically carrying you out the back exit.
You are going to lose your mind.
The fluorescent lights of Jay’s tiny bathroom are way too bright (you keep telling him to change those, and he keeps forgetting) . You are sitting on the edge of the porcelain sink, the first-aid kit open on your lap, sighing at the choices made by your entirely too impulsive rockstar boyfriend.
Stupid, stupid Jay. He should have just yelled at the guy. Gotten a bouncer. Done literally anything other than throwing a bare-knuckle punch at a skull. If you had been faster, you would have pulled him aside and berated him for his poor life choices. But instead, you are here, swiping a cotton pad soaked in rubbing alcohol over his bleeding knuckles.
Jay hisses, stepping closer so he’s trapped perfectly between your knees.
“Hold still,” you scold, your eyes tracing the damage. These are his hands. The long fingers. The calloused fingertips. You’ve felt them trailing down your spine a thousand times, and the thought of them getting crushed against some idiot's jaw makes you want to scream. “You play guitar, Jay. Your hands are your livelihood. What if you broke a finger? How are you supposed to play?”
Jay rests his good hand lightly on your thigh, his thumb brushing back and forth in a soothing rhythm that makes your heart stutter. “Don’t care.”
“You’re a musician.”
“I’m your boyfriend first,” he says, his voice entirely too serious.
You look down at his hands, imagining how it would feel to just ban him from ever leaving the apartment so he can’t get hurt. Just keeping him here, cuddling with him after a long day, his face buried in the crook of your neck while you play with the messy ends of his hair.
He shifts closer, resting his chin right against your stomach and looking up at you through his messy hair. “Did he hurt you?”
“No. You got to him before he could.”
Jay hums, a low vibration against your stomach. “Good. If he had actually hurt you, I would have broken my other hand on his face.”
“Stop saying that,” you mutter, wrapping a white bandage carefully around his knuckles, securing it tightly but gently. You smooth your thumbs over the back of his hand.
Jay watches your face the entire time. He doesn’t wince — not even when the alcohol bites into his wound or the bandages pull tight. His eyes are soft, almost unbearably so, practically dripping with an adoration that makes you feel a little weak in the knees. He lifts his uninjured hand to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.
“You were so brave tonight, baby,” he murmurs, leaning up just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“I didn’t do anything,” you whisper, your hands dropping to rest on his shoulders.
“You handled it. You pushed him away. Good girl.”
The praise melts every single ounce of annoyance right out of your system. It’s entirely unfair how easily he disarms you. You trace his annoying face, every single inch of it captivating, from the sharp slope of his jaw to the stupidly long eyelashes to the stupidly plush lips that are currently smiling against your skin.
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, letting him pull you down off the counter and into his chest.
“I’m obsessed with you,” he corrects easily, burying his face in your hair, breathing you in like he’s been drowning all night. “And next time, I’ll just hit him with the bass guitar. Protect the hands.”
You groan, hitting his chest lightly. “I will actually kill you.”
“I love you too,” he laughs, the sound vibrating against your ribs. And not for the last time, you think that as stressful as he is, you wouldn't trade him for the world.
isa: this one's for @courire bc she gets it 🤝we NEED more rockstar!jay who's down bad for his girl ^_^ rockstar jay enjoyers rise ^^ :b
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Inspired by pooks @luvyeni … this was so easy for me to write for some reason. 1.1k words, FLUFF, pet names and a couple smooches, fem!reader, mentions of an older sister in won’s part
Heeseung
He might be more excited about it than you were
Actually crazy because the other girls were shoving each other and jumping and it just happened to fall into your hands 😇
You look at the bundle of flowers in shock while all the guys at your table start nudging and elbowing your boyfriend
“You know what that means~”
When you come back over to the table you still look vaguely surprised, but you just set the bouquet down and go to take your seat like nothing happened
Meanwhile hee has spent the last five minutes planning your wedding
He pulls you into his lap before you can even sit in your own seat and whispers in your ear
“So we’re getting married huh?”
Now you’re both blushing messes 🤭
Jay
Bro has been ready to marry you since about the day you met
He’s the one that tells you to go with the other girls when they announce the bouquet toss in the first place
So when you actually catch it he just lights up
The proudest, most lovesick smile on his face
While the other girls fawn over you he turns to the guys at his table
“Guess who’s getting married!!”
The boys jump up and down with him and shout
“Do you even have a ring?”
They all shush sunghoon bc that doesn’t even matter 🙄
You’re flushed when you make your way back to him, fresh off of being mercilessly teased by your own friends
“So what size ring do you wear?”
“WHAT?”
Jake
He hypes you up before the toss, rubbing your shoulders like you’re a boxer about to go in the ring and not a bridesmaid trying to catch a bouquet
“Go get them baby!” He yells as you walk over, placing a light tap on your bottom while you roll your eyes and try to pretend you don’t know him
But he really really wants you to catch the flowers, so who are you to disappoint your man 🤨
Some girl almost knocks you down, but you catch those flowers !!
You can’t even bask in your success because Jake is running to the dance floor to pick you up and spin you around 🥹
“The wedding gods have spoken! You have to marry me!!”
You’re laughing like a maniac because he’s still spinning you and he’s so happy
“In what world would I ever say no?”
Hoon
He’s lost it
Like they called all the girls up to the floor for the toss and he was so confused when you winked at him before running up 😭
He asks Jake what you’re even doing before being told that whoever catches the bouquet is the person to get married next
His eyes get so wide as he watches the giant group of girls wrestle for the bundle of flowers
“They take this seriously huh?”
The boys let out actual cackles when the crowd disperses and you’re standing there with the flowers in your hand 😇
“Wait so that means-?”
He gets nothing but nudges and teases in response
“Hoon I caught it!!” You yell excitedly when you rejoin him at the table
His ears are pink, but he sends you the prettiest smile
He slides one of his rings off and slips it gently onto your hand
“Good job baby.”
Sunoo
“You have to catch that bouquet!!” He tells you excitedly. “It’s fate ok! Catch it!!”
You laugh as you join the other bridesmaids on the dance floor where the bride is
It’s silly, you know you’re gonna marry him anyway, but if he tells you to catch the bouquet then you’re gonna catch that bouquet 🙂↕️
Sorry to the girl you accidentally elbowed… this ain’t about her
The first thing you do when you catch it is turn to look at your boyfriend
While normally the guys look slightly embarrassed or shy, your boyfriend is jumping up and down and cheering
“That’s my girl!! Look she caught the bouquet!! We’re gonna get married!!”
You laugh at his reaction and run over to join him
“We’re gonna get married!” You join in with him
He takes the bouquet from you and kisses your lips
“Dang right we are.”
Jungwon
“You’re gonna go?” He asks when you stand up to participate in the bouquet toss
His ears are already red, and you let out a soft laugh
“Won there’s like fifty girls, I’m not gonna catch it. It’s just tradition!”
It’s your sisters wedding and she’d actually murder you if you didn’t participate, which Jungwon realizes is a valid point
“Ok, well have fun! Don’t get knocked out!”
You roll your eyes and stand on the outside of the crowd, not that interested in catching it
You swear your sister does it on purpose because explain how the bouquet is flying straight at you, completely away from every other girl on the dance floor 🤨
You barely have time to grasp it before she’s running over to you
“Oh it’s fate!! You’re next little sis!!”
You hug her with the flowers and turn to find your boyfriend, expecting him to be hiding his face or not paying attention
Instead he’s got the biggest smile on his face, deep dimples poking into his red cheeks while the other guys wolf whistle
He walks up to you and gives you a kiss
“I guess we can’t argue with fate.”
Riki
He’s laughing at you
“I hope that mean bridesmaid trips you when you try to catch it.”
“Shut up!” You smack his arm before walking away, sticking your tongue out when the mean bridesmaid he mentioned walks straight past you and to the front of the group
You didn’t care that much about catching the bouquet, you just wanted to annoy your boyfriend 😁
So when it actually lands right in your hands (knocked off its original course by the mean bridesmaid who hit it so hard it almost hit you in the face) you are SHOCKED
People immediately start cheering, and you don’t even have to look to know it’s coming from the table your boyfriend is still standing at
When you finally spare a glance to him, he’s gone entirely red and is being jostled by the rest of the guys at your table
You set the bouquet down nonchalantly on your table, pressing a kiss to his cheek before whispering “I wear a size 6 ring baby.” And then running to the bathroom to touch up your makeup
He will never recover (and is secretly making a Pinterest board of every size 6 ring he finds)
“you learned how to do braids for me, didn’t you?”
jay’s fingers pause in your hair, and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe.
your voice is light, teasing, but he feels it like a punch to the gut. you’re sitting between his legs on your bed, his fingers gently working through the strands of your hair, and your question knocks the balance right out of him.
he clears his throat, trying to sound casual. “what? no. obviously not.”
you raise a brow, but keep your eyes forward. “really?”
“yeah,” he says quickly, too quickly. “i learned it for… for my niece.”
you turn slightly, just enough to shoot him a playful look. “your niece who lives overseas?”
jay blinks. “yeah. we… we facetime.”
“you braid her hair over facetime?” you ask, stifling a laugh.
he wants to die. “look, it’s called remote support,” he mutters.
you giggle, leaning back slightly so your shoulder brushes his knee. he thinks he might pass out.
“can you hand me the hair tie?” jay asks in a lower, sweeter tone, praying his voice wouldn’t actually betray the blush on his face.
“i already gave you one,” you reply, a little confused. did he lose your hair tie?
jay doesn’t tell you the truth—that he spent hours watching tutorials at 2am just to figure out the perfect method. that he practiced on a pillow. that he kept the hair tie you left in his car one night and never gave it back. that he wears it on his wrist like a silent confession.
“oh,” jay murmurs, staring at the hair tie on his wrist like it just betrayed him, “c-can i get another one?”
jay screams and begs internally, he doesn’t want to let go of the one on his wrist.
“sure,” you chirp after a pause, glancing at your hair tie already wrapped around his wrist, “here.”
he finishes the braid in silence, fingers trembling only slightly as he loops the elastic you just handed him. not the one on his wrist. he can’t let go of that one.
“done,” he says quietly, voice low and careful. “do you like it?”
you turn to look at him fully, and the moment you meet his eyes, his breath catches.
“it’s cute,” you say, lifting your fingers to touch the end of the braid. “a little messy. but i like it.”
he smiles, but it’s tight. strained. like he’s holding something back.
you tilt your head. “still for your niece?”
jay hesitates.
you don’t look away. you’re waiting for him.
“no,” he says, finally. it’s soft, but honest. “not for her.”
your lips part. surprise flickers across your face, but you don’t pull away. you don’t move at all. you just wait.
so he breathes in, then out. and tells the truth.
“i learned it for you,” he says. “because you always forget your hair ties. because the ends of your braids are never even. because i wanted to help. because i wanted to be the one who noticed.”
you don’t respond immediately. just stare at him like he’s something delicate and golden, like he just dropped his heart in your hands and you’re afraid to squeeze too hard.
“i like when you notice,” you whisper.
he leans in.
it happens fast, but it doesn’t feel rushed. it feels inevitable. his hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing the soft skin beneath your eye, and then his lips are on yours.
your breath hitches in your throat, but you kiss him back without hesitation. it’s soft at first—slow, searching, a quiet question.
then your hand fists in the fabric of his sleeve and he deepens the kiss with a quiet sound in the back of his throat, like he’s been holding this in for too long. your mouths move together in perfect, breathless sync, like you’ve both waited forever.
you gasp when he nips lightly at your bottom lip, and he immediately soothes the sting with a gentle kiss, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him exhale sharply against your lips.
when you finally pull away, you’re both breathless, flushed.
“that wasn’t bad,” you whisper, eyes half-lidded.
jay raises a brow, lips pink. “not bad?”
you hum. “for someone who braids with trembling hands.”
he lets out a soft laugh, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “you think that was good?” he murmurs. “i’m better with practice.”
you smirk, leaning forward so your noses bump. “then prove it.”
his smile disappears into another kiss—this one deeper, hungrier. he shifts, slowly guiding you down to the bed, your back hitting the mattress as his weight presses into you, careful and warm. his hand cups your cheek again, the other braced beside your head.
you whimper softly when his lips drag down to the corner of your mouth, then along your jaw. his nose nudges the sensitive spot beneath your ear, and your breath hitches when he plants the softest kiss there.
“you’re seriously dangerous,” you mumble, breathless.
“you started it,” he whispers back, smiling against your skin.
your hands find his shoulders, your fingers pressing into the firm muscle beneath his shirt. he kisses you again, slower this time, more drawn out—like he’s savoring you, memorizing the taste, the feel.
when he finally pulls back, just enough to see your face, his eyes are darker than before. “you okay?”
you nod, lips parted. “yeah. just… wondering why you waited so long.”
he shrugs, brushing his thumb along your bottom lip. “i was too busy learning how to braid.”
you giggle, the sound muffled when he kisses you again—gentle but insistent.
“you’re lucky you’re cute,” you say between kisses.
jay grins. “you’re lucky i’m hopelessly in love with you.”
you blink.
he freezes.
but then you smile—slow, soft, radiant. “hopelessly?”
“completely,” he says. “terminal case.”
you pull him back down, kissing him again, arms wrapping around his neck. “good.”
jay kisses you like it’s all he knows. like he was made for it. and as he curls up beside you, your legs tangled together, he glances down at the black hair tie on his wrist.
he’s never taking it off.
not now.
not ever.
스루 ܃ for my goat @boyfhee ! happiest birthday, caelcium >< i love you smsmsm, i hope you like this one hehe 💗
Sypnosis: after a long day of work, Jay comes back home and needed recharge from you ( which he smothers uou in kisses)
Warnings: flufffff, lots of kissinggg
Playlist🎧: I wanna be yours- arctic monkeys
K- cigarettes after sex
Sweet- cigarettes after sex
📍a/n: thought I’d make KISS KISS KISS fic for every memberrrr, this is Jay version, hope you enjoy ittttttt
Heeseung ver | Jay ver | Jake ver | Sunghoon ver | sunoo ver | jungwon ver | Ni-ki ver |
The front door clicked shut, followed by the heavy thud of Jay’s gym bag hitting the floor. You looked up from your laptop just in time to see him trudge into the living room, shoulders slumped and his usual sharp posture completely melted by a twelve-hour shift.
"Rough day?" you asked softly.
Jay didn’t answer with words. Instead, he walked straight over to the couch, collapsed face-first into your lap, and let out a long, dramatic groan into your sweatpants.
You laughed, threading your fingers through his dark hair, gently massaging his scalp.
"That bad, huh?"
He shifted, turning his head so he could look up at you. His sharp jawline and dark eyes usually gave him a intimidatingly cool resting face, but right now, looking up at you from below, he just looked like a needy puppy.
"My brain is completely fried," he mumbled, his voice thick with exhaustion. "I need a recharge."
"Okay. Do you want me to make you some tea, or—"
Before you could finish the sentence, Jay hooked his arms around your waist and straighten himself up. In one fluid, surprisingly strong motion, he hovered above you until you were lying flat on your back against the sofa cushions, with him hovering directly over you.
"Jay, wait, my laptop—"
He deftly grabbed the computer from the edge of the couch and set it on the coffee table without looking, never breaking eye contact with you. "The laptop can wait. I said I need a recharge."
"And how exactly do you plan to—"
He didn’t let you finish. He dropped his head down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, and pressed a warm, lingering kiss right against your collar. A shiver ran down your spine, but before you could melt into it, the romantic vibe completely shifted.
Jay started working his way up your jawline, delivering a barrage of loud, rapid-fire kisses.
Mwah. Mwah. Mwah.
"Jay! Ah, stop, that tickles!" you shrieked,
trying to squirm out from under him. But despite his exhaustion, he was a solid wall of muscle, easily trapping you beneath him while keeping his weight off you.
"No stopping," he muttered against your skin, a muffled grin pressing into your cheek.
He moved to your face, sprinkling your left cheek with kisses, then your right, intentionally making them as loud and dramatic as possible. You were laughing so hard your stomach ached, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders to try and push him away, but you were entirely powerless against his muscular body.
He kissed the tip of your nose. He kissed your forehead. He even kissed your chin until you had to tuck it into your chest to hide.
"You're ridiculous," you gasped, breathless and giggling, your face completely flushed.
Jay finally paused, propping himself up on his elbows. The tired shadow that had been over his eyes when he walked through the door was entirely gone, replaced by a bright, affectionate glow. He loved this—loved knowing he could completely unravel your composure just by being a menace with his affection.
"I feel much better now," he stated matter-of-factly, a smug, satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
"Oh, really? Glad my suffering could cure your fatigue," you chuckled.
Jay’s expression softened, the playful smirk melting into something incredibly tender. He reached down, his thumb gently brushing a stray strand of hair away from your forehead, his eyes dropping to your lips.
"Thank you," he whispered softly.
He leaned down one last time, but there was no teasing this time. He pressed a slow, deep, incredibly sweet kiss to your lips—the kind that made the rest of the world completely fade away.
When he pulled back, he didn't move away. He just sighed contentedly, burying his face right back into the crook of your neck, his arms wrapping tightly around you. Within minutes, his breathing evened out, completely asleep, leaving you pinned under the sweetest, most affectionate human radiator alive.
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SYNOPSIS! love is a crazy thing, and you’d always been absorbed in the idea of it, 100% committed as your school’s cupid but cupid deserves love too, right?
GENRE! strangers to lovers, basketballer!jay (there’s barely any basketball in this), mutual pining, simp!jay, high school au
WARNINGS! some sexual innuendos, drinking, partying, mentions of cheating and abortion
WORD COUNT! 9OOO+
MIKAELA’S! inspired by some book i read i think… this is from my old blog eumpapas, i’m not copying anyone please… also happy mega birthday to the man who made me start watching iland🙏🏻 DNA jay this one is for you.
BEING cupid isn’t easy, and it’s definitely not a task for the weak. Carrying around a heavy basket of heart shaped tipped arrows and a bow slung behind you as you matchmake, aim, and shoot, injecting pink that knits into a person’s bones.
Many people applaud you — for so intelligently pairing up matches together. But what they don’t realise is the immense effort it takes. Cupid may be an icon of love, but you barely have one of your own. And you wish, that there is another cupid out there aiming their love tipped arrow at you.
i. ugh, men
The piece of paper in your hands rubs against your palms as you take yet another glance at the capitalised name written in neon pink before looking back up at the blond hair boy in front of you.
“Jay? I mean- not discriminating or anything but you want me to link you up with Park Jongseong?” You furrow your brows, looking at Jake with pure curiosity.
His eyes widen as he realises what this might have seemed like. “No, no,” he furiously shakes his head, “he’s my bro, what are you even talking about.”
You tilt your head as you scan the nervous footballer who’s too busy fidgeting in his seat to realise, and you think it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him so nervous — even more than before a crucial game, and you wonder what’s come over him.
“Jake, the neon pink sparkly pen? If you’re not in love with your best friend, what puts you in such a lovesick mood?” You ask, flapping the crumpled piece of paper at him as he sighs.
“Firstly, it’s a smiggle pink scented pen, get it right. And secondly, it’s not really about matchmaking, I just need your help with something.” He groans at the accusations you’ve pasted on him.
You purse your lips, “Jake, you know I don’t do anything other than matchmaking. I would really like to help, but I’ve been a little tight on time recently.”
Before you can grab your bag from the small round coffee table, he swiftly brings his hands up, stopping you from leaving. His eyes held such desperation that your body seemed to move back down by itself.
“Look, this is kind of like matchmaking, think of it as helping a blossoming couple out. Please.” His plea of desperation squeezing your heart ever so slightly.
“Has this blossoming couple got something to do with you and that pretty best friend of yours?” You raise your eyebrows, as you shoot a knowing look at him. It wasn’t rocket science, and it didn’t take a genius to know that Jake was deeply in love, fully head over heels: entranced with his best friend. And as Cupid, no doubt you had such information at the back of your hand.
Jake holds back a smile by biting his lips, eyes darting away in fear of professing his love, “look, Jay’s just been such a cockblock recently, they’ve been friends for a while but nowadays they’ve been hanging out together a lot more. Alone. Do you understand how big of a crisis this is? All I need you to do is watch him, maybe use those matchmaking skills of yours to match him up with someone?”
You look at the pitiful state of the boy in front of you, with his hands constantly moving to brush his hair back in his withered stressful state. And you can’t help it — as someone who’s all about love, you find yourself agreeing to help him, even if you were already swarmed with four other couples to matchmake.
You find the list in your head getting longer as you ask Jake about Jay, the tiny book in your head that’s filled with possible matches seeming a little empty at Jake’s description of Jay’s ideal type, likes, and dislikes.
It wasn’t the first time you’ve heard about Jay, in fact it was probably about the nth time with the amount of girls who come swarming to you with bleak hope that you’d be able to matchmake them with him. And of course, you couldn’t deny the fact that he was attractive — with his coveted status as the vice captain of the basketball team, and not to forget his matte black Porsche he drives to school everyday, it would be weird if he wasn’t popular.
But what’s all that when Park Jay had a dick for a personality. Well, at least that’s what the rumours say.
And you’re about to confirm it right here right now as you stand outside the sports hall, the squeaking of court shoes piercing through your ears as you stall by rechecking Jake’s text.
Jay’s at basketball practice till nine, maybe you can catch him there.
The time on your phone blares a bright ‘0925’, and you curse yourself for not having the guts to say no to Jake — because as much as you are Cupid, you’re also weak hearted, and you don’t know how to handle a devilishly handsome boy who’s said to have a bad attitude.
You let out the breath you’ve been holding, getting ready to push the door until it swings open from the other side and the vision in front of you turns from the freshly painted navy blue doors to a tall, lean boy with a number 99 plastered on the front of his jersey.
Holy shit, you think, and you wish you could duck around quickly and scurry away, yet your feet remain firmly planted to the ground as your eyes linger on the face in front of you.
“Something wrong, Cupid?”
You open your mouth only to close it yet again. Because despite the harsh tone or recognition his voice held, you were mesmerised. You’ve only ever seen Jay from afar and now up close, he looks like a collection of violet-tinted heartbreak and soft silver snow — as the ferocious intensity he emits settles itself in the sharp dip of his cupid’s bow. His beauty is devastating, and your task is forgotten for a moment as you take in his black hair damp with sweat and the slender set of collarbones revealed by his jersey.
The boy looks like an angel and siren all at once, and fuck it if he isn’t the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. Even prettier than Lee Heeseung, the attractive basketballer you’ve known since middle school (who you had a tiny crush on back then.)
It takes you forty two seconds and Jay bending down to snap you out of your gaze. And you find yourself not being able to do anything but shift back as the boy smoothly ties your shoelaces which you must have left undone in a rush to reach here on time.
“Thanks,” you say honestly, voice too breathy as your veins pump with embarrassment.
He smiles softly, “don’t mention it, wouldn’t want you to trip and fall, right?”
You pause, and you hate how awkward you are during unplanned encounters. “Right,” you say, stumbling over your own words, “I mean- uhm, yeah! Thanks, but- I could have tied them myself.”
Jay laughs, and it’s a little husky as you capture the sound. “Right. You’re cute when you ramble.”
Right now, you wished you possessed the charm you usually carried when talking to other targets — bold and feminine. But with a mere sentence, Jay had the ability to reduce you to a young girl talking to an infatuation for the first time. And you think the rumours are false, because the boy in front of you seemed nothing like the playboy you’ve heard about: barely seeming to have an ounce of smooth confidence in his bones.
“You’re here for me, aren’t you Cupid? Did someone want you to matchmake me with them? Or are you on some sort of mission?” His sudden change of tone throws you off, arrogance radiating off him as the look in his eyes change. Bolder, sharper.
You think that you’re an idiot, for falling for his innocent façade, for believing those rumours were fake. Because now Jay looks like he’s playing god, with a devil’s smirk etched onto his face.
“Does the name Jake Sim ring a bell?” It amazes you how blunt he sounds, mouth tense and one corner slightly tilted down. And it pisses you off, how handsome he still seemed.
“He’s the captain of the soccer team,” you try, avoiding the question all together, “who doesn’t know him.”
The boy in front of you seems unsatisfied, “not what I was asking and you know it,” he declines, a borderline genius glinting in his eyes.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
He smirks, brushing his hair back, “you’re telling me that my best friend didn’t hand you a note with my name on it, asking you to keep an eye on me?”
Fuck. How does he know?
You send him a cool grin — and thank goodness your usual calm and composed exterior is back — as you slowly walk towards him, “I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Not everything in life is about you Jay, so get lost.” You pause. “Please.”
A part of his tenacity amazes you when he fails to keep his mouth shut, and you feel annoyed at his stubborn persistence. “Everyone knows your little love business, Y/n,” Jay elaborates, making you grit your teeth. His voice is like liquid mercury, toxic yet smooth. “There’s always talk about a new happy couple and a pretty pretty girl who set them up.”
And as if on instinct, your hands move up to twirl the ends of your hair, “what about it, Park?”
“You’re telling me that Jake Sim didn’t meet you today? Look me in the eyes and say it.”
You stare into the eyes of the boy who looks like he could be a model, heart betraying you as it escalates. “I didn’t meet Jake Sim at Starbucks today. Quit bothering me, alright?”
“I didn’t say it was Starbucks,” Jay states brazenly, his head tilting in princely arrogance as you watch a small smirk settle on the crook of his mouth. “I thought good girls like you never lie.”
“Fucking hell,” you breathe in sharply, “get lost.”
Jay tucks one hand into his pocket, tugging his lips into a small smile, “You go first, I’ll follow you.”
Your cheeks heat a dark shade of red as you dread to have to tell Jake that Jay knew of your deal.
“Wait,” he says as you turn, gently grabbing your wrists. He might seem a bit rough on the outside, with arrogance lining his collarbones, but when he touches you, it’s surprisingly soft. “Don’t tell him I know. All I’ve been doing is giving her advice about approaching Jake and I don’t want to ruin any surprise she might have planned.”
You nod slowly, pieces coming together in your head. “So you want me to be your double agent?”
Jay smiles, and if you were honest, it might have been the most genuine you’ve seen him today. “Why not? Not like you’d take the chances of spoiling a couple’s confession. Live a little.”
You roll your eyes at his comment, “I live a lot, Park, maybe more than you’ve ever lived.” You pause, “ and if you want me to, you should fix that attitude of yours. God knows how you bag girls acting like a dick.”
Jay presses his hands to his chest in mock pain. “Your words hurt, Cupid,” he pouts, eyes glistening, “so are you in?”
“Depends,” you admit, “maybe if you take me on a ride in that cool car of yours.”
He thinks for a moment. “Fine.”
A smile blooms on your lips, and you’re too triumphant to notice the way Jay’s breath hitches as he takes a small step backwards, as if your aura was too potent, too powerful for him to breathe in.
“Deal.”
ii. a short guide on handling a crazy heart
The last place you’d ever think of telling your best friend, Yunjin, about your encounter with a certain vice captain was in the bathroom of a stranger’s house, with the latest hits blaring into your eardrums. “He’s got a dick for a personality,’ you scream over the music as she fixes her hair in the mirror, “he’s arrogant, infuriating, and he doesn’t know when to stop.”
“Sounds like someone I know,” she replies, giving you a knowing look through the mirror, and you roll your eyes at her comment. “So what exactly did Jay want you to do again?” Yunjin’s eyebrows raise as she asks her question for the fifth time this week, and you think if your friend wasn’t so pretty, you would have purposefully messed up her hair in annoyance.
You sigh, “he wants me to be a double agent of some sort, he doesn’t want to ruin his hard work of giving advice,” you admit, “I’m practically sandwiched between two best friends.”
“Aw, you guys are like a pair of cupids,” Yunjin says thoughtfully, “you and Jay. And I guess it brings no harm. Though you might be pissed with his personality, someone has to get under that thick skin of yours. He might just be the one to do it.”
You shoot her the finger accompanied by a glare as the two of you finally exit the bathroom to the bustling scene of the party, with sweaty bodies swaying to the rhythm of music blasting from the speakers.
“Y/n!” A golden voice calls out, making you turn over your shoulder, to find Jake waving you over excitedly, with a tall boy dressed in all black beside him, leaning against the wall coolly as he gazes at you with hooded eyes.
There’s an ineffable feeling that crawls into your stomach when you see Jay, as if he held all the power in the world to crush you with a glance. “Come play beer pong with us, we need two more people.” Jake's voice goes through your ears before leaving through the other side as you nod aimlessly, eyes trained on Jay’s figure — lean back muscles that were visible through the shirt that hugged his figure, as you and Yunjin follow them into another room.
“Me and Jay against the two of you,” Jake grins as he nudges you by the shoulder to the other side of the ping pong table, a few familiar faces surrounding the area.
“I’m out, ask Heeseung to play instead,” Jay mutters under his breath, but you catch it despite the loud chatter amongst the crowd. And it dims the small excited flame burning in your heart.
You watch as Jake sighs, “come on bro, don’t be a party pooper. First Sunghoon ditches to go god knows where with that neighbour of his, and now you?” Jay moves to comb through his slicked back black hair, eyebrows furrowing as he calls Heeeung over.
Looking at Heeseung, you realise that Jay and him were two completely different kinds of beautiful: Heeseung had a sharp jawline and soft curves; Jay, on the other hand, had a kind of edge and arrogance constantly lining the corners of his mouth, and it’s unconventional. To say the least. Everything about him was to you.
“Come on Park, don’t spoil the fun,” you pitch into the conversation, as the three heads turn towards you, “or are you scared you’re going to get trashed by two girls?”
Jay mutters a chain of words under his breath as he steps out of the tiny circle they’ve made, towards you, his gaze centred on you. And it suddenly feels silent as Jay’s eyes start at the tips of your toes, sliding across the smooth expanse of your legs and past your torso, lingering on the slight curvature of your neck before landing on your lips. Your swallow is embarrassingly audible in the unusual quietness, but you soon clear your throat.
He’s so handsome it makes you want to scream. You hate how good he looks; you hate how he looks at you, like you’re something of his affections. And you hate yourself for actually liking the attention, because even though you always state that you hate him, you know it’s not true.
Jay just gets on your nerves.
“Fancy seeing you here, Cupid. Who knew you could ever look so stunning?” And just like that, the moment’s over.
“Shut the hell up, Park. All you have to do is throw a ball into a cup, or are your basketball skills that bad?” You challenge him, and Jay lets out a laugh: a real laugh that you want to hear again and again and again, because it sounds like silver music and he’s beautiful.
And you hate yourself and your feelings.
“If that's what you think,” he breathes, as he stares into your eyes, “let’s make a bet then. If I win, you have to come to a basketball game of mine — because you’ve clearly not been to one, wearing my jersey, cheering for me. And if you magically happen to win, I’ll do anything you want me to.”
Maybe his car, maybe you could ask him to give you his car, you think as you set your mind on winning. Not one ounce of doubt that you’d be able to beat Jay, because despite not having attended one basketball game, you think that you had sufficient skill to win. He can’t be that good, right?
And once again Jay proves you wrong as he effortlessly scores cup after cup, and you’re buzzed, barely able to comprehend your surroundings as the crowd cheers his and Jake’s name. The only words you hear clearly is Jake’s extremely loud cry of excitement as Jay throws yet another ping pong ball into the last cup on your side of the table.
“See how it’s done, angel? I’m not vice captain for no reason,” he smirks as he rounds the table to your side. Though you’re half gone, you’re suddenly grateful for the dim lighting because you’d be caught dead by the boy next to you if he sees your flushed cheeks at the new nickname he’d just given you.
“Anyone told you not to randomly call strangers angel?” You hiss, as he gently wraps an arm around your waist, steadying your wobbling figure. Jay shrugs, and you huff out a breath, “it does something to them, okay?”
The boy looks down at you, thumb brushing over your cheeks — and you tell your weak heart to calm down, “what does it do, angel? Tell me,” he mutters under his breath, and he’s too close to you, because you can feel the weight of his words sink into your body as the hairs on the back of your neck stand.
“It hurts me, them, right here,” you reply, closing your eyes to tame the nauseating feeling in your brain, as your finger points to your heart, “makes their heart go boom.”
You don’t see anything, but you can feel Jay’s hands wrapped carefully around the nape of your neck, fingers entangled in your hair, as the other cradles the smooth, glass-like skin of your jaw, thumbs once again brushing with a tantalising shimmer. His breath smells of sangria and mint, and the sensation is just warm as you’re cast unceremoniously under his addicting spell.
“Yeah?” He whispers, and you nod softly.
“Yeah,” you answer, “so stop it, whatever that was. It’s annoying.”
Your eyes open and you see Jay smirking in his trademark expression, and you click your tongue in annoyance, pretending as if your heart wasn’t about to jump out of your chest.
“But that’s what you are, aren’t you? Cupid - Angel, same thing.” He replies, and you’re about to answer, but decide not to as his words swirl around in your chest.
“What are you even doing here anyway?” you groan, changing to topic as you furrow your eyebrows, vision betraying you as Jay’s devilishly handsome face duplicates itself under intoxication. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to drink when you were such a lightweight.
“Don’t think too hard, angel,” Jay teases, “or else your head will start hurting.”
“Shut up asshole,” you roll your eyes, trying to concentrate on the boy in front of you instead of the pounding in both your head and chest.
Jay grins, and you can see a little bit of evilish impurity and jaded sleekness — like a trained jaguar waiting to pounce. “Shut me up then,” he murmurs, “kiss me, angel.”
“If I kissed you, you wouldn’t be able to handle it,” you announce, and you busk in this moment because you’re sure you’d forget it tomorrow morning.
“And if I kissed you, I probably wouldn’t be able to stop.”
Your vision goes black.
You wake up buzzing out your mind, surprisingly in your own bed, with not a hint of remembrance of last night’s drunken conversation.
“Just get out, get some fresh air, it’s good for hangovers,” Yunjin says, all dolled up and ready to patronise the new cafe she’s been raving about, while you sit at the edge of your bed, staring daggers at her with your hair all messed up and head still spinning.
You groan, “are you insane,” your hand moving up to rub your eyes furiously, “must feel good not to be a lightweight.”
Maybe it’s your friend’s persuasion skills or maybe it’s just the fact that you’re easily persuaded because after ten minutes, you find yourself decently dressed and walking into the small diner situated around the corner as the striking ring of the bell pierces into your head, making you wince.
“Jake, fancy see you here again,” Yunjin shouts across the diner to a small four person booth where you see said boy’s head popping out.
“Yunjin, Yn,” Jake waves, as Yunjin pulls you yet again to Jake, exactly like how she did yesterday night. “You know my best friend,” Jake introduces, staring at her as she waves, a bright smile that could bring a boy to his knees.
“Cupid or yn, right?” She asks, with clear confidence exuding out of her, “Jay’s cupid.”
You cough at her words, eyes darting to Jake’s face as you tilt your head in question. “Jay’s told me or well me and Jake about you.” She clears up, moving your suspicions away from her best friend.
“Right,” Jake chimes in, “surprised you’re still alive after yesterday. You knocked out mid conversation with Jay and he drove you and Yunjin home.”
“Come again,” you turn to look at Yunjin, eyebrows furrowed as she gives you a guilty look.
“He had a nice car, and he offered, what could i even do with you alone,” she murmurs under her breath and you slap her shoulder.
“Actually, Jay’s here if you want to talk to him,” Jake brings up, looking around for the boy. And your eyes widen at his words, tugging Yunjin’s sleeves as an indication to leave.
“Yn, Yunjin,” and you curse yourself because Jay sounds so good in the early hours of the morning, too good, with his slightly raspy and deep voice that you wished to hear over and over.
You can’t bring yourself to look at him, knowing how you are when you’re drunk. Embarrassment swallowing you whole and spitting you out at the thoughts of what you might have done in your drunken state consuming you.
“You okay angel?” You turn around at the sound of the nickname that pinches at your heart, “after what happened last night, I thought you’d never see the light of day again.” The familiar devilish smirk is cued and you know you shouldn’t be trusting him yet you are as your cheeks heat up.
Jay chuckles at your abashed state as he gazes at you, wondering how you looked so good even in a plain white shirt and shorts. Like an angel, and he thinks the nickname he’s given you is spot on.
“Don’t remember? Then I’ll leave it to your imagination,” he says, leaning into you. As you freeze, eyes dart from his face to his lips for a second before looking back up. You don’t know what’s come over you because your usual calm demeanour has been flushed out, replaced with the resounding of your rapidly beating heart.
“Can’t believe you’d do such a thing to me, angel.”
Your imagination runs wild especially after you watch Jay walk out the diner with a winner’s smile on his face, head racing with embarrassing scenarios as he consumes your mind day and night.
iii. pink eyes, pink hearts, the whole world turns pink when i’m with you
When you meet Jake again at the same small rounded Starbucks table, you tell him Jay has no intentions of getting together with his girl. He smiles and tells you that there’s no longer a need for you to ever talk to Jay again, and for some reason it bugs the hell out of you.
You don’t know why. Maybe it’s because you can’t stop thinking about the golden confidence that surrounds his body like second skin, or the way he walks — like he’s it. Maybe it’s the way his hair still looks perfect after hours of sweat and playing basketball, or maybe it’s just because he knows exactly how to get you heated.
You hate thinking about him too much, because you’re afraid that your cheeks will flush a cherry red and you’ll start remembering how he bent down to tie your shoelaces or how his muscular arm wrapped gently around your waist as he entertained your drunk blabbering ( you cried for three days upon remembering this, cursing Yunjin for not helping you out ). So you don’t think about Jay, how he’s so so pretty and you certainly don’t think about the straightness of his nose, or the birthmark on his neck.
It’s a Friday night, and the campus is empty, students all gathered to watch the football game. And you feel an uneasy sensation settling at the bottom of your stomach. Something’s terribly off, you realise, as you look at your shadow and see another following you at an awfully close distance.
I fucking hate men, you conclude, as you clutch the pepper spray you keep in your jacket pocket, and you continue walking in the same direction like nothing’s wrong. You can’t call Yunjin, because she’s busy cheering her head off at the football game, you think as you try to strategise. And you silently curse as you watch the shadow get closer, it’s fine, you think, you’re strong and fast — and your trusty pepper spray never betrays you.
You turn around and spray the small can in the face of your follower, jumping back to see if the chemicals did the desired damage. But when the air clears, all you see is Jay’s gorgeous face crying profusely.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” you repeat again and again, and he doesn’t say anything. “I’m so sorry, Jay. Are you crying?”
The boy in front of you doesn’t look at you, blinking through his red eyes and burning tears as he takes the tissue you’ve offered him. You watch his swollen, puffy eyes as tears roll down and collect at the corner of his chin.
It’s not the time to laugh, you think, maybe just a little. And you have a strong urge to whip out your phone from your back pocket and take a picture of the once in a lifetime view in front of you.
So you do. And Jay isn’t having it.
“You know,” he says, voice scratchy, “you’re the most difficult fucking person I’ve ever met in my life.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes at his obvious compliment, “how would I know that you weren’t some pedophilic stalker who’s come to kill me!” You look at his pitiable state and you stop, “I’m really sorry.” Your voice softens.
“Say it again.” And his commanding tone makes you feel not so apologetic anymore.
“Go to hell.”
Jay sighs in annoyance, “that’s cute,” he replies, and you ignore the way your heart skips a beat. “I just saw you and wanted to talk to you, and maybe give you my jersey, for our bet.” His voice reminds you of springtime love and dragonfruit hibiscus, of frenzied thrills and mysterious shadows.
“Oh, where is it?” You ask, as if the thought of wearing his jersey to watch your first ever basketball game didn’t excite you even a little bit. His fingers clasp around your wrist, pulling you to a carpark where he had parked.
He unlocks his car, one hand still pressing the piece of tissue against his eye as the other swiftly opens the boot of the car. “Here, it’s washed, don’t worry — since you seem like that kind of person.”
You give him a look, as you watch him remove the tissue from his eye. It’s turned a shade of pink now, less puffy and less glassy. “What exactly do you mean by that Park, and here I was thinking of treating you for ice cream in return for giving you a pink eye.”
He huffs a tired sigh, “with the way you’re tiring me out, you should treat me for ice cream.”
And you look at Jay, who’s glowing under the rim streetlights despite his obvious red eye ( kudos to you ). With cheekbones that cut like ice and eyes liquid scotch, Park Jay is an alcoholic beverage and he doesn’t even know it. You’re addicted, even if your mind disagrees with your heart.
Stars could gleam all throughout the night sky and yet you’d still prefer to watch them through his eyes. And you think that you’re fucked, because you’ve never really thought of anyone like that. Not even Lee Heeseung, you only liked him because he was the fastest runner in middle school, but Jay — Jay made you feel like treasured snow in a globe kept by a bedside, he makes you feel like a fever dream.
“If you drive me, I will,” you say and he grins, jogging over to open the passenger seat for you.
“I’ll take a pistachio ice cream,” he orders as he slides into the driver’s seat and you enjoy the cool, crisp air blowing at you.
You choke at his words, “pistachio?” as your head tilts in question, “who eats pistachio nowadays? Everyone eats mint chocolate chip.”
Jay’s face contorts into an expression of disgust as he scrunches his eyebrows, taking his eyes away from the road to face you. “Honestly expected more from you angel, but I’m not surprised, just disappointed.”
“And I expected more from you, Park.” You comment, “who the hell doesn’t like mint chocolate chip?”
He groans at your argument, “it’s fucking toothpaste on a cone, what is there to like?”
You gasp, mouth wide open ready to fight back till he sighs, eyes rolling as he turns into the parking lot of Baskin Robbins, “fine, I’ll give mint chocolate chip another try if you try pistachio. We’ll try each other's ice cream, okay?”
Smiling, you nod, happy that you’d win the argument, even if it meant having to try some weird nutty flavour of ice cream. “I’ll go get it, wait for me.”
You jog into the store, excited to finally treat yourself to ice cream — and for Jay’s expression when he eats mint chocolate chip because you know his face would scrunch up ( and you wouldn’t miss the opportunity to take yet another picture ).
You come back out into the parking lot, and you see Jay, with another girl pressed up awfully close to him, and it feels like your throat is closing up, squeezing as you feel the urge to rip the two apart. It looks wrong — Jay and her, and you think it’s what your knowledge and years of being Cupid is saying ( or maybe it’s your heart ). You hate it, hate the way she’s looking at him as if he’s some fallen God from heaven, hate the way she shifts closer to him even when he’s trying to avoid touching her.
You move before you know it, and you expertly loop your arm around Jay’s waist after passing his cup of ice cream to him. Red hot satisfaction lighting up inside of you as Jay rests his arm around you — as if it’s his natural instinct, and his expression of annoyance morphs into one of a devilish smirk that you were now well acquainted with.
“You’re back, angel,” Jay murmurs, as he kisses the top of your head, his voice reverberating in your temples.
“Yeah,” you say, grinning sweetly at him before shooting the girl a glare: eyes turning into stilts as you give the clueless girl yet another warning sign. It doesn’t take long for the intruder to awkwardly excuse herself before you click your tongue in annoyance, turning around to face Jay who had a foreign expression on his face.
“Is my angel jealous?” He asks, raising an eyebrow, and your heart fawns at the small movement that was ridiculously attractive. He hums, smiling sharply as your breath catches.
You clear your throat and look away, well aware that your hand still lingers on his chest and you have no motivation to move it. “Shut up.” And you feel panic rising, bubbling. This is bad. This is too dangerous.
“I could shut you up instead,” Jay murmurs, stepping even closer and a thrill runs through your body. “Want me to?”
“You’re such an arrogant asshole,” you whisper, slapping his shoulders without any real force, “why would you ask me this kind of question.” Your heart is screaming a resounding yes.
“Because I’m a gentlemen,” Jay glares at you, and this tension between the both of you — like cold fire and hot ice, erupts in a lick of blue, crystallised flames. “So I’ll ask you another time,” he pulls you towards him, “can I kiss you, angel?”
You can’t take it anymore. “Stop talking and just do it.”
You pull him down by his collar and press your lips onto his, feeling your skin heat up as his lips move on yours. Holy shit, you think. He’s an expert kisser. And it might be ironic because it’s your first kiss ever, but you believe that nothing after can ever top this.
His hands rest on your waist, then to your jaw, then to your neck — and you feel. Feel the tip of his tongue asking for entrance at the inner part of her bottom lip, feel the way he’s kissing you roughly but smoothly at the same time, hair brushing your forehead and breathing unsteady against yours. Jay tastes like a blessed curse, a collection of angelic alcohol on a summer evening, and you want to hold him and never let go.
Because you’re making out with Jay, and your heart is pounding as you rest your thumb on his pulse and feel it flaring wildly, recklessly. Oh my god, you think, as he squeezes your waist before breaking the kiss — eyes slightly hooded as he stares at you in adoration that sparkles under the midnight sky.
He will be the death of you.
iv. three ways to ruin park jongseong
Jay thinks that there’s three ways to ruin him.
One: The kid’s viking ride at amusement parks. It absolutely destroys him, and his hair that he works on for hours in the morning. His knees get weak and his brain thrown out of his body as he squeezes his eyes shut, begging heaven to let him live another day even before the ride starts.
Two: Mint chocolate ice cream. Which was why he surprised himself when he agreed to give it another try for you. He absolutely distastes the flavour, as the creamy cavity inducing toothpaste taste coats the roof of his mouth, he winces in disgust. The only exception, he thinks, is when he kisses you and he tastes it. Instead of its usual nauseating effect, it instead tastes like love drunk cherry epidermises.
Three: You. With his jersey hanging from your shoulders, and he can smell his cologne, as you brush past him, eyes forming crescents as you greet him. “Hey Jay, are you ready for the game?”
His heartstrings tug, quicker and quicker at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue. And he might be a little foolish when it comes to love, but he thinks that this was the way his name was meant to be said.
“Jay? What, cat got your tongue?” You laugh, smiling. And he thinks he’s fallen for your laugh — that’s utterly contagious, your smile — which made him giddy for no reason, and the way you weren’t scared to annoy the hell out of him.
He doesn’t know if this feeling is normal, because despite the rumours, Jay’s never had a girlfriend, nor has he ever been with a girl; relationship or not, and it was all Heeseung who had girls around all the goddamn time. With them, he felt sick at the way they whined to touch his hair. But you, you ruin him the most, even more than the viking ship ride. And all his life, Jay’s been a pretty systematic person, but now he doesn’t know where to start, what to do about it.
“Come again angel, didn’t catch that,” he replies, eyes catching yours as he turns into the school car park, one arm slung over the back of your seat as he reverses into a lot.
You groan, cheeks pink, and he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. “I said, are you scared the other team will trash you to pieces?”
Jay chuckles, at your sharp tongue and the way you skillfully tease him. “I’m not scared, why would I be? With an angel cheering for me, I literally have God on my side.” He gets out and rounds his car, moving over to open your side of the door as he watches you lick your honey lips in nervousness. Under the 7pm tinted red and orange skies of a Wednesday, Jay realises how blue he’d feel without you now that you’re here.
“Who,” you pause, as you try not to jumble up your words, “who said I’d cheer for you?” A lazy smirk painted on your face, as you praise yourself for not tripping over the nervous butterflies the boy in front of you gave your stomach.
“You’re here with me,” he says, eyes trained on you as you lean back onto the side of his car, “I drove you here, I will be walking in with you, the jersey you’re wearing has my name on it. And, I invited you to the game in front of half the school population at that party. You see the pattern here, angel? It’s us or nothing.”
The way his eyes hold your gaze as his hands graze over yours melts you. And you’re so drunk in him, you feel as if you could touch the clouds in the salmon sky.
“What if I exchange my jersey with another girl?” You say, eyes glinting with mischief as you fold your arms, testing him. “Or maybe I’ll sell it, I’ve heard that this jersey is a pretty coveted item here in Decelis.”
He clicks his tongue in annoyance and you grin, “girls like you are the bane of my existence.”
“Girls like me?” You raise an eyebrow, “love, I’m one of a kind.”
“Yeah, you are. You are the bane of my existence.” Jay nods in agreement, as he slings his bag over his shoulder, and wraps his fingers gently around your wrist, guiding you into the unfamiliar sports hall. He thinks he’s playing with something dangerous — because you’re tangerine dusts of fire, flames that warm his skin and he relishes your warmth as you intoxicate his brain, his mind, as the smoothness of your skin lingers on his fingertips.
“Sit,” he says, pointing to an empty spot he reserved for you.
“I’m not your dog,” you retort, begrudgingly.
“Love of my life, light of my eyes, my all, would you please do me a kind favour and take a seat? I don’t want to tire those pretty legs of yours. Not like this.”
Oh.
You laugh, and it’s so loud that you can feel the eyes of others on you. Yet you’re fully focused on the devilish man in front of you. And you think, if you were very brave or honest you would tell him — that you might have fallen for his charming ways, sly smile, and god-like features.
“That’s right,” you grin as he shakes his head at your bratty behaviour.
“Anything for the princess,” he bows, and he doesn’t realise it but he’s smiling. Wide. And just like that you’re woven into his veins and he needs you like sin.
Jay makes up his mind that today’s match would be the best match he’s ever played. Not because you were here, sitting at the front row of the bleachers. Well, maybe, maybe it was because he wanted to hear you cheer his name, watch you grin in celebration as he scores hoop after hoop, and maybe because then — only then can he smoothly ask you to celebrate his win with him over dinner.
And that is exactly what he does.
“You did so good, Jay, when you twirled around that dude and threw the ball into the ring,” You say, reenact Jay’s winning shot, the jingle of the bell of your favourite diner that you recommended Jay to go to ringing as you enter the small place.
Jay think’s it’s extremely endearing, the way you call the basketball hoop a ring, or how you explain his moves as if he was a dancer on stage — twirling, he thinks he could work with that.
Jay directs you to a booth to sit in and a waiter comes to take your orders. You request a double cheeseburger and so does Jay. And he notes down the way you toy with the salt and pepper shakers, rips up the edge of a napkin, and clinks silverware together in odd amusement; you don’t ever stop moving, it seems. And it’s adorable.
“Tell me about your business,” Jay prompts, elbow settled on the table as you grumble in protest.
You shake your head, pursing your lips in refusal, “It’s a little embarrassing.”
“No it’s not,” Jay huffs, “I think it’s interesting.”
And so you tell him. “People pay me to matchmake them with someone they’re attracted to,” you mumble, “and sometimes I get paid more when I get a request to play a certain role.”
“What kind of role?” Jay asks, full of curiosity.
“Well, on Saturday Yoo Jimin is paying me to act like an innocent girl who her boyfriend was two timing with — he cheats a lot you see, and she wants to finally dump him.” You elaborate, “I don’t accept all of these requests, I choose them. I get a whole lot of weird ones too so that's a big no.”
“Isn’t that cruel,” Jay comments, but a drop of pity found nowhere in his voice. And you laugh, tilting your head back. He watches, eyes following the curve of your throat.
“Maybe,” you say, “but cheaters deserve it. Especially when Jimin’s boyfriend has hooked up with multiple girls.”
“So you like to roleplay?” Your mouth drops open.
“Is that all you got out of my explanation? That I may like to roleplay?” You scoff as Jay grins, “sadly for you Jay, I don’t.”
He glares at you and you glare back at him even harder. “Right,” he snaps, “how could anyone ever put up with you to begin with? You’re impossible.”
“That’s mean,” you pout, eyes flickering to his as you rest your chin on the palm of your hands. “You’re mean, Jay. I really hate you.” False.
“And you’re a devil’s spawn.”
You gasp, “you wound me, Jay. I thought I was your angel.”
You are, he thinks as he stares at you. And Park Jongseong wants to kiss you — but only in the most connotative way possible, so that no dictionary definition would ever stand a chance to describe how your lungs could be filled with the sweetest air possible and yet you’d still be so breathless. Often, pictures the both of you holding hands, watching a movie, sitting on the beach hearing your laugh throughout the day, catching your smile and he hopes that at the very least you think of him when your eyes are closed.
Roseate cheekbones, pearlescent soft lips, and bickering emanates love as the both of you fill the quiet dinner with intimate chatter.
And the night dies down all while Jay thinks about how you’re a vivid dream of lust and harmonies, euphoria reeking upon your entire figure, lips tainted with surreal giggles — and that the saliva in your throat is yet rather angel dust that converts into musical laughter, music he loved to hear as he watches you.
v. mascara stained cheeks, bruised skin, and a crumpled piece of paper.
“He must be really fucking into the cheating shit if he’s meeting his side chick an hour away from our school,” Jay grunts as he pulls over at the entrance of the restaurant Jimin sent you.
Today, you’re donned in a different style — sweatpants and a random big sweatshirt you stole from Jay’s backseat. Your hair messed up and your mascara smudged. It wasn’t really part of the job to be dramatic, but you only live once, so what’s the point of living boringly?
Jay scans your face for the fifth time in an hour, “you look exceptionally pretty today, angel. You really live up to your pet name.”
You grin, eyes rolling as you shuffle through your bag to take out a positive pregnancy test, mind sifting through your checklist — mascara check, positive test check. “Jay, love, it’s called dedication. You obviously do not have such a quality.”
His heart spins when you call him love. And it’s crazy, because he’s staring at you — with makeup smudged all over your face, positive pregnancy test in your hand from God knows where, drowning in his oversized sweatshirt yet he thinks you’re pretty, too pretty. And if that wasn’t dedication, he doesn’t know what is.
“I’m dedicated,” he says. And you raise your eyebrows in question.
“To what Jay? And don’t say basketball cause everyone in the world knows that you’re in love with it. Honest to G-”
“You,” He cuts you off, as he watches sunlight seep through the windows of his car onto your cheekbones, softly portraying faint constellations of stars upon them. He watches as your orbs glimmer with fervour, lips parting slightly to expose a marvelled gasp, and he hopes that the hazed longing in his eyes has reached you.
You cough, eyes dodging his gaze as you shift. “Not now, Jay. Not when I look like this.” And it’s enough for Jay to start smiling. He’s amused, that all that mattered to you right now was how you looked when he was about to confess to you.
“Fine,” he laughs, “I’ll do it when you look prettier than you look now.” You hum as you appreciate the way his arms look under the sunlight through the windows. Before today, you’ve never associated attractiveness with driving, but the slight imprint of his veins along with his lean muscles turned your mouth drier than usual.
“Only you get me, love,” you say, as you mess your hair up a little bit more in the mirror. “How do I look?”
“Like a sex addict.” You slap him, hard across his chest. “What? You asked!”
“You can’t say things like that to a girl,” you tell him, hiding a secret smile. “Be a gentleman, say I look great and wish me luck.”
“You’d only be looking good when you’re going on a date with me, roleplaying or not.” He mutters under his breath as you shoot him yet another glare. “Fine,” Jay gives in, leaning over the control panel, and he’s dangerously close to you. “Good luck, angel.”
In front of you, everything is still. Jay, time, galaxies, constellations pause to dawn upon him and gaze at you, who’s clearly unaware of your beauty. “Happy?”
You nod and he smirks, “Why so quiet now angel?”
“Just shut up and get on with our act.”
He laughs before the two of you go over your plans again: Jay entering into the restaurant first, sitting at a table near Jimin’s to monitor the situation, and you entering five minutes later, causing the biggest break up ever. It’ll be fun, like drama club.
You look at yourself in the mirror once again, and you think you look like those prostitutes in those trashy american tv shows before you enter the building with the classy exterior. With crystal chandeliers hung and tablecloths made of white linen, you feel terribly out of place, but for what if not for money.
You immediately spot Jay, sitting there with his long legs spread out. And a few tables to your right sits Jimin and her boyfriend, who continuously toys with his phone under the tablecloth while she tries to keep the conversation going.
It’s showtime.
You storm up to their table, positive pregnancy test in one hand as you yell out, “How could you! How could you cheat on me!” Hands reaching out to grab the boy by his collar, tears welling up in your eyes as he fumbled to stand straight under your tiger grip.
“Who the fuck are you?” He asks, eyes wide as saucers as his hands move up to surrender. “Jimin, babe, I swear I don’t know this crazy woman.”
“Crazy? You said I was your everything, that we were bound by fate! I believed you and now I’m pregnant,” you scream, throwing the test into his face as his hands scramble to catch it.
“Just get it aborted for god’s sake, it’s not that fucking hard.” And you gasp, shocked by the sheer stupidness of the boy. You don’t really let your emotions get to you, but the boy in front of you with a grip that could bruise your wrist and a mentality of a crude alpha male disgusts you.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You have a girlfriend who was willing to listen to you and give you a second chance before, but you ruined it by being an arsehole.” You pinch his forearm and he yelps, “you’re pathetic, and you don’t deserve anyone in your life.”
You watch as Jimin packs her things and leaves, before you meet Jay in his car. And without a word, he puts the makeup remover you brought into a cotton pad, dabbing your face with it as his fingers softly brush over the bruise forming on your wrist.
“You’re insane,” he says, “so fucking insane.”
You grin, “you don’t mind,” you make up his mind for him, and he rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, I don’t,” he says as he digs his pocket to retrieve a crumpled piece of paper, handing it to you.
And you open it, reading the scrawny handwriting in black ink.
Matchmaking
Name : Park Jay / Park Jongseong
Match : This girl I call angel, I’m sure you know who I’m talking about
Extra : I think we’re a match made in heaven, so please, help me win her over
vi. an angel and her love
You push your clingy boyfriend Jay away from your body, and to no avail fail for the third time. “Jay, you’re going to be late,” you tell the boy whose arms wrap protectively around your waist, “that’s not very vice captain of you.”
“And it’s not very girlfriend of you to chase your boyfriend away,” he mutters into the crook of your neck, as he proceeds to tighten his grip around your waist.
You give up, which you should have done minutes ago, because you know your boyfriend isn’t one to listen to anyone — even you. But you wouldn’t have it any other way, especially not when you’re not an easy person either.
“Go, or I’ll ask Yunjin to put that photo of you with a pink eye on the jumbotron,” you tease, and it works because Jay immediately lets go of your waist, eyes turning into slits.
“Hate you,” he says, rolling his eyes as he pulls you in for a kiss.
It’s short and sweet. And a line invisible to the naked eye seemed to be drawn between the both of you, it’s scarlet and relatively thick in magnitude, as the feeling of being in heaven — a feeling you’re accustomed to whenever you’re with Jay enlightens your skin again.
“Kiss me again,” you complain.
“You always order me around,” he laughs.
“Kiss me.”
“Are you sure?” he mutters, lips curving into his signature smirk.
You grab the back of his head, yanking him down once more. And the silence around the both of you explodes and a world of colours appear before your closed eyes. Every thought in your brain erased and replaced by the thought of him, just him. His lips pressing against yours, his hands pulling you closer, running up and down your back, into your hair. The taste of his mouth and the heat of his breath cloud your mind.
And when you finally convince yourself to pull away, your brain fails to string any piece of thought together.
“I love you more,” you tell him, as you smile.
And Jay looks, and he adores. He thinks (knows) he can watch you until the sun rises and the sun sets again, that he can watch you for days on end and never grow tired of you.
❛❛ YOUR PARAGRAPHS MEAN SHiT TO ME, GET YOUR SORRY ASS TO MiNE. ❜❜ ◟ your brothers friends never fail to be assholes but, out of pure luck, you just had to fall in love with one. park jongseong isn’t an easy one to get rid of, either.
경고 PARK JONGSEONG aka jay x ƒ! reader ── 🎲🥢 smau brothers bsf! jay playboy! jay suggestive angst if u squint yn is kinda defensive jays a dick ◞ 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 ₩16
💌 Synopsis: Jongseong is a prince—refined, disciplined, and expected to marry a woman of his father’s choosing.
You, on the other hand, are just a college student struggling to keep up with rent—until a team of royal advisors shows up on your doorstep and tells you that you’re the lost princess of Genovia.
But royal life isn’t a fairytale, and duty doesn’t care about love.
Because when the clock strikes midnight on the constitutional deadline, you’ll have to choose: your country or your heart.
“If I were just Jay, not a prince, would you still choose me?”
cw: SMUT but lots of fluff, smut on a piano, smut in a library, smut on a chaise, lots of fluff barely any angst the reader is in distress cuz of this whole princess thing.
-
Your alarm blares for the third time, and you finally surrender to consciousness, throwing your arm out to silence the offending device. Another Monday. Another week of classes, part-time work, and trying to stretch your student budget until the next paycheck. Nothing special.
The apartment you share with your roommate isn't much—a cramped two-bedroom with perpetually spotty WiFi and a temperamental shower—but it's home. At least for now.
"Late night?" Your roommate smirks over her coffee mug as you stumble into the kitchen, hair still wrapped in a towel.
"Research paper," you groan, reaching for the coffee pot. "Professor Kim is trying to kill us all before midterms."
You're pouring cereal when a sharp knock at the door makes you jump, spilling Cheerios across the counter.
"You expecting someone?" your roommate asks, already heading to answer it.
You aren't. It's 8:37 AM on a Monday. Nobody visits at 8:37 AM on a Monday.
When your roommate opens the door, the hallway seems suddenly filled with people. Men in dark suits. A woman with an impossibly tight bun. All of them standing with perfect posture, like they've collectively swallowed broomsticks.
"May we come in?" It's not really a question. The woman steps forward, eyes scanning your apartment with barely concealed judgment. "We're looking for Y/N L/N."
Your roommate points at you wordlessly, backing away as the entourage enters.
"Ms. L/N," the woman says, her accent crisp and foreign. "I am Charlotte Martell, private secretary to Her Majesty Queen Clarisse Renaldi of Genovia."
You nearly choke on your coffee. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Genovia," she repeats, as if that clarifies everything. "A small sovereign principality between France and Spain."
"I know what Genovia is," you lie. You absolutely do not know what Genovia is. "But what does that have to do with me?"
The woman—Charlotte—gestures to one of the men, who produces an official-looking folder stamped with a crest you don't recognize.
"Queen Clarisse is your grandmother," Charlotte states, watching your face for a reaction. "And following the tragic death of your father, Crown Prince Philippe, you are now the sole heir to the Genovian throne."
Your roommate gasps dramatically. You burst out laughing.
"Okay, who put you up to this? Was it Kyle? This has his film project written all over it." You look around for hidden cameras.
Charlotte's expression doesn't change. "This is not a prank, Ms. L/N."
"Right. Sure. I'm secretly a princess." You roll your eyes. "And I suppose I've got a glass slipper and fairy godmother too?"
"Your Highness—"
"Nope. Stop right there." You hold up your hand. "I don't know who you people are, but my dad's name was Michael. He was an artist from Cleveland. He died when I was six. My mom raised me alone."
Charlotte and her companions exchange glances.
"Perhaps we should speak with your mother," Charlotte suggests delicately.
"Great idea," you agree, reaching for your phone. "She'll clear this right up."
But when your mom answers, her voice sounds strange. Strained.
"Mom, there are people here saying I'm some kind of princess and you've been hiding it from me my whole life. Tell them they've got the wrong apartment."
The silence on the other end stretches too long.
"Mom?"
"Honey," she finally says, her voice small. "Maybe you should sit down."
Your stomach drops. "No. No way."
"I never thought this would happen," she continues, words rushing now. "The agreement was that they'd never contact you. That you could live a normal life."
The room starts to spin. You grip the counter for support.
"This isn't funny anymore."
"I'm sorry, sweetheart. So sorry. Philippe—your father—wanted to acknowledge you, but I couldn't bear the thought of raising you in that world."
"Philippe?" Your voice sounds distant to your own ears. "My father's name was Michael."
Your mother's sigh crackles through the phone. "Michael was my brother. After Philippe died, Michael helped us... create a story that would protect you."
"Protect me from what? The truth?" The betrayal cuts deep, making your voice sharp.
"From a life that would never be your own," your mother says softly. "I wanted you to have choices."
You look at Charlotte and her entourage, still standing stiffly in your kitchen. This can't be happening.
"I think I'm hallucinating," you announce to no one in particular. "I haven't slept in thirty-six hours. This is just sleep deprivation."
Your roommate pinches your arm. Hard.
"Ow! What the hell?"
"Not dreaming," she says helpfully.
Your mother is still speaking through the phone. "These people—the Genovian royal staff—they'll bring you to the consulate. I'll meet you there, and we can talk properly."
"Mom, I can't just—"
"Please, sweetheart. Let me explain in person."
The phone call ends, and you stare at the device in your hand like it's suddenly turned into a live snake.
"This isn't real," you mutter. "This can't be real."
But three hours later, you're sitting in the Genovian consulate—a building you've passed a hundred times without noticing—watching your mother cry as she explains how she met the Crown Prince of Genovia during a semester abroad, how they fell in love, how she discovered she was pregnant after he returned home, how he died in a car accident before they could marry.
"The Queen wanted to acknowledge you officially," your mother explains, wiping her eyes. "But I refused. I didn't want that life for you."
"That life being...?"
"Being royal," she says, as if it's a disease. "Living in a gilded cage. Every move scrutinized. Never making your own choices."
Charlotte, who has been standing silently against the wall, clears her throat. "If I may, the situation has changed substantially. Without a direct heir, Genovia faces a constitutional crisis. Parliament may vote to dissolve the monarchy entirely."
"And that's... bad?" you ask, still struggling to process any of this.
"The monarchy has protected Genovia's independence for centuries," Charlotte explains. "Without it, larger neighboring countries would likely absorb our territory."
Your mother squeezes your hand. "I never wanted this burden for you. But it's your decision now."
"What decision? I don't even know what's happening!"
"The Queen requests that you come to Genovia," Charlotte says. "Learn about your heritage. Meet your grandmother. After that, you're free to make your choice."
"My choice to... what? Become a princess?"
Charlotte nods solemnly. "To accept your birthright, yes."
You look at your mother, this woman you've trusted your entire life, who has apparently been lying about your identity since before you could speak.
"I have exams next week," you say weakly. It sounds ridiculous even to your own ears.
"All arrangements have been made with your university," Charlotte assures you. "This is, after all, a diplomatic matter."
You laugh, a slightly hysterical sound. "Right. Diplomatic."
Your mother takes your face in her hands, forcing you to look at her. "You don't have to do this. You can walk away right now, and we'll figure something out."
But you can see in her eyes what she's not saying—that this moment was always coming, that the lie was never sustainable, that a door has opened that can't be closed again.
"I just want to know the truth," you tell her. "All of it."
She nods, tears streaming now. "Then you should go. Meet her. Learn who you are."
-
Twenty-four hours later, you're on a private jet somewhere over the Atlantic, still half-convinced you're having an elaborate mental breakdown. Your mother came home with you to help pack, both of you moving through the motions like sleepwalkers.
"The Queen is eager to meet you," Charlotte says from across the aisle, breaking the silence that's stretched between you since takeoff.
"My grandmother," you say, testing the word. "My grandmother the Queen."
Charlotte's expression softens slightly. "This must be overwhelming."
You laugh, the sound hollow. "I keep thinking I'll wake up."
"I assure you, this is quite real," Charlotte says, missing the point entirely.
You stare out the window at endless darkness, trying to reconcile the person you were yesterday with whoever you're supposed to be now.
"What's she like?" you ask suddenly. "The Queen."
Charlotte considers this carefully. "Her Majesty is... formidable. Dignified. Dedicated to Genovia above all else."
"Sounds warm and fuzzy," you mutter.
"The Queen has experienced great loss," Charlotte adds quietly. "Her husband. Her son—your father. She has sacrificed personal happiness for duty."
That silences you. What do you say to a grandmother who's spent decades thinking her bloodline ended with her son, only to discover an heir she never knew existed?
"I don't know how to be a princess," you admit after another long silence.
"No one expects you to know already," Charlotte replies. "There will be extensive training, of course."
"Of course," you echo faintly. "Princess training."
The palace is like something from a fairy tale—all soaring spires and perfect gardens. Dawn is breaking as your motorcade passes through massive iron gates, and you catch your first glimpse of your apparent new home.
"This is insane," you whisper, pressing your face to the window like a child. "People actually live here?"
"The palace has been the royal residence for over three centuries," Charlotte informs you. "The east wing houses government offices, while the royal family occupies the north wing."
Your suite is bigger than your entire apartment. The bathroom alone is the size of your bedroom at home. You're staring at the claw-foot tub, wondering if you're allowed to actually use it or if it's just for show, when there's a knock at the door.
A young woman in a uniform curtsies—actually curtsies—when you open it.
"Your Highness," she says, eyes downcast. "I'm Olivia, your lady's maid."
"My... what now?"
"I'm here to help you prepare to meet Her Majesty."
Your laugh has a slightly manic edge. "I've been wearing the same clothes for twenty-four hours and haven't slept. I don't think 'preparation' is going to help much."
Olivia smiles sympathetically. "Perhaps a bath first?"
You pace back and forth in your suite after your mother's confession at the consulate, hands pressed against your temples. The weight of everything—your father's true identity, your grandmother the Queen, this entire hidden heritage—crashes over you in waves.
"This can't be happening," you mutter. "This doesn't happen to normal people."
Olivia, your newly assigned lady's maid, watches anxiously from the doorway. "Your Highness, perhaps some tea would help calm your nerves?"
"Stop calling me that!" you snap, whirling around. "I'm not a 'Highness.' I'm just—" You break off, unable to even finish the sentence. Who are you now?
Charlotte enters with a stack of leather-bound books. "These are Genovian history texts. Your lessons begin tomorrow. Also, the royal portrait artist would like to schedule a sitting, and we'll need to discuss your public introduction to the Genovian people."
Something inside you finally snaps.
"EVERYBODY JUST STOP!" you shout, throwing your hands up. Charlotte freezes mid-sentence, Olivia nearly drops the tea tray, and even the security guard outside your door peeks in with alarm.
"I need—" your voice cracks, "I need everyone to just stop for a second. Twenty-four hours ago, I was worried about my student loans and my biology midterm. And now you're talking about royal portraits and—and—"
You grab the nearest pillow from a velvet settee and scream into it, a muffled sound of pure frustration. When you pull it away, you're laughing hysterically.
"Holy shit," you gasp through semi-maniacal laughter, "I'm a princess. I'm actually a princess!"
You collapse onto the nearest chair, still clutching the pillow to your chest. Your laughter shifts to something closer to hyperventilation.
"This is completely insane," you continue, gesturing wildly. "I've never even been to Europe before, and suddenly I'm supposed to rule a country? I don't even know where Genovia is on a map! I can barely keep my succulents alive!"
Charlotte approaches cautiously, as though you might explode again. "Perhaps a moment alone would be beneficial—"
"No!" You jump to your feet again, pacing frenetically. "No more alone time to 'process.' I need answers. Real answers. Like, what happens if I just walk out right now? Get on a plane and go home? Will there be, I don't know, international incidents? Diplomatic immunity revoked? Does Genovia have an extradition treaty with the United States?"
Charlotte and Olivia exchange alarmed glances.
"I mean, what's stopping me from just saying 'thanks but no thanks' to this whole princess gig? I didn't sign up for this! My mother lied to me my entire life, and now I'm supposed to just—what? Put on a tiara and wave to crowds? Marry some prince I just met? Rule a country I know nothing about?"
You stop suddenly, a thought occurring to you. You turn to Charlotte, eyes wide.
"Wait. Do I get a tiara?"
Charlotte blinks, thrown by the sudden shift. "Several, actually. The Genovian royal collection includes—"
"Several tiaras," you repeat, dazed. "I get several tiaras."
You start laughing again, but this time with a hint of wonder breaking through the hysteria.
"I have a grandmother who's a Queen," you say, testing the words. "My father was a Crown Prince. I live in a palace now." You spin in a slow circle, taking in the ornate room with new eyes. "I'm a princess."
The reality of it finally, truly hits you—not as an abstract concept but as your new life. Your knees go weak, and you sink back onto the settee.
"I'm Princess Y/N Renaldi of Genovia," you whisper, the name strange on your tongue. "Holy shit."
The bath, it turns out, is heavenly. The exhaustion and tension of the past day seep out of your muscles as you soak in water scattered with actual rose petals. It's so ridiculous that you find yourself laughing alone in the massive bathroom.
"Is everything alright, Your Highness?" Olivia calls through the door.
"Fine! Just having an existential crisis in a bathtub fit for Marie Antoinette!"
After the bath comes what can only be described as a full-scale makeover. Olivia is joined by a team that includes a hairstylist, makeup artist, and someone called a "royal wardrobe consultant" who tuts disapprovingly at the clothes you packed.
"These won't do at all," she announces, holding up your favorite jeans like they're contaminated.
"What's wrong with them?" you demand.
"Her Majesty has certain... expectations regarding royal appearance," the woman explains delicately.
"I'm not actually a princess yet," you point out. "Technically, I haven't agreed to anything."
But your protests fall on deaf ears. Two hours later, you're staring at a stranger in the mirror. Your hair has been styled into something elegant and smooth. Your face has been transformed with makeup that somehow looks natural despite taking forty-five minutes to apply. And you're wearing a dress that probably costs more than your entire wardrobe at home.
"There," the hairstylist says proudly. "Now you look like a princess."
You don't feel like a princess. You feel like a fraud in costume.
The "Blue Salon" turns out to be a formal sitting room where an elegant older woman waits, standing by a window. She turns as you enter, and you see your own eyes staring back at you from her face.
"Your Majesty," Charlotte announces, "Her Royal Highness, Princess Y/N Renaldi."
The Queen—your grandmother—studies you silently for a long moment. You resist the urge to fidget under her gaze.
"The resemblance is remarkable," she says finally, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of emotion. "You have his eyes. My son's eyes."
You don't know what to say. This woman is a stranger who is somehow your closest living relative.
"You must have questions," she continues when you remain silent.
"About a million," you admit. "Starting with why my entire life has been a lie."
If your directness offends her, she doesn't show it. "Your mother made her choice. I respected it, though I disagreed with it. But circumstances have changed."
"So I've heard. Constitutional crisis. End of the monarchy. Very dramatic."
A hint of a smile touches her lips. "You have spirit. Good. You'll need it." She gestures to a chair. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss."
The next hour is a crash course in your own heritage. The Queen—your grandmother—explains the history of Genovia, the role of the monarchy, and the crisis created by the King's death without a recognized heir.
"Parliament has granted a grace period of three months," she explains. "In that time, you must decide whether to accept your title and begin preparation for eventual rule, or to renounce your claim permanently."
"And if I renounce?"
"Then the monarchy ends with me," she says simply. "And Genovia's future becomes uncertain."
No pressure or anything.
"There's another complication," your grandmother adds, and something in her tone makes you brace yourself. "The Genovian constitution requires the heir to be married before taking the throne."
You choke on the tea you've been sipping. "Married? I'm twenty-one!"
"Which is why, should you accept your title, suitable candidates would be presented immediately."
"Suitable candidates," you repeat incredulously. "You mean arranged marriage?"
"Think of it as... pre-screened dating," your grandmother suggests with a straight face.
"This is insane," you mutter, setting down your cup before you drop it. "Twenty-four hours ago, I was worried about my midterms. Now I'm discussing arranged marriages and constitutional crises."
Your grandmother regards you thoughtfully. "I understand this is overwhelming. You need not decide everything today. Take time to adjust. Learn about Genovia. Meet some of the young men Parliament considers suitable."
"And if I hate them all?"
"Then we face that challenge when it arises," she says diplomatically. "For now, perhaps we can start with dinner. I've invited one potential candidate to join us this evening."
"Seriously? I just got here!"
"Time is a luxury we don't have," your grandmother reminds you. "Prince Jongseong of Astoria is already in Genovia for diplomatic meetings. It's an opportunity that shouldn't be wasted."
Your head is spinning. "Prince who of where now?"
Your grandmother hands you a folder. "Astoria is a key ally. A marriage alliance would be most beneficial."
You flip open the folder to find a dossier—an actual dossier—on someone named Prince Jongseong of Astoria. The photograph shows a young man about your age with perfect features and an expression of cool dignity. He's handsome in an intimidating way, like a sculpture you're not allowed to touch.
"Great," you say weakly. "Blind date with a prince. No problem."
The day passes in a blur of instructions, protocol lessons, and people telling you how to walk, talk, sit, and breathe like a princess. By evening, your exhaustion has been replaced by a surreal, floating feeling, as if none of this is actually happening to you.
"Remember," Charlotte reminds you for the hundredth time as you're escorted to the State Dining Room, "curtsy when he's introduced, address him as 'Your Highness' initially, then 'Prince Jongseong' after that. The Queen will lead the conversation."
"What if I just hide under the table?" you suggest. "Blame it on jet lag?"
Charlotte doesn't even acknowledge your joke. "The Prince is known for his diplomatic skill and decorum. Please try to match his level of dignity."
"No pressure there."
The dining room is intimidating—all crystal chandeliers and gold trim. Footmen stand at attention along the walls. Your grandmother already waits at the head of a table that could seat thirty, though only four places are set.
"You look lovely," she tells you, and you resist the urge to tug at the formal dress that feels like a costume.
"I look like someone else," you reply honestly.
"Sometimes appearing royal is the first step to feeling royal," she says, which doesn't make you feel any better.
The doors open, and a court official announces: "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of the House of Park, Crown Prince of Astoria, and Lord High Commissioner of the Eastern Provinces."
Your first thought as he enters: people shouldn't be that perfect-looking in real life. It seems unfair somehow.
Prince Jongseong is tall and moves with unconscious grace. His formal attire—some kind of military dress uniform with medals and sashes—accentuates broad shoulders. His features are even more striking in person—sharp jawline, intense eyes that miss nothing.
You remember to curtsy, wobbling slightly in your heels. When you straighten, his eyes meet yours directly. No smile, just assessment.
"Wait," you blurt out before anyone can speak. "Are we related?"
The room goes absolutely still. Charlotte makes a small choking sound behind you. Your grandmother's expression doesn't change, but her eyes widen slightly.
Prince Jongseong blinks, the only indication that your question has caught him off guard.
"I beg your pardon?" he asks, his voice deeper than you expected, his accent subtle but distinctive.
"Sorry, I just—I'm new to this whole royal thing, and apparently everyone's connected somehow, so I wanted to check if we're like, third cousins or something before this gets weird."
Your grandmother clears her throat. "Prince Jongseong's lineage and the Renaldi family have no direct connection for at least seven generations."
"Oh. Good." You feel your face heating up. "That's... good to know."
Prince Jongseong's expression remains absolutely neutral, but something that might be amusement flickers in his eyes briefly.
"Your Majesty," he addresses your grandmother first, bowing formally. "Thank you for your invitation."
When he turns back to you, you feel suddenly, intensely scrutinized.
"Your Highness," he says, bowing again. "It is an honor to meet the Princess of Genovia."
You're supposed to say something regal in response, but what comes out is: "I only found out I was a princess yesterday, so we're kind of in the same boat there."
Prince Jongseong does something unexpected. The corner of his mouth twitches—almost, but not quite, a smile.
"An unusual circumstance," he acknowledges, his tone carefully neutral but his eyes suddenly more interested. "Though I assure you, the honor remains."
Dinner is a masterclass in awkwardness. Your grandmother and an Astorian diplomat discuss trade agreements while you try to remember which fork to use for each course. Prince Jongseong watches you with those observant eyes but says little.
It's during dessert that he finally addresses you directly.
"I understand you were a university student before this... revelation."
You look up, surprised he's bothered to learn anything about you. "Yes. Political science, ironically enough."
"A useful background for your new role," he comments.
"I was planning to work for a non-profit," you admit. "Not rule a country."
"Few of us choose our destinies," he says, and something in his tone makes you wonder if he's speaking from experience.
After dinner, your grandmother suggests a "stroll through the East Garden" which is apparently royal code for "leaving you alone with your potential suitor while still maintaining proper supervision," as Charlotte and two guards follow at a discreet distance.
The garden is beautiful under the moonlight, with flowering trees and perfectly manicured hedges. You walk in uncomfortable silence until Prince Jongseong speaks.
"You seem overwhelmed."
You laugh, the sound sharper than intended. "What gave it away? The identity crisis or the third cousin question?"
"Both were... illuminating," he replies, and you think you detect a hint of humor beneath his formal tone.
"Sorry about that," you sigh. "This is all just... a lot."
"I can imagine," he says, though you doubt he can. He's probably been a prince his whole life, never wondering who he really is or where he belongs.
"No offense, but this isn't exactly how I planned to spend my week," you tell him honestly. "Twenty-four hours ago, I was a normal college student with student loans and a part-time job. Now I'm having dinner with princes and learning how to curtsy."
"It's a significant adjustment," he acknowledges, which feels like the understatement of the century.
"Can I ask you something?" you say suddenly.
He inclines his head slightly. "Of course."
"Is it always this weird? Being royal, I mean. Does it ever feel... normal?"
The question seems to surprise him. He considers it seriously before answering.
"I cannot speak to your experience," he says carefully. "I was born into my role, prepared for it from childhood. But even so, there are moments when the weight of responsibility feels... alienating."
It's the most human thing he's said all evening.
"What do you do in those moments?" you ask, genuinely curious.
Something shifts in his expression—a momentary glimpse of a different person behind the perfect princely mask.
"I remember that even a gilded cage is still a cage," he says quietly. "But with the right mindset, it can also be a platform for meaningful change."
You study him more carefully. Maybe there's more to Prince Perfect than you initially thought.
"That's... surprisingly profound," you admit.
The hint of a smile touches his lips again. "You expected shallow platitudes?"
"I don't know what I expected," you say honestly. "Everything about today has been surreal."
"Including meeting a potential husband selected by parliament?" he suggests, and there's definitely a note of dry humor in his voice now.
You can't help but laugh. "Yeah, that's pretty high on the surreal list."
"If it helps," he offers, "I find the situation equally unusual, though perhaps less distressing as I've had longer to adjust to the concept."
"How generous of you," you say sarcastically before you can stop yourself.
To your surprise, a genuine smile briefly transforms his face, making him look younger, more approachable.
"You're very direct," he observes.
"Sorry. New to the royal filter thing."
"It's... refreshing," he admits. "Most people I meet have agendas carefully hidden beneath pleasantries."
"My only agenda is surviving this day without having a complete breakdown," you tell him truthfully.
He stops walking, turning to face you. The moonlight catches the sharp angles of his face, and for a moment, he looks like a real person rather than a perfect royal specimen.
"You're doing better than you think," he says, and it feels like the first completely genuine thing he's said all evening.
The moment stretches between you—something unnamed passing in the silence—before Charlotte clears her throat, reminding you of her presence.
"The Queen will be expecting us to return," she prompts.
Prince Jongseong straightens immediately, mask back in place. "Of course."
As you walk back toward the palace, your hand accidentally brushes his. A small touch, barely nothing, but something unexpected flutters in your stomach. His eyes meet yours briefly, and you wonder if he felt it too.
Back in the formal reception room, he bows over your hand. "It has been a pleasure, Your Highness."
"Likewise, Prince Jongseong," you manage, this time remembering the proper response.
As he prepares to leave, he hesitates, then adds quietly, "Perhaps when we meet again, you might be more accustomed to your title."
-
You wake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains, momentarily disoriented. The canopied bed, the ornate furniture, the distant sound of voices speaking a language you don't understand—where are you?
Then it hits you like a freight train. Genovia. Palace. Princess.
You groan and pull a pillow over your face. Maybe if you smother yourself with Egyptian cotton, you'll wake up in your cramped apartment with your psychology paper still due and your normal life intact.
A gentle knock at the door shatters that fantasy.
"Your Highness?" Olivia's voice calls. "Her Majesty requests your presence for breakfast in thirty minutes."
You remove the pillow with another groan. "Tell her I've fled the country."
There's a pause. "I... don't think I can say that to the Queen, Your Highness."
Despite everything, you laugh. Poor Olivia, stuck with an unwilling princess who doesn't know the first thing about royal protocol.
"I'll be ready," you call back, dragging yourself out of bed.
The "breakfast room" (because apparently regular dining rooms are insufficient for morning meals) is sunshine-bright and intimidatingly elegant. Your grandmother already sits at the table, reading documents while sipping tea.
"Good morning," she says without looking up. "I trust you slept well?"
"Not really," you admit, slouching into a chair before remembering Charlotte's lecture about posture. You straighten awkwardly, feeling like you're balancing a book on your head.
Your grandmother finally looks at you, one eyebrow arched. "Honesty before coffee. How refreshing."
A servant appears instantly with a cup of steaming coffee prepared exactly how you like it. You stare at it suspiciously.
"How did they know...?"
"Part of the job," your grandmother answers simply. "Knowing what people need before they ask for it."
You take a grateful sip. "At least that's one perk of this princess gig."
Your grandmother sets down her papers. "Your schedule today is quite full. We have much work to do."
"Schedule?" You didn't know you had a schedule.
"Charlotte will brief you after breakfast. But first," she slides a leather portfolio across the table, "Your Genovian citizenship papers, passport, and diplomatic credentials. You'll need to sign where indicated."
You flip open the folder. The first document declares you Princess Y/N Mignonette Renaldi of Genovia, Crown Princess and Royal Heir.
"Mignonette?" You look up, confused. "That's not my middle name."
"It is now," your grandmother says with finality. "A royal name."
You sign where indicated, feeling like you're signing away your old identity with each stroke of the pen.
"There's something else we need to discuss," your grandmother says once you've finished. "Your... public introduction."
"My what now?"
"The people of Genovia must meet their princess. There will be a press conference tomorrow, followed by a formal ball next week."
You choke on your coffee. "Tomorrow? A press conference? I can't—I don't—I'm not ready for that!"
"Which is why today is devoted to preparation," she says calmly. "Diplomatic protocol, Genovian history, public speaking..."
Your appetite vanishes. People—actual citizens of an actual country—are going to be judging whether you're fit to rule them. The thought is paralyzing.
"What if I mess up?" you ask quietly. "What if I embarrass Genovia? Or you?"
Something softens in your grandmother's expression. "You are more capable than you realize." She hesitates, then adds, "Your father was much the same way. Doubting himself, yet exceeding every expectation."
It's the first time she's voluntarily mentioned your father, and the comparison catches you off guard.
"I wish I'd known him," you say before you can stop yourself.
"As do I," she replies softly. "As do I."
The moment of vulnerability passes as quickly as it appeared. She's all business again, consulting her watch.
"Charlotte will meet you in the library in fifteen minutes. And this evening, Prince Jongseong will be joining us for the diplomatic reception."
Your stomach does a weird flip at the mention of his name. "Already? I just met him yesterday."
"He's requested to assist with certain aspects of your diplomatic training," your grandmother explains, a hint of something—amusement? satisfaction?—in her eyes. "The prince has excellent connections throughout Europe. His guidance will be valuable."
"I'm sure," you mutter, wondering what his real agenda is. Nobody volunteers for tutoring duty without an ulterior motive.
-
The dress fitting is endless torture. The royal stylist, Madame Aubert, fusses over fabrics and colors while treating you like a mannequin rather than a person.
"Perhaps the blue? It brings out Her Highness's eyes," she suggests to Charlotte, who nods seriously.
"I like the green one," you interject.
Both women look at you with surprise, as if they'd forgotten you could speak.
"The green is... less traditional," Madame Aubert says diplomatically.
"I'm not exactly a traditional princess," you point out. "Raised in America. Didn't know I was royal until two days ago. Let's embrace the unconventional, shall we?"
Charlotte's lips thin with disapproval, but she doesn't argue. "The green then. With appropriate accessories."
The "appropriate accessories" turn out to be your first tiara—a delicate silver creation with small diamonds that makes your heart skip despite your determination to remain unimpressed by royal trappings.
"This is from the royal collection," Charlotte explains as Madame Aubert carefully places it on your styled hair. "Traditionally worn by princesses at their first official appearance."
You stare at your reflection, this stranger with perfect hair and makeup wearing a genuine tiara. The disconnect between who you were days ago and who you're supposed to be now has never felt more stark.
"What if I can't do this?" you whisper, fear finally breaking through the sarcasm you've been hiding behind.
Charlotte's expression softens slightly. "Everyone feels unprepared for significant change, Your Highness. Even those born to royal life."
"Even Prince Perfect?" you ask before you can stop yourself.
"Prince Jongseong?" Charlotte raises an eyebrow. "Especially him, I suspect. The burdens of Astoria's crown prince are considerable."
You turn to her, surprised by this insight. "What do you mean?"
"Astoria has undergone significant modernization in recent years," Charlotte explains. "Prince Jongseong has been at the forefront of many reforms, often against traditional factions. His reputation for perfectionism is... protective."
This new perspective on the prince is unexpected. You think back to his comment about gilded cages during your garden conversation.
"I misjudged him," you realize aloud.
"First impressions in royal circles are rarely accurate," Charlotte says with surprising gentleness. "We all wear masks of one kind or another."
The conversation is interrupted when your grandmother sweeps in to inspect the dress selection. She surveys you critically, then nods approval.
"The green is unexpected," she notes. "But it suits you. Bold without being inappropriate."
"Thank you," you say, genuinely pleased by her approval.
"Now," she continues briskly, "for this evening's diplomatic reception. There will be approximately fifty guests, primarily ambassadors and foreign dignitaries. You will be introduced formally, then circulate with me for the first hour."
Your momentary confidence evaporates. "Fifty people? Tonight? I barely know how to address half the titles Charlotte's been drilling me on!"
"Consider it practice for tomorrow's press conference," your grandmother replies calmly. "Prince Jongseong has offered to assist you. He knows most of the attendees personally."
Of course he does. Prince Perfect probably emerged from the womb networking with international dignitaries.
-
The diplomatic reception is held in yet another ornate room you haven't seen before. You're beginning to wonder just how many formal spaces one palace needs.
You stand beside your grandmother as Charlotte announces each arrival, desperately trying to remember their titles and countries while maintaining what you hope is a regal posture.
"His Excellency Antoine Dubois, Ambassador of France," Charlotte intones.
A distinguished older man approaches, bowing over your grandmother's hand. "Your Majesty, always a pleasure."
He turns to you with obvious curiosity. "And Your Highness, welcome to Genovia. France looks forward to a long and prosperous relationship with the future Queen."
You manage a decent curtsy. "Thank you, Your Excellency. I look forward to learning more about the historic ties between our nations."
The diplomatic phrase Charlotte drilled into you comes out smoothly, and you feel a small surge of triumph. Maybe you can do this after all.
As more guests arrive, you fall into a rhythm of greetings and basic pleasantries. Your nerves gradually settle—until Charlotte announces, "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of Astoria."
He enters looking even more striking than yesterday, dressed in formal evening attire with a subtle military influence. A row of medals decorates his chest, and a blue sash crosses his torso. The effect is both regal and undeniably attractive.
He bows to your grandmother first, then to you, eyes meeting yours with unexpected warmth.
"Your Highness," he says, and there's something almost like approval in his gaze. "You look magnificent."
The compliment catches you off guard. "Thank you. You look... very princelike yourself."
A hint of amusement flickers in his eyes. "I try my best."
Your grandmother watches this exchange with interest. "Prince Jongseong, perhaps you would be kind enough to introduce Princess Y/N to some of our Eastern European allies? I believe the Latvian ambassador was hoping to meet her."
"It would be my honor," he replies smoothly.
Your grandmother leans closer to you. "Remember, diplomatic relations are built on personal connections as much as formal agreements," she murmurs. "Use this opportunity to establish yourself."
Great. More pressure.
Prince Jongseong offers his arm, and you take it, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickens at the contact.
"Nervous?" he asks quietly as he leads you through the crowd.
"Terrified," you admit. "I keep waiting for someone to realize I have no idea what I'm doing."
"A secret of royal life," he replies, his voice low near your ear. "Most of us feel that way. We're just better at hiding it."
You look at him in surprise. "Even you?"
"Especially me," he says, and for a brief moment, his perfect façade slips, revealing something vulnerable beneath. Then it's gone, replaced by his usual composed expression as you approach a group of diplomats.
"Ambassador Petrov," Prince Jongseong greets an imposing man with a silver beard. "May I present Her Royal Highness, Princess Y/N of Genovia?"
The next hour passes in a blur of introductions and carefully navigated conversations. Prince Jongseong remains at your side, smoothly guiding interactions and occasionally rescuing you with well-timed interventions when you falter.
During a brief moment alone while getting drinks, you turn to him. "Thank you. For... all this." You gesture vaguely at the room.
"You're doing remarkably well," he says. "Most people would have fled the country by now."
"Don't think I haven't considered it," you mutter, making him smile.
"What's stopping you?"
You consider the question seriously. "I don't know. Maybe... responsibility? My grandmother needs me. Genovia needs me. Running away seems selfish."
He studies you thoughtfully. "That sense of duty will make you an excellent ruler someday."
"If I survive princess lessons," you joke weakly.
"You will," he says with surprising conviction. "And perhaps along the way, you might even find aspects of royal life to enjoy."
"Like what? The constant scrutiny? The lack of privacy? The arranged marriages?"
His expression shifts at that last point. "Not all royal marriages are purely political these days. There can be... compatibility considerations."
"Is that what this is?" you ask boldly, gesturing between you. "A 'compatibility assessment'?"
He doesn't answer immediately, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I would prefer to think of it as... getting to know each other without predetermined expectations."
"Except for the fact that my grandmother and your government clearly have expectations," you point out.
"True," he acknowledges. "But perhaps we could set those aside, temporarily. See if there's more between us than diplomatic advantage."
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "And if there isn't?"
"Then we remain allies with mutual respect," he says simply. "No one can force a marriage in the modern era, regardless of constitutional requirements."
Before you can respond, Charlotte approaches. "Your Highness, the Prime Minister has arrived and wishes to pay his respects."
Prince Jongseong steps back slightly. "We should continue this conversation another time."
"I'd like that," you admit, surprised by your own honesty.
He bows formally, but his eyes hold something warmer. "Until tomorrow, Princess Y/N."
-
The press conference is a blur of flashing cameras and shouted questions. Despite your fears of public humiliation, you somehow manage to survive it—stumbling only twice over Genovian pronunciations and making just one awkward joke that, thankfully, the press seems to find charming rather than offensive.
"You were marvelous," your grandmother tells you afterward, her approval warming you despite your exhaustion.
"Really? Because I think I just agreed to visit a children's hospital tomorrow and I have no idea what a royal visit actually entails."
"Charlotte will brief you," she says dismissively. "The important thing is that you appeared genuine. The people responded to that."
You think back to Prince Jongseong's advice about authenticity over perfection. Maybe he was right after all.
"Speaking of Prince Jongseong," your grandmother continues, with that same hint of calculation in her eyes, "he's arranged for a tour of Genovia's historical districts tomorrow evening. The royal council believes it would be beneficial for you to be seen engaging with our cultural heritage."
"The royal council believes," you repeat skeptically. "Or you believe?"
Your grandmother's lips twitch. "Let's say our interests align in this particular matter."
You roll your eyes. "You're not exactly subtle about this matchmaking attempt."
"Subtlety is a luxury afforded to those with time," she replies. "We have precious little of that."
She's not wrong. The constitutional deadline looms over every decision, every interaction. Sometimes you forget that your grandmother faces the end of her life's work—the dissolution of a monarchy that has stood for centuries—if you don't step up to the challenge.
"Fine," you concede. "I'll go on the royal field trip. But don't expect me to fall madly in love just because he knows his way around old buildings."
"I expect nothing," your grandmother says innocently. "Though I would point out that an appreciation for history is an admirable quality in a potential consort."
That night, sleep remains elusive despite your exhaustion. Your mind keeps cycling through the day's events, replaying moments of triumph and embarrassment in equal measure. After tossing and turning for hours, you finally give up and slip out of bed.
The palace is different at night—quieter, less intimidating without the constant hustle of staff and royal obligations. You wrap a robe around your pajamas and venture into the hallway, nodding to the security guard who pretends not to notice your disheveled state.
Without any real destination in mind, you wander through dimly lit corridors, enjoying the rare moment of solitude. Somehow, you find yourself at a set of glass doors leading to the garden where you walked with Prince Jongseong that first night.
The garden is silvered with moonlight, the formal hedges casting complex shadows across manicured lawns. You step outside, breathing in the scent of night-blooming flowers, and follow a stone path deeper into the grounds.
You've just discovered a charming fountain featuring a mermaid when a voice behind you says, "You couldn't sleep either?"
You whirl around, startled, to find Prince Jongseong standing a few feet away. He's dressed casually—at least by his standards—in dark pants and a simple white shirt, open at the collar. With his hair slightly mussed and his perfect posture somewhat relaxed, he looks younger, more approachable.
"You scared me," you accuse, pressing a hand to your racing heart.
"My apologies," he says, taking a step closer. "I didn't expect anyone else to be out here at this hour."
"That makes two of us," you reply, suddenly conscious of your own appearance—hair hastily tied back, face bare of makeup, wearing palace-issued silk pajamas under a matching robe. Not exactly how you'd choose to encounter the frustratingly perfect prince.
"I watched the press conference," he says, changing the subject. "You did well."
"I stumbled over 'agricultural initiatives' and called the Finance Minister 'sir' instead of 'minister,'" you point out.
His mouth quirks in that almost-smile that's becoming familiar. "And yet, you were authentic. The people responded to that."
"That's almost exactly what my grandmother said."
"The Queen is a perceptive woman."
You study him in the moonlight, curious about this less formal version of the prince. "Do you always wander palace gardens at midnight?"
"Only when sleep proves elusive," he admits. He hesitates, then adds, "The demands of royal life can be... difficult to quiet."
"Tell me about it," you sigh, sitting on the edge of the fountain. After a moment's hesitation, he joins you, maintaining a respectful distance. "Two days ago, my biggest worry was my political theory midterm. Now I'm worried about constitutional crises and diplomatic incidents."
"It's a significant adjustment," he acknowledges.
"That's the understatement of the century," you laugh, but there's no real humor in it. "Everyone keeps acting like I should just accept all this—the title, the responsibility, the arranged marriage—like it's perfectly normal."
He's quiet for a moment, then asks, "May I speak candidly, Your Highness?"
"Please. And maybe drop the 'Your Highness' when we're alone? It's weird enough without the constant reminders."
He nods, then says, "Y/N, then." Your name in his voice, without the royal title, sends an unexpected shiver down your spine. "The truth is, none of this is normal. Not even for those of us raised in it. We're just better at pretending."
"You're saying you hate it too?" you ask skeptically.
"Not hate," he corrects. "But there are... challenges. Expectations. Sacrifices."
"Like what?"
He stares at the fountain, watching moonlight play across the water. "Privacy. Freedom to choose one's own path. The luxury of mistakes."
You study his profile, seeing something vulnerable in his expression that's never visible during daylight hours. "So why do it?"
"Duty," he says simply. "Family. The knowledge that privilege comes with responsibility."
"That sounds rehearsed," you observe.
To your surprise, he laughs—a genuine sound that transforms his face. "Perhaps because I've been repeating it to myself since childhood."
Your curiosity grows. "What would you have chosen? If you weren't born a prince?"
The question seems to catch him off guard. He considers it seriously. "I've never allowed myself to think about it. But perhaps... music."
"Music?" That wasn't what you expected.
"I play piano," he admits, sounding almost embarrassed. "Classically trained, of course, as all proper princes must be. But I find myself drawn to composing. It's... freeing."
You try to imagine Prince Perfect hunched over a piano, lost in music of his own creation, and the image is strangely compelling.
"Will you play for me sometime?" you ask impulsively.
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, certainly, but something else too. Something warmer. "If you wish."
"I do," you say, surprised by your own sincerity.
A comfortable silence falls between you, broken only by the gentle splashing of the fountain. Without the pressure of formal events and watchful eyes, you find yourself relaxing in his presence.
"What about you?" he asks eventually. "If you weren't suddenly thrust into royal life, what would you have chosen?"
"I was studying political science," you remind him. "I wanted to work in international development. Help people who are overlooked by traditional power structures."
"Noble aims," he observes.
"Now I sound like the one with rehearsed answers," you laugh.
"No," he says softly. "You sound like someone with genuine conviction." He pauses, then adds, "Someone who would make an excellent queen."
The compliment catches you off guard. "You barely know me."
"I'm a good judge of character," he replies. "It's a necessary skill in diplomatic circles."
"Is that what this is?" you ask boldly. "Diplomacy?"
His eyes meet yours, and something electric passes between you. "Not entirely," he admits.
"This is something unexpected," he says finally, his voice lower than before.
The air between you feels charged with possibility. You're acutely aware of his proximity, of the slight gap in his collar revealing a glimpse of collarbone, of the way moonlight catches in his eyes.
"Jongseong," you say, testing his name without the princely title. It feels intimate somehow, crossing an invisible boundary. "Why did you volunteer to help with my training?"
He doesn't answer immediately. When he does, his honesty surprises you. "Initially, for diplomatic reasons. An alliance between Genovia and Astoria would benefit both nations." He hesitates, then adds, "But after meeting you... my motivations became more personal."
"How personal?" you press, heart racing.
Instead of answering, he reaches out slowly, giving you time to pull away, and brushes a strand of hair from your face. His fingertips graze your cheek, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.
"Personal enough that I find myself in gardens at midnight, hoping for a chance encounter," he admits quietly.
You don't realize you've been holding your breath until you exhale shakily. "That's... quite personal."
His gaze drops to your lips briefly before returning to your eyes. "May I..." he begins, then hesitates.
"Yes," you whisper, not needing him to finish the question.
He leans in slowly, deliberately, one hand coming up to cup your cheek. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is gentle, questioning, giving you every opportunity to pull away.
You don't. Instead, you find yourself leaning into him, one hand coming to rest on his chest where you can feel his heart beating as rapidly as your own. The kiss deepens, becoming something more urgent, more honest than any interaction you've had since arriving in Genovia.
When you finally break apart, you're both breathing unevenly. Jongseong rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as if savoring the moment.
"That was..." he begins.
"Unexpected?" you suggest, echoing his earlier word.
He laughs softly. "Yes. Though perhaps inevitable."
"Is this going to cause an international incident?" you ask, only half-joking.
"Only if we let it," he replies, drawing back slightly to meet your eyes. "This... whatever is developing between us... it needs to be separate from politics. At least for now."
"Can it be?" you wonder aloud. "Everything about our lives is political."
"Not everything," he says firmly. "Not this." He takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "When we're alone, I'd like to just be Jongseong. Not Prince Jongseong of Astoria with all its attendant expectations."
The vulnerability in his request touches something in you. "I'd like that."
"My friends at school used to call me Jay," he admits, sounding almost shy. "No one here uses that name."
The nickname humanizes him instantly, creating a contrast with the formal prince everyone else sees.
"Jay," you repeat, testing it on your tongue. His eyes darken at the sound of his nickname in your voice. "I like it."
"May I kiss you again... Y/N?" he asks, your name without titles sounding intimate in his accented voice.
In answer, you close the distance between you, kissing him with more confidence this time. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens. One of your hands finds its way into his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands that are usually so perfectly styled.
You lose track of time, lost in the sensation of his mouth against yours, his hands tracing patterns on your back through the thin silk of your robe. There's an urgency building between you, a heat that makes you forget your surroundings, your circumstances, everything but the feeling of being in his arms.
It's the distant sound of a guard's footsteps that finally brings you back to reality. You pull apart quickly, both breathing heavily. Jongseong's hair is mussed from your fingers, his lips slightly swollen, and there's a flush across his cheekbones that you've never seen before.
"We should probably go back inside," you say reluctantly, glancing toward the sound. "Before someone finds us."
He nods, though he looks as unwilling as you feel. "You're right." He stands, offering you his hand to help you up. "Though I find myself wishing for more midnight encounters."
"Is that a royal request?" you tease, accepting his help.
"A personal one," he corrects, bringing your joined hands to his lips for a brief kiss that sends warmth flooding through you.
-
The historical districts of Genovia are charming beyond your expectations—cobblestone streets, centuries-old architecture, and views of both mountains and sea that take your breath away. But if you're being honest, you're far more aware of your tour guide than the sights.
Jongseong—or Jay, as you've begun to think of him in your private thoughts—appears perfectly princely today, back in formal attire with his public mask firmly in place. If not for the occasional heated glance when no one is watching, you might think you dreamed last night's encounter.
"This cathedral dates back to the 14th century," he explains as you enter a soaring space of stained glass and ancient stone. "The Renaldi family has traditionally been crowned here since 1523."
"Where I'll be crowned," you murmur, the reality of your future suddenly pressing in.
His expression softens briefly. "Yes. Though not for many years, one hopes."
The palace security detail keeps a discreet distance, but they're ever-present, along with several photographers approved to document your cultural education for the Genovian press. Every movement, every interaction is observed, recorded, analyzed.
"How do you stand it?" you ask quietly as you move between exhibits in a historical museum. "The constant scrutiny."
"You develop a public self," he explains, maintaining a proper distance as he guides you through a display of royal artifacts. "A version that can withstand examination."
"And the real self?"
His eyes meet yours briefly, intensely. "That remains private. Shared only with those who have earned trust."
The implication isn't lost on you. Last night, he showed you something real—something beyond the perfect prince facade. The knowledge feels like a precious secret.
The tour concludes with dinner at a historical restaurant overlooking the harbor. Security has cleared the establishment of other patrons, creating an illusion of privacy that you both know is false. Still, sitting across from him as sunset paints the water gold, you find moments of genuine connection between the formal conversation about Genovian history and culture.
"You've memorized a remarkable amount about Genovia," you observe as he explains the significance of an ancient trading route.
"I studied your country extensively after learning of your existence," he admits. "I wanted to be prepared."
"For what?"
"To meet you," he says simply.
Something warm unfurls in your chest. "That's... thorough."
"I prefer to be informed," he replies, but there's a hint of self-deprecating humor in his tone. "Though I confess, no amount of research prepared me for the reality."
"Disappointed?" you ask, only half-joking.
"Quite the opposite." His gaze is steady, sincere. "You continually surprise me, Y/N. It's... refreshing."
The way he says your name, without titles or pretense, sends a thrill through you despite the public setting.
After dinner, as you're escorted back to the palace, the car's privacy partition offers a brief moment of seclusion from watchful eyes. Jongseong's hand finds yours in the darkness, fingers intertwining.
"I wish we could have a normal evening," he says quietly. "Without guards and photographers. Just the two of us."
"Is anything about our lives ever going to be normal?" you wonder aloud.
He squeezes your hand gently. "Probably not. But we might find moments of normalcy in the chaos."
The car slows as you approach the palace gates, and reluctantly, he releases your hand. The mask of royal propriety falls back into place with practiced ease.
"Thank you for the tour, Prince Jongseong," you say formally as the car stops at the palace entrance. "It was most educational."
"The pleasure was mine, Your Highness," he replies with equal formality, though his eyes convey a very different message.
Later that night, you find yourself drawn once again to the garden, hoping for a repeat of the previous evening's encounter. The fountain beckons with memories of his kiss, but the garden remains empty save for the ever-present palace guards.
Disappointed, you turn to head back inside when you notice something on the bench by the fountain—a folded piece of paper tucked partially beneath a small stone. Looking around to ensure no one is watching, you retrieve it, unfolding it quickly.
Inside, in elegant handwriting: Piano room, east wing, midnight. —J
Your pulse quickens. The east wing houses several music rooms, according to Charlotte's exhaustive palace tour. It would be simple enough to find your way there.
It would also be reckless, improper, and potentially scandalous if discovered.
You fold the note carefully, tucking it into your pocket, and head back inside, decision already made.
The palace at midnight is a labyrinth of shadows and silence. You've changed from your formal evening attire into something more comfortable—dark jeans and a simple blouse that feels like armor after days of princess couture. With your hair loose and face scrubbed of makeup, you almost recognize yourself again.
You navigate the corridors carefully, grateful for Charlotte's detailed palace tour. The east wing is older, with fewer guards patrolling its halls. The music room isn't difficult to find—soft piano notes guide you to a partially open door.
Inside, lit only by a single lamp, Jongseong sits at a grand piano. He's shed his formal attire for dark pants and a simple button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair falls loose across his forehead as he plays, eyes closed in concentration.
The melody is hauntingly beautiful—melancholy yet hopeful, complex yet accessible. You stand in the doorway, transfixed by this version of him you've never seen before—completely unguarded, lost in his music.
When the piece ends, his eyes open and find you immediately, as if he sensed your presence all along.
"You came," he says simply.
"I came," you confirm, stepping fully into the room and closing the door quietly behind you.
He remains seated at the piano, watching as you approach. "Did anyone see you?"
"Just the guard outside my room. I told him I was going to the library."
He nods, satisfied. "That was beautiful," you add, gesturing to the piano. "What was it?"
"Something I've been working on," he admits, looking almost shy. "It's not finished yet."
"You composed that?" You're genuinely impressed.
"Music has always been... an escape," he explains. "Somewhere I can express things I can't say aloud."
"What was that piece saying?" you ask, perching on the edge of the piano bench beside him.
He considers this, fingers ghosting over the keys without pressing them. "It's about living between worlds. Belonging fully to neither." His eyes meet yours. "I started it the night we met."
The admission sends warmth flooding through you. "Play more?" you request softly.
Instead, he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "I'd rather talk. Without titles or expectations or diplomatic considerations."
"What should we talk about... Jay?" His nickname feels intimate on your tongue.
His eyes darken at your use of the name. "Anything. Everything. Who you were before Genovia. Who you hope to become."
So you talk—really talk—in a way you haven't been able to since arriving in Genovia. You tell him about college, your friends, your dreams of working in international development. He shares stories of his childhood in Astoria, the weight of expectation, the moments of rebellion carefully hidden from public view.
"I crashed a motorcycle when I was seventeen," he admits, and you try to reconcile this image with the perfect prince you first met. "Snuck out of the palace, borrowed a security guard's bike, ended up with three broken ribs and a lecture from my father I still haven't forgotten."
"I can't imagine you being that reckless," you laugh.
"I'm not, usually," he acknowledges. "But sometimes the pressure builds until something has to give."
You understand that feeling all too well. "What happened after?"
"I was sent to military academy to 'channel my energies appropriately,'" he says with a wry smile. "It actually helped. Gave me structure, purpose beyond simply being the crown prince."
As you talk, the distance between you gradually diminishes. His hand finds yours again, thumb tracing patterns on your palm that send shivers up your arm. Your shoulders touch, then your knees. The air between you grows charged with possibility.
"I haven't stopped thinking about last night," he admits, voice dropping lower. "About kissing you."
"Neither have I," you confess.
This time, there's no hesitation. He leans in, capturing your lips with his, one hand coming up to cup your face. The kiss deepens immediately, as if you're both making up for lost time. You shift closer on the bench, your hand finding its way to his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your palm.
His kisses are more confident than the night before, exploring rather than questioning. Your fingers thread through his hair, marveling at its softness. When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you open to him without hesitation, a small sound of pleasure escaping you.
The bench is awkward, limiting movement, so when he pulls back slightly, breathing heavily, you stand, tugging him with you. He follows willingly, but instead of returning to your kiss, he guides you to a small sofa in the corner of the room.
"More comfortable," he explains, settling beside you.
This new position allows for closer contact. When his lips find yours again, his arm wraps around your waist, drawing you against him. Your bodies align perfectly, and heat builds between you with each passing moment. His kisses move from your lips to your jaw, then your neck, discovering sensitive spots that make you gasp.
"Is this okay?" he murmurs against your skin.
"More than okay," you assure him, tilting your head to give him better access.
Your hands explore hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence—the broad expanse of his shoulders, the firm muscles of his chest, the surprising warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. His own explorations become bolder, one hand sliding up your side, thumb brushing the outer curve of your breast.
Even this innocent touch sends electricity through you. You arch into his hand, silently encouraging more. He obeys your wordless request, cupping you fully through your blouse, thumb circling in a way that makes you bite your lip to stay quiet.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers, eyes dark with desire. "From the moment I saw you..."
You silence him with another kiss, not trusting yourself with words. Your body is taking control, wants overwhelming rational thought. When his hand slips beneath the hem of your blouse, warm against your bare skin, you shiver with anticipation.
His fingers trace patterns up your ribcage, hesitating at the edge of your bra. "May I?" he asks, ever the gentleman even in this moment.
"Yes," you breathe, beyond caring about propriety or consequences.
The first touch of his hand against your bare breast draws a soft moan from you that he captures with his mouth. His thumb circles your nipple through the thin lace, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You press closer, wanting more, needing more.
Your own hands grow bolder, tugging his shirt from his waistband, slipping beneath to explore the warm skin of his back. You feel the subtle ridge of a scar near his shoulder blade, a humanizing imperfection that makes him even more attractive somehow.
"What's this from?" you ask, fingertips tracing the mark.
"Fencing accident," he murmurs against your neck. "Age twelve. Opponent didn't pull his strike."
You press your lips to his jaw, then his neck, enjoying the way his breath catches. "Any other scars I should know about?"
His laugh is low, slightly uneven. "Several. But discovering them might require more privacy than a music room allows."
The reminder of your surroundings is like a splash of cold water. Anyone could walk in—a guard, a staff member, your grandmother. The scandal would be immediate and irreparable.
Reluctantly, you pull back slightly, though your body protests the loss of contact. "You're right. This isn't the place."
His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing heavily. "I got carried away," he admits. "You have a... significant effect on me."
"Likewise," you assure him, pressing one more quick kiss to his lips before putting slight distance between you. "But you're right. We should be careful."
He helps you straighten your clothes, then adjusts his own, running a hand through his disheveled hair in a futile attempt to tame it. The sight of him—rumpled, flushed, looking nothing like the perfect prince the world knows—fills you with a secret satisfaction.
"When can I see you again?" he asks, taking your hand. "Like this, I mean. Just us."
"I don't know," you admit. "My schedule is packed for the next few days. Royal duties and all that."
"I have to return to Astoria briefly," he tells you, disappointment evident in his voice. "Diplomatic matters requiring the crown prince's attention. But I'll be back for the royal ball."
The royal ball—your official introduction to Genovian society. The thought fills you with anxiety, but now also anticipation at the prospect of seeing him again.
"Dance with me at the ball?" you request.
"Every dance they'll allow," he promises. He hesitates, then adds, "Though propriety will demand you dance with other suitable candidates as well."
"Other suitors, you mean," you clarify, the political reality of your situation reasserting itself.
His expression tightens slightly, but he nods. "Yes. The royal council will expect you to consider all options."
"And what do you expect?" you challenge softly.
His answer is immediate and sincere. "Only that you follow your heart, wherever it leads." He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Even if it's not to me."
The selflessness of this statement catches you off guard. "That's... not what I expected you to say."
"What did you expect?"
"Something more possessive, maybe," you admit. "More princelike."
He smiles, that real smile that transforms his face. "I'm trying very hard not to be the prince with you, remember? Just Jay."
"Well, Just Jay," you say, returning his smile, "I can't make any promises about where my heart will lead. But right now, it seems rather fixated on a certain piano-playing prince with surprisingly skilled hands."
-
The next few days pass in a blur of preparations. There are fittings for your ball gown (a process that involves no fewer than seven people and countless discussions of hemlines and necklines and something called "appropriate royal décolletage"). There are dance lessons with Monsieur Laurent, who seems personally offended that Prince Jongseong isn't there to partner you. There are briefings about every guest who will attend, complete with flash cards for memorizing names and titles.
"The Duchess of Wellington prefers to discuss her charitable foundation, not her recent divorce," Charlotte instructs as you review the guest list. "And under no circumstances ask the Spanish ambassador about Gibraltar."
"This is worse than finals week," you grumble, flipping through the stack of cards. "At least then I was only tested on one subject at a time."
"Society is judging you on everything simultaneously," Charlotte confirms cheerfully. "Appearance, knowledge, grace, diplomacy..."
"Thanks. That's very reassuring."
The night before the ball, you find yourself restless, missing both Jay's presence and the calming effect of your midnight conversations. Over the past month, you've grown accustomed to his company, to having someone who understands both your old world and your new one. This week without him has left you feeling strangely adrift.
You wander down to the music room, hoping to recapture some of that peace, but the room feels empty without him. You sit at the piano, pressing random keys, creating nothing like the beautiful melodies he coaxed from the instrument. On impulse, you check under the bench, then inside the piano itself, hoping for another note, but find nothing.
It's silly to feel disappointed. He's a crown prince with actual responsibilities, not a lovestruck teenager leaving notes for his crush. Still, you can't help wishing for some connection, some indication that he's thinking of you too.
Back in your room, you're about to climb into bed when there's a soft knock at your door. Olivia enters with a small silver tray.
"This just arrived for you, Your Highness," she says, presenting what appears to be a letter sealed with dark blue wax.
Your heart skips as you recognize the crest pressed into the seal—the royal emblem of Astoria. You wait until Olivia leaves before breaking it open with trembling fingers.
Inside, written in that now-familiar elegant handwriting:
Y/N,
Diplomatic obligations keep me in Astoria longer than anticipated, but I'll return tomorrow in time for the ball. Save a dance for me—preferably more than one.
This week has felt like an eternity. I've missed our conversations, our moments away from public scrutiny. I find myself at my piano each night, working on the piece I started after we met. It's nearly complete now. Perhaps I'll play it for you soon.
The past month has been unexpected in every way. When I first agreed to my father's request to help with your royal transition, I never imagined...
Some things are better said in person. Until tomorrow, J
P.S. I still feel your touch on my skin.
-
The day of the royal ball arrives with military precision. Your schedule is planned down to the minute—when you'll bathe (9:15 AM), when your hair will be styled (11:30 AM), when makeup will be applied (2:45 PM). It's as if you're a product being assembled rather than a person preparing for an event.
"I can bathe myself, you know," you inform Charlotte when she reviews the schedule over breakfast. "I've been doing it successfully for two decades."
"Today is not about efficiency, Your Highness," Charlotte replies. "It's about tradition. The royal ball has marked the formal introduction of new members of the royal family for generations."
You think about Jay's letter, tucked safely under your pillow. Tonight isn't just about tradition for you. After a month in the palace, you've reached a turning point—not just in your royal journey, but in whatever is developing between you and Jay.
The day progresses according to schedule, each hour bringing you closer to the evening's festivities. By the time you're finally dressed, you hardly recognize yourself in the mirror.
Your ball gown is a masterpiece of midnight blue silk that seems to change colors as you move—now sapphire, now indigo, now almost black. The bodice is fitted, adorned with subtle crystal beading that catches the light like stars, while the skirt flows outward in graceful folds. Your hair has been swept up in an elegant style that manages to look both regal and youthful, and atop it all sits a delicate tiara—platinum vines intertwined with small diamonds.
"You look every inch a princess," your grandmother declares when she sees you, genuine approval warming her voice.
"I feel like I'm wearing someone else's life," you admit.
She approaches, adjusting your tiara slightly. "It is your life now. You've taken to it more naturally than anyone expected—including yourself, I suspect."
There's a knowing look in her eyes that makes you wonder how much she's guessed about your feelings for Jay. Your grandmother misses little, and your increasingly frequent "diplomatic discussions" with Prince Jongseong over the past month have hardly been subtle.
"Remember," she continues, "tonight you represent not just yourself, but Genovia. Every interaction matters."
"No pressure," you mutter.
"Considerable pressure," she corrects, but with a hint of a smile. "That's the nature of our position."
The ball is being held in the palace's Grand Ballroom, a space so opulent it makes even the other royal rooms seem understated in comparison. Crystal chandeliers hang from vaulted ceilings painted with mythological scenes. Massive floral arrangements perfume the air. A full orchestra plays softly as guests begin to arrive.
You stand with your grandmother at the entrance, greeting each person as Charlotte announces them. Your hand is kissed so many times it begins to feel like a separate entity from your body. You cycle through the diplomatic phrases you've memorized, trying to match names to faces to countries to appropriate topics of conversation.
You continue greeting guests, anxiety gradually giving way to a strange confidence. After a month of intensive training, you're actually doing this—being a princess, representing Genovia, handling diplomatic small talk without major incident. The realization is both surprising and empowering.
And then finally, after what feels like hours, Charlotte announces, "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of Astoria."
Your heart stutters as he appears, resplendent in formal attire—a midnight blue military-style jacket with silver accents that perfectly complements your gown, as if coordinated. (Knowing your grandmother's attention to detail, it probably was.) He looks every inch the crown prince, and yet all you can see is Jay—your Jay—hidden beneath the formal facade.
His eyes find yours immediately, warming in a way that feels intimate despite the crowded room. He bows formally to your grandmother, exchanging pleasantries, before turning to you.
"Your Highness," he says, taking your hand. Instead of the customary kiss to your knuckles, he turns your hand gently and presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, just above your pulse point.
The gesture is technically within the bounds of protocol but charged with meaning only you understand. You feel your heartbeat quicken beneath his lips, and know he can feel it too.
"Prince Jongseong," you manage, your voice steadier than you expected. "Welcome back to Genovia."
"I understand congratulations are in order," he says smoothly. "The press has been most favorable regarding your public appearances this week."
"The princess has exceeded expectations," your grandmother agrees, watching this interaction with interest.
His eyes never leave yours. "I'm not surprised."
The moment stretches between you, full of unspoken feelings built over these past weeks, before Charlotte's announcement of the next guest breaks the spell. Jay bows again and moves into the ballroom, but not before one last glance that promises more to come.
Once all guests have arrived, the formal dancing begins. Your grandmother opens the ball with the Prime Minister, and then it's your turn. Tradition dictates that your first dance be with the highest-ranking unmarried nobleman present—which happens to be Jay.
He approaches as the orchestra begins a stately waltz, extending his hand. "May I have this dance, Your Highness?"
You place your hand in his, grateful for all those practice sessions over the past month. "You may."
His hand settles at your waist, familiar yet different in this public setting. You move together perfectly, your earlier clumsiness long gone, replaced by a confidence born of compatibility and practice.
"You look breathtaking," he says quietly as he guides you through a turn. "That color suits you."
"Thank you. You look..." You search for a word that encompasses how he affects you without being inappropriate for public consumption. "Regal."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Is that a compliment or a complaint?"
"Both," you admit. "I miss Jay. Prince Jongseong is very impressive, but..."
"But not who you want to be with," he finishes, understanding immediately. His hand tightens slightly at your waist. "He's still here. Just... constrained by circumstance."
"Can he break free later?" you ask boldly. "Perhaps after the ball?"
His eyes darken. "He'll find a way."
The orchestra's final notes signal the end of your dance, forcing you to separate. Jay bows formally, though his eyes convey much more intimate thoughts.
"Until later, Princess," he says, voice low with promise.
The rest of the evening becomes an exercise in diplomatic multitasking. You dance with Prince Nikolai, finding his conversation refreshingly direct. You dance with the French ambassador's son, the Duke of Wellington, and several other names from your grandmother's list of suitable candidates.
Each dance, each conversation, feels like a performance—you playing the role of princess, potential bride, future queen. Only your brief interactions with Jay feel real, though these are limited to passing glances and the occasional comment as you move in the same diplomatic circles.
During a momentary respite, you find yourself near a set of French doors leading to a terrace. Needing air and solitude, you slip outside, grateful for the cool night breeze after the stuffiness of the ballroom.
You've only enjoyed the peace for a moment when a familiar voice says, "Escaping your own ball?"
You turn to find Jay stepping through the doors, looking concerned.
"Just taking a short break," you assure him. "It's a lot to process."
He glances back at the ballroom, then joins you at the stone balustrade. "We shouldn't be alone together," he says, though he makes no move to leave. "Not where anyone might see."
"Yet here you are," you point out.
"Here I am," he agrees. "Unable to stay away despite knowing better."
You study his profile in the moonlight, drinking in the details you've missed during his week away. The strong line of his jaw, the perfect posture that somehow looks less rigid tonight, the subtle way his eyes soften when they meet yours.
"I missed you," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.
His expression gentles. "And I you. Far more than I anticipated."
You glance back at the ballroom, where hundreds of guests dance and mingle, all potential witnesses to this private moment. "A week felt longer than I expected."
"I composed three new pieces," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Music seems to flow more easily when I'm... feeling something intensely."
"Is that your princely way of saying you thought about me?" you tease.
He turns to face you fully, close enough that you can see the subtle variations of color in his eyes, even in the dim light. "I thought about little else."
Your heart skips at the naked honesty in his voice. Over the past month, you've learned to read the subtle shifts in his expression, to understand what lies beneath his carefully controlled exterior. Tonight, he's making no effort to hide his feelings.
"The ball is beautiful," you say, changing the subject before you do something reckless like kiss him where anyone might see. "I'm surprised I haven't completely embarrassed Genovia yet."
"You could never," he assures you. "You've taken to royal life with remarkable grace."
"I've had a good teacher," you reply, holding his gaze meaningfully.
He steps closer, close enough that the skirt of your gown brushes against his legs. "There's a small courtyard beyond this terrace," he says, his voice low. "More private than here. Would you walk with me? Just for a moment?"
You know you shouldn't. You're the guest of honor at a ball being held in your honor. People will notice your absence. And yet...
"Lead the way," you decide, throwing caution aside.
He offers his arm with perfect formal correctness, as if you're simply taking a proper turn around the terrace. But once you're beyond the sight of the French doors, his hand covers yours where it rests on his arm, a much more intimate touch.
The courtyard is small and enclosed, lit only by the moonlight and a few distant lanterns. A fountain burbles quietly at its center, surrounded by hedges that provide welcome privacy. The music from the ballroom is muffled here, creating the illusion that you've stepped into another world.
The moment you're properly hidden from view, Jay turns to you, one hand coming up to cup your cheek.
"I've been waiting to do this all evening," he murmurs, before his lips find yours.
The kiss is gentle at first, a reacquaintance after a week apart. But it quickly deepens, a month of growing desire making you both less cautious than you should be. Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer. His hands settle at your waist, respectful even in passion.
"I missed this," you breathe against his mouth. "Missed you. The real you."
"I'm most real when I'm with you," he confesses, forehead resting against yours. "Everywhere else, I'm playing a role."
"Even in Astoria?"
"Especially there," he sighs. "My father has... specific expectations about how the crown prince should behave."
You pull back slightly to study his face. "You never talk about your father."
A shadow crosses his expression. "There's little to say. He is a traditional ruler with traditional views."
"About Astoria? Or about who you should marry?" you ask, cutting to what you suspect is the heart of the matter.
Jay's silence answers your question.
"He doesn't approve of me," you realize. "Of us."
"He doesn't know you," Jay corrects gently. "He sees only the diplomatic equation—a princess with an uncertain claim versus more established alliances."
The reality of your situation crashes back. No matter how genuine your feelings, how perfect this stolen moment, politics surrounds you both like the walls of this courtyard.
"And what do you see?" you ask, steeling yourself for his answer.
His hands frame your face, his gaze unwavering. "I see you. Not the princess, not the diplomatic opportunity. Just you—stubborn, honest, intelligent, beautiful you."
The sincerity in his voice melts your defenses. You reach up to touch his face, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone with your fingertips.
"When did this happen?" you wonder aloud. "When did you become so important to me?"
He turns his head to kiss your palm. "I don't know. Somewhere between your first disastrous curtsy and the moment you called me Jay instead of Prince Jongseong."
"It was the piano playing," you decide with a small smile. "I'm a sucker for musicians."
He laughs softly, the sound warming you from within. "I'll compose symphonies for you, if that's what it takes."
"Takes for what?" you challenge gently.
His expression grows serious. "To convince you that what's between us is worth fighting for, regardless of politics or convenience or royal expectations."
The weight of his words settles over you. A month ago, you were a college student worrying about midterms. Now you're a princess with constitutional responsibilities, standing in a moonlit courtyard with a prince who's looking at you like you're the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.
"Jay," you start, not sure what you're going to say.
"Don't answer now," he interrupts softly. "There's still time. Still much we both need to consider."
He's right, of course. The constitutional deadline looms, but it's still weeks away. Tonight isn't the time for final decisions.
"We should return," he says reluctantly. "Your absence will be noticed."
"Yours too," you point out. "The dashing Crown Prince of Astoria is quite popular, I've noticed."
A hint of a smile touches his lips. "Jealous?"
"Should I be?"
His answer is another kiss, deeper than before, his arms pulling you flush against him. When he finally releases you, you're both breathing heavily.
His eyes darken. "Meet me in the music room. One hour after the ball ends."
Your breath catches. "That's... quite direct."
"You asked," he reminds you, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "Will you come?"
The music is drawing to a close, your time together nearly over. "Yes,"
-
Once alone, you change from your nightgown into something less formal but still respectable—dark pants and a simple blouse. You check the clock. Forty minutes until you're supposed to meet Jay in the music room. Enough time to let the palace settle, for guards to assume their night positions, for suspicion to fade.
The music room is dark when you arrive, only a single lamp burning low near the piano. For a moment, you think you've arrived first—then you spot him, standing by the window, looking out at the gardens below.
"Jay," you say softly.
He turns, and the expression on his face makes your heart skip. He crosses the room in a few long strides, and then his arms are around you, his lips on yours, and all pretense of formality evaporates.
This kiss is different from those that came before—less hesitant, more certain. A month of growing feelings, a week of separation, an evening of pretending indifference—all of it culminates in this moment of honesty between you.
When you finally part, both breathing heavily, he rests his forehead against yours. "I've been wanting to do that all night."
"Even during our dances?" you tease.
"Especially then," he admits. "Having you so close, yet having to maintain proper distance... it was excruciating."
You laugh softly. "Poor prince. Such diplomatic hardship."
"You have no idea," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "The things I wanted to say to you..."
"Say them now," you encourage, pulling back slightly to see his face.
He studies you in the dim light, his expression serious. "I don't want to overwhelm you."
"Try me," you challenge.
He takes a breath, then leads you to the small sofa where you've sat during previous late-night conversations. Once you're settled side by side, he takes your hand, his thumb tracing patterns on your palm.
"When my father first suggested I assist with your royal transition, I saw it as a diplomatic assignment," he begins. "Astoria helping Genovia, building goodwill, assessing a potential alliance. Very... political."
You nod, encouraging him to continue.
"Then I met you," he says with a small smile. "This defiant, overwhelmed, utterly genuine person who didn't fit any diplomatic template I'd prepared for."
"I was a mess," you remind him.
"You were authentic," he corrects. "Do you know how rare that is in royal circles? How precious?"
His sincerity catches you off guard. "I just didn't know how to be anything else."
"Exactly," he says, squeezing your hand. "And over these past weeks, watching you navigate this new world while somehow maintaining that authenticity... it's been remarkable."
"I find myself thinking about you constantly," he continues. "Looking forward to our conversations. Composing music inspired by your laugh. Wondering what you're doing when we're apart."
"I know it's fast," he acknowledges. "Barely a month since we met. But I also know that when I'm with you, I feel more myself than I ever have. Like I don't have to choose between the crown prince and the person beneath it."
He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "I'm falling in love with you, Y/N. Not the princess. You."
The confession hangs in the air between you, honest and terrifying and beautiful all at once.
"Say something," he urges when you remain silent, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.
Instead of answering with words, you lean forward and kiss him, trying to convey through touch what you're not sure how to express aloud. Your feelings for him have grown so gradually yet so intensely that putting them into language feels impossible.
When you finally break the kiss, you keep your face close to his. "I don't know what this is," you admit. "Everything in my life has changed so completely in the past month. But the one thing that feels real, that feels right, is you."
His eyes search yours. "But?"
"But I'm scared," you confess. "Of feeling this much. Of making decisions based on emotions when the stakes are so high. Of disappointing my grandmother, Genovia, everyone counting on me to make the right choice."
"What if the right diplomatic choice and the right personal choice are the same?" he asks quietly.
"Are they?" you challenge. "Your father doesn't seem to think so."
His expression tightens slightly. "My father sees alliances in terms of historical connections and military strategy. But a union between Astoria and Genovia makes sense on multiple levels—economic, cultural, geographic."
"Very romantic," you tease, trying to lighten the mood.
He smiles, recognizing your deflection. "I'm trying to address your concerns about duty. The personal reasons are..." His voice drops lower. "Well, I think I've made those clear."
Heat blooms in your cheeks at his implication. "Crystal clear."
"We don't have to decide anything tonight," he assures you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "The constitutional deadline is still weeks away."
"And until then?" you ask.
"Until then," he says, shifting closer, "we continue getting to know each other. Without pressure from our families or royal councils or diplomatic expectations."
"Can we really separate those things from who we are?"
"Perhaps not entirely," he admits. "But we can try. Starting with this."
He kisses you again, and for a while, the complications of royal life fade into the background. There's only this moment, this connection, this growing certainty that whatever path you choose, you want him beside you.
Much later, as you reluctantly prepare to return to your separate rooms before the palace awakens, Jay pulls you into one last embrace.
"We should go," he murmurs against your hair, though his arms tighten around you instead of letting go.
"Not yet," you whisper, unwilling to break the spell between you.
Jay studies your face in the dim light, something shifting in his expression. "Come with me," he says suddenly, taking your hand.
"Where?"
"Somewhere more private," he answers, leading you toward the door. "The guards change rotation in five minutes. We'll have a window."
Heart racing with equal parts excitement and nervousness, you follow him through the shadowed corridors. He moves with practiced ease, clearly familiar with the palace's nocturnal rhythms. After several turns, he stops before an ornate door you don't recognize.
"The royal library," he explains, producing a small key. "It's never guarded at night. No one will look for us here."
The library is vast and silent, moonlight streaming through tall windows, illuminating shelves that stretch toward the ceiling. A small fireplace holds the remnants of embers, casting a faint glow across a single chaise longue and a smaller, more intimate piano than the grand one in the music room.
Jay locks the door behind you, then crosses to stoke the dying fire. The flames leap higher, casting dancing shadows across the room. When he turns to face you, something has changed in his expression—something darker, hungrier.
He approaches slowly, giving you every chance to step away, to maintain the careful boundaries you've observed until now. But you don't move, don't want to move, transfixed by the intensity in his gaze.
Now, his breath is warm against your lips, fingers brushing your cheek with a reverence that makes your chest ache. The only light comes from the dying fire in the hearth, flickering shadows across the lone chaise and the grand piano beside it. The rest of the palace sleeps, unaware of the two figures standing too close in the quiet of the library, the air between them thick with something forbidden.
"Tell me to leave," he murmurs, voice wrecked with restraint.
"I won't," you whisper.
And then he kisses you.
It's slow at first, a gentle press of lips meant to savor, to test, to give you one last chance to stop this before it spirals beyond control. But when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away, something breaks.
Jay groans softly, deepening the kiss, his hands sliding to your waist, gripping you like he's afraid you'll disappear. He backs you up until you collide with the piano, your hips pressing against the polished wood, a soft creak echoing through the empty library.
"God," he breathes against your lips, his forehead resting against yours. "You have no idea what you do to me."
"Then show me," you whisper, tilting your chin up to capture his lips again.
That's all it takes.
Jay's hands slip beneath the fabric of your blouse, fingers finding bare skin, warm and wanting. He lifts you onto the edge of the piano in one smooth motion, the wood cool against your thighs as he steps between them, fitting his body between yours like you were carved for each other.
His lips move from your mouth to your jaw, trailing down your throat, slow, deliberate. Your breath hitches when he reaches the curve of your collarbone, teeth grazing, tongue soothing, leaving heat in his wake.
He pulls back slightly, dark eyes locking with yours as his fingers skim higher up your thigh. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs, voice strained.
Instead, your fingers tangle in his hair, your breath unsteady as you part your legs just a little wider, inviting him in.
His chest rises and falls sharply as his hand slides higher, fingertips brushing over the heat of your core, teasing through the thin lace.
"Fuck," he exhales, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as his fingers press against you, feeling just how wet you already are.
You tremble beneath his touch, hips shifting forward, seeking more friction, more of him.
Jay lets out a soft, desperate laugh against your skin. "So eager," he teases, his breath sending shivers down your spine. "Do you even realize what you do to me?"
"Shut up and do something about it," you whisper, voice wrecked.
His control snaps.
His fingers slide beneath the lace, parting you with a slow, torturous stroke that has your head falling back, mouth parting on a silent gasp.
"Jay," you whimper, your hands clenching his shoulders as his fingers dip lower, circling, teasing, never quite giving you enough.
"Patience," he breathes, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. He's just as wrecked as you are.
Then, finally, he sinks a finger inside you.
Your body clenches around him, a sharp inhale breaking the silence of the library.
"That's it," Jay murmurs, lips brushing your temple, his free hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. "Let me hear you, my love."
His fingers work you open slowly, curling, pressing, stroking in time with the shallow thrusts of his hips against your thigh. His mouth never stops—kissing, biting, sucking at your skin, leaving marks that will be hidden beneath your clothes come morning but burn with the memory of him.
Your nails dig into his shoulders as he adds a second finger, stretching you, filling you, his thumb circling exactly where you need him most.
"Fuck," he groans when you roll your hips into his touch, chasing the friction. "You're so wet for me. Do you have any idea what that does to me?"
"Jay—" Your voice catches as he strokes deeper, his fingers curling just right, white-hot pleasure spreading from your core outward.
He presses a soft kiss to your parted lips, swallowing every moan, every gasp, his pace slow and purposeful, like he wants to memorize the way you fall apart beneath him.
"Say my name," he whispers against your mouth, his voice shaking.
"Jay—"
"Louder."
"Jay," you gasp, body trembling as the pleasure coils tighter, too much and not enough all at once.
"Good girl," he breathes, curling his fingers one last time, pressing his lips against yours just as you shatter around him, your back arching against the piano, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.
He keeps working you through it, slow, lazy strokes that make you shudder, pressing kisses to your throat, your jaw, everywhere he can reach.
And when your breathing slows, his forehead rests against yours, his fingers still buried inside you, the taste of your pleasure still on his lips.
"I should let you go," he murmurs, but his hands don't move, his body still pressed against yours, hard and wanting.
You cup his face, pulling him back down for another kiss, deep and slow and full of everything you can't say.
"Not yet," you whisper.
And just like that, Jay groans, dragging you down from the piano and onto the chaise, his mouth and hands promising you're nowhere near done.
-
The palace is quiet as you slip through the corridors, heart still racing from the evening's events. You pause at a window overlooking the gardens, watching moonlight silver the paths where you first kissed Jay weeks ago. How much has changed since then—how much you have changed.
You're so lost in thought that you don't hear the approaching footsteps until it's too late.
"Your Highness?"
You turn, startled, to find your grandmother standing a few feet away, wrapped in a dressing gown that somehow manages to look regal despite the hour.
"Grandmother," you manage, hoping the dim lighting hides your flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. "I was just... getting some air."
Her expression remains neutral, but her eyes miss nothing. "A common need after such an eventful evening."
You wait for questions or accusations, but instead, she joins you at the window, both of you staring out at the moonlit garden.
"I couldn't sleep on the night of my first royal ball either," she says unexpectedly. "Too much excitement. Too many decisions looming."
You glance at her, surprised by this rare personal revelation. "Was your ball also for... matchmaking purposes?"
A small smile touches her lips. "Of course. Royal balls have rarely been simply for dancing."
"Did it work?" you ask, genuinely curious. "Did you find someone suitable?"
"I did." Her voice softens with memory. "Though not whom my parents expected."
"Grandfather?"
She nods. "He was considered politically inconvenient. The third son of a minor royal house with more titles than fortune. My parents had their sights set on a neighbor with stronger military forces."
You absorb this information, struggling to reconcile it with the pragmatic queen you've come to know. "But you chose him anyway."
"Love is not a luxury afforded to royalty," she says, her tone measured. "But sometimes, if one is very fortunate, duty and affection may align."
The implication hangs between you. She knows. Perhaps not the details, but enough.
"Is that what happened with you and Grandfather?" you ask.
Her smile deepens. "We built something real from an arrangement that began as political. Not love at first sight, perhaps, but a deep and abiding partnership that grew into something... essential."
You think of Jay—of the way he looks at you when no one else is watching, of his hands on your skin just hours ago, of his confession in the music room.
"I'm not sure what to do," you admit quietly.
Your grandmother turns to face you fully. "You've grown quite... fond of Prince Jongseong."
It's not a question, but you answer anyway. "Yes."
"And he of you," she observes. "That much has been evident for weeks."
Your head snaps up. "You've known?"
"I have eyes, my dear. And considerably more experience with clandestine palace romances than you might imagine."
For a moment, you glimpse a different woman beneath the queenly facade—younger, perhaps, with her own secrets and desires.
"I don't want to choose wrong," you confess. "For myself or for Genovia."
"The choice is rarely wrong or right," she replies. "Merely different paths, each with its own challenges and rewards."
"That's not very helpful," you point out.
To your surprise, she laughs—a genuine sound rarely heard in palace corridors. "I'm afraid that's the most honest counsel I can offer. But I will add this: I have been watching you these past weeks, Y/N. You have taken to royal life with remarkable adaptability. You have won the respect of the council, the diplomatic corps, and, most importantly, the people of Genovia."
"Have I?" You find this hard to believe.
"Indeed. Which means you have earned the right to make this choice for yourself, with Genovia's interests in mind but not at the expense of your own happiness."
Her hand touches your cheek briefly—a rare gesture of affection. "Besides, I have not spent thirty years preserving this monarchy only to see its next ruler miserable in a politically expedient marriage."
With that cryptic statement, she turns to leave. At the end of the corridor, she pauses.
"One more thing, Y/N."
"Yes, Grandmother?"
"The southeast wing has far fewer night patrols than the east wing." Her eyes twinkle momentarily. "For future reference."
She disappears around the corner, leaving you speechless in the moonlight.
The next morning, a note arrives with your breakfast tray.
Meet me in the rose garden at noon. There are matters we must discuss before the council meeting tomorrow. —J
The formality of the message concerns you, so different from his usual warmth. You spend the morning distracted during your language lesson, earning several pointed looks from your Genovian tutor as you massacre conjugations.
By noon, you're a bundle of nerves as you make your way to the garden. You find Jay seated on a stone bench, his posture rigid, his expression guarded. He stands when he sees you, bowing formally.
"Your Highness."
The title and distance hurt more than you expected. "Are we back to that now?"
His expression softens momentarily before the mask returns. "I've received a summons from my father. I'm to return to Astoria immediately."
Your stomach drops. "For how long?"
"That's what we need to discuss." He gestures to the bench, and you sit, carefully maintaining space between you. "My father has learned of... our connection."
"How?" You've been so careful.
"It seems Prince Nikolai mentioned to his father how taken you and I seemed with each other. The Danish king mentioned it to the Austrian ambassador, who informed my father's adviser."
"That's..."
"Royal gossip," Jay supplies with a grim smile. "It travels faster than light."
You process this information, anxiety building. "What does your father want?"
"He believes our association has progressed beyond diplomatic utility," Jay says carefully, clearly choosing each word. "He reminds me that Astoria's interests lie in stronger alliances with certain Eastern European powers, not with a... 'newly discovered princess of questionable legitimacy.'"
The words sting, though you know they're not his. "I see."
"No, you don't," he says firmly, his composed facade cracking. "Those are his words, not mine. Never mine."
"But you're still leaving."
He runs a hand through his hair, a rare display of frustration. "He's the king. I cannot simply ignore a direct summons."
"And when you return to Astoria?" you press. "What then?"
Jay's eyes meet yours, conflict evident in their depths. "He expects me to begin formal courtship proceedings with Princess Elena of Belgravia."
The name hits you like a physical blow. Princess Elena—beautiful, accomplished, born and raised royal, and the daughter of one of the wealthiest monarchs in Eastern Europe.
"I see," you say again, because what else is there to say?
"I've requested a private audience with my father before any announcements are made," Jay continues. "I intend to make my case for... an alternative arrangement."
Hope flickers faintly. "What kind of alternative?"
"My own choice," he says simply.
You both know what that means. Who that means.
"When do you leave?" you ask.
"Tomorrow morning."
So soon. Too soon.
"The council meets tomorrow afternoon," you tell him. "To discuss my... suitors. To begin formalizing the process."
"I know." His hand twitches as if to reach for yours, but he restrains himself. You're in plain view of the palace windows. "My timing could not be worse."
You laugh, though there's no humor in it. "When has timing ever been on our side?"
He smiles sadly. "Perhaps just once, when a certain princess couldn't sleep and wandered into a garden at midnight."
The memory warms you despite everything. "What should I do about the council?"
"Stall," he suggests. "Ask for more time to consider. The constitutional deadline is still three weeks away."
"And if you don't return by then? If your father refuses your 'alternative arrangement'?"
The question hangs between you, heavy with implication. Jay's jaw tightens.
"Then you must do what's best for Genovia," he says finally. "As I must do what's best for Astoria."
"Even if that means..."
"Even then," he confirms, though the words clearly pain him.
You sit in silence, the carefully tended roses blooming around you in vibrant contrast to your darkening mood.
"Tonight," Jay says suddenly. "Meet me in the library. Midnight."
Your heartbeat quickens at the memory of your last library encounter. "The guards—"
"Will be occupied with a minor disturbance in the north wing," he finishes. "I've arranged it."
You raise an eyebrow. "How very un-princely of you."
A hint of his real smile appears. "I thought you preferred me un-princely."
"I prefer you," you correct softly.
His eyes darken, and for a moment you think he might forget propriety entirely and kiss you right there in the sunlight. Instead, he stands, straightening his jacket with a deliberate motion that reestablishes distance.
"Until tonight, Your Highness," he says formally, loud enough for any listening ears.
The library is bathed in moonlight when you slip inside at midnight. Jay is already there, pacing between the tall shelves.
The moment the door closes behind you, he crosses the room in swift strides, gathering you into his arms. His mouth finds yours with desperate intensity, and you respond in kind, clutching at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you can reach.
"I can't bear the thought of leaving you," he murmurs against your lips.
"Then don't," you reply, knowing it's impossible even as you say it.
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his hands framing your face. "If there was any other way..."
"I know," you assure him. "I understand duty. Better than I did a month ago, anyway."
He smiles at that, though sadness lingers in his eyes. "You've become quite the princess."
"A reluctant one," you remind him.
"The best kind," he counters, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "The kind who questions, who challenges, who sees beyond tradition to possibility."
His faith in you is staggering. "What if I can't do this without you?"
"You can," he says with certainty. "You already have been. I've just been fortunate enough to witness it."
He leads you to the chaise where you lost yourself in him just nights ago. This time, though, he simply sits, pulling you close against his side.
"I've been thinking," he begins, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. "About us. About what happens after I speak with my father."
"And?"
"There are several possibilities," he says, the diplomat in him emerging. "He may agree to consider an alliance with Genovia through... us. It's not without precedent or merit, despite his current reservations."
"But you don't think he will," you observe.
Jay sighs. "He is... traditional. Set in his views. Convinced of certain alliances' superiority."
"So what happens if he refuses?"
He's quiet for a long moment. "Then I have a decision to make. One I've been contemplating for some time."
Your heart quickens. "What decision?"
"Whether my duty to Astoria's future must follow the exact path my father envisions," he says carefully. "Or whether I might serve my country better by following my own judgment."
The implications of this statement hang between you.
"You would defy him?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
"I would reason with him first," Jay clarifies. "With every diplomatic skill I possess. But if he remains unmoved..." He takes a deep breath. "Then yes, I would consider... alternatives."
"What kind of alternatives?"
He turns to face you fully. "I will be king one day, regardless of whom I marry. My father's insistence on certain alliances reflects old thinking—military might and territorial advantage. But Astoria's future lies in economic partnership, cultural exchange, technological advancement. Areas where Genovia has much to offer."
"That sounds very rational," you observe. "Very diplomatic."
A smile touches his lips. "I'm trying to frame my personal desires in terms my father might respect."
"And what are your personal desires?" you ask boldly.
His eyes darken. "I think I've made those quite clear." His hand comes up to cup your cheek. "But if you need me to be more explicit..."
His kiss leaves no doubt, deep and claiming and full of promise. When he finally pulls away, you're both breathing heavily.
"I love you," he says simply. "I want a future with you. As Prince of Astoria, as future king, but most importantly, as Jay—the man I can only truly be when I'm with you."
Tears spring to your eyes at the raw honesty in his voice. "I love you too," you whisper, the words feel both terrifying and inevitable. "I don't want to lose this. Lose you."
"Then trust me," he urges. "Trust that I will find a way back to you. Trust that what we've found is worth fighting for."
"What should I tell the council tomorrow?"
"The truth," he says. "That you're still considering your options. That you need the full three weeks to make your decision."
"And if they press me?"
"Then you might mention that one option includes a harmonious union between Genovia and Astoria that would benefit both nations for generations to come." A hint of mischief enters his expression. "Be vague on the details."
You laugh despite the heaviness in your chest. "Very diplomatic."
"I've had excellent training," he reminds you.
You lean your head against his shoulder, savoring the solid warmth of him. "How long will you be gone?"
"A week. Perhaps two. I'll send word when I can, but communications may be... monitored."
The reminder of your precarious situation sobers you. "And if you don't return before the deadline?"
He's quiet for a moment. "Then you must do what you believe is right. For yourself and for Genovia."
"That's not the answer I wanted," you admit.
"It's the honest one," he replies. "I will do everything in my power to return to you with a path forward for us. But I would never ask you to risk Genovia's stability on my promise alone."
It's painful, but you understand. The weight of nations rests on both your shoulders. Your wants cannot be the only consideration.
"How did we get here?" you wonder aloud. "Two months ago I was worried about midterms and student loans."
"And I was dutifully attending diplomatic functions, playing the perfect prince," he adds. "Never imagining that a reluctant American princess would upend everything I thought I knew about duty and desire."
You smile at his characterization. "We're quite the pair, aren't we?"
"Indeed we are," he agrees, pressing a kiss to your temple. "And I intend to keep it that way, regardless of what my father or your council might prefer."
The conviction in his voice bolsters your courage. "So what now?"
"Now," he says, pulling you closer, "we have approximately five hours before dawn. I can think of several ways to spend them that don't involve diplomatic strategy."
"How scandalous, Your Highness," you tease, though heat pools in your core at his implication.
"You bring out my rebellious side," he murmurs, lips finding the sensitive spot below your ear that makes you shiver. "Among other things."
Words give way to touch as you lose yourselves in each other one last time before duty calls you back to separate worlds. Every kiss, every caress feels weighted with significance—a promise, a memory to sustain you through the uncertainty ahead.
Hours later, as dawn threatens the eastern sky, you lie tangled together on the chaise, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.
"I should go," he whispers, though his arms tighten around you. "I'm expected at the airfield in three hours."
"Five more minutes," you plead, not ready to relinquish this moment.
He presses a kiss to your hair. "Five more minutes," he agrees.
-
The council chamber feels cavernous and oppressive as thirteen pairs of eyes study you with varying degrees of interest, skepticism, and calculation. Your grandmother sits at the head of the long table, her expression carefully neutral as the Prime Minister outlines the constitutional requirements yet again.
"The deadline approaches, Your Highness," he concludes, peering at you over his spectacles. "The council requires your decision regarding a suitable match so that proper arrangements can be made within the constitutional timeframe."
You take a deep breath, remembering Jay's advice and your grandmother's unexpected counsel.
"I understand the urgency," you begin, your voice steadier than you expected. "And I appreciate the council's diligence in presenting suitable candidates for consideration. However, I believe the constitution allows me the full three weeks to make my decision, and I intend to use that time."
Murmurs circulate around the table. The Minister of State leans forward, his bushy eyebrows drawing together.
"Your Highness, while technically correct, it would be prudent to announce your intentions sooner. Diplomatic arrangements require time, wedding preparations must be made, public announcements coordinated..."
"And all of that will happen," you assure him, "once my decision is final. But this is not merely a diplomatic arrangement—it is a marriage. One that will affect not only my life but the future of Genovia. I believe such a decision deserves careful consideration."
Your grandmother's lips twitch—almost a smile—before her expression returns to regal impassivity.
"Perhaps," offers Lady Rothschild, the only female council member besides your grandmother, "Her Highness might share which candidates she is most seriously considering? To allow for preliminary preparations?"
All eyes return to you, expectant. You think of Jay, likely in the air now, flying back to face his father and an uncertain future.
"I am considering several options," you say carefully. "Including the possibility of a union that would align Genovia's interests with Astoria, combining our complementary strengths in trade, technology, and cultural influence."
The Foreign Minister straightens in his chair. "Astoria? Has Prince Jongseong made an official overture?"
"Prince Jongseong and I have discussed the potential benefits of such an alliance," you reply, technically truthful while omitting the nature of those discussions. "While nothing is formalized, I believe the possibility warrants serious consideration."
This sets off another round of murmurs, more animated than before. You catch your grandmother watching you with something like approval in her eyes.
"Astoria has historically sought alliances eastward," the Defense Minister points out. "King Min-hyuk is known for his traditional leanings."
"Traditions evolve," you counter. "And wise rulers adapt to changing circumstances."
The Prime Minister clears his throat. "While an Astorian alliance would indeed offer significant advantages, we must be prepared for all outcomes. I suggest the council continue preparation for multiple possibilities while Her Highness completes her... deliberations."
It's a reasonable compromise, and you nod agreement. "I appreciate the council's patience and wisdom in this matter. I assure you that my decision will prioritize Genovia's interests while honoring the constitutional requirements."
The meeting concludes with formal pleasantries, though you feel the weight of speculation following you as you exit the chamber. Your grandmother falls into step beside you in the corridor.
"Well played," she murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. "Though I believe you've given Lord Pallimore indigestion with the suggestion of Astorian negotiations he knew nothing about."
You can't help but smile. "I merely stated facts. Prince Jongseong and I have indeed discussed the potential benefits of such an arrangement."
"I imagine you have," she replies dryly. "Quite thoroughly."
Heat rises to your cheeks. "Grandmother!"
"I may be old, my dear, but I'm not oblivious." She pats your arm. "Now we wait. And prepare for all possible outcomes, as the Prime Minister so diplomatically suggested."
"Do you think there's a chance?" you ask, unable to keep the vulnerability from your voice. "For Jay and me?"
Your grandmother considers this carefully. "I think Prince Jongseong is more resourceful than his father realizes. And I think King Min-hyuk, for all his traditional bluster, is a pragmatist at heart." She glances at you with unexpected gentleness. "But most importantly, I think you have discovered something genuine in each other. Such connections are rare in royal circles, and not easily broken—even by kings."
Her words offer comfort as the days stretch into a week, then ten days, with no word from Jay. You go through the motions of royal duties—charity visits, diplomatic receptions, cultural events—while your thoughts remain fixed on Astoria and the man fighting for your shared future.
On the eleventh day, when hope begins to falter, a small package arrives. No return address, no accompanying note, just a small box wrapped in simple brown paper.
Inside, nestled in velvet, lies an antique key on a delicate silver chain. You recognize it immediately—the library key Jay used on your last night together. Attached is a small card bearing only a date: three days hence, exactly one day before the constitutional deadline.
The message is clear: He's coming back. He's found a way.
For the first time in eleven days, you breathe fully.
-
The palace gardens are awash in golden late afternoon light as you pace the gravel path. You've changed outfits three times, settled on a simple blue dress that Jay once said brought out your eyes, then second-guessed that choice a dozen times since.
The sound of approaching footsteps has you turning, heart in your throat.
Jay stands at the garden entrance, still in traveling clothes, his hair slightly tousled from the journey. He looks exhausted but determined, his eyes finding yours with an intensity that steals your breath.
For a moment, neither of you moves, the weight of eleven days' separation and uncertainty holding you in place. Then you're running, propriety forgotten, and he meets you halfway, catching you in an embrace that lifts you off your feet.
"You're here," you breathe against his neck, inhaling his familiar scent. "You came back."
"I promised I would," he reminds you, setting you down but keeping you close. "Nothing could have prevented it."
You pull back just far enough to see his face, searching for clues about his meeting with his father. "What happened? What did he say?"
Jay glances around—you're in plain view of several palace windows. "Not here. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?"
You think for a moment, then smile. "Follow me."
You lead him through the palace to a small sitting room in the southeast wing—the area your grandmother so casually mentioned has fewer night patrols. It's a cozy space with comfortable furnishings and, most importantly, a lock on the door.
Once inside, Jay pulls you into his arms again, his kiss desperate and relieved and full of eleven days' worth of longing. You respond with equal fervor, hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, reassuring yourself that he's really here.
When you finally separate, both breathing heavily, he presses his forehead to yours. "I missed you. Every minute of every day."
"I missed you too," you whisper. "The waiting was... unbearable."
He leads you to a small sofa, sitting close, your hands still intertwined. "I have much to tell you."
"Your father?" you prompt.
Jay takes a deep breath. "It was... complicated. Initially, he was immovable. He had already drafted an announcement of intentions between Astoria and Belgravia."
Your heart sinks. "Oh."
"However," he continues, "I convinced him to hear me out before making anything official. I presented a detailed analysis of Genovia's strategic value as an ally—our complementary economies, technological innovations, cultural significance."
"Very diplomatic," you observe with a small smile.
"I was extraordinarily diplomatic," he agrees, a hint of humor in his eyes. "For five days straight. I enlisted support from progressive council members, provided economic projections, cultural impact studies..."
"And he remained unmoved," Jay admits. "Until I played my final card."
"Which was?"
His eyes lock with yours, unwavering. "I informed him that I would pursue this alliance with or without his blessing. That while I respect his wisdom and experience, my future reign would be guided by my own judgment. And that judgment sees clearly that you—both as princess and as yourself—represent the future Astoria needs."
You absorb this, staggered by the implied defiance. "You threatened to go against his wishes?"
"I made clear that my commitment to Astoria's prosperity is unwavering, but my choice of partner is non-negotiable." His fingers tighten around yours. "I also reminded him that he married for love, against his own father's wishes, and that Astoria has thrived under his reign nonetheless."
"And?" you press, heart pounding.
A smile breaks across Jay's face, transforming his features. "And three days of hostile silence later, he conceded that perhaps Genovia deserves 'further consideration' as a potential ally."
"That's... good?"
"From my father, it's the equivalent of enthusiastic approval," Jay assures you. "Especially with this."
He reaches into his jacket, withdrawing a small velvet box. Your breath catches.
"My grandmother's ring," he explains, opening it to reveal an exquisite sapphire surrounded by diamonds. "Given to her by my grandfather when they formalized their engagement after months of diplomatic negotiation. My father presented it to me this morning before I left."
"Jay," you whisper, staring at the ring. "Does this mean...?"
"It means that I have my father's grudging consent to pursue an alliance with Genovia through marriage," he confirms. "Assuming, of course, that Genovia's princess finds such an arrangement acceptable."
Despite the formal wording, the vulnerability in his eyes is unmistakable. This is not merely a diplomatic proposition.
"The council meets tomorrow for my final decision," you tell him. "The constitutional deadline is the day after."
"Convenient timing," he observes with a small smile.
"Almost as if someone planned it that way," you agree, returning his smile.
He shifts from the sofa to one knee before you, the ring box open in his palm. All traces of the diplomatic prince fade away, leaving only Jay—your Jay—looking up at you with naked hope and love.
"Y/N," he begins, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes. "These past weeks have transformed my understanding of duty, of purpose, of love. You've challenged me, surprised me, and shown me a version of myself I never knew existed. I cannot imagine a future—royal or otherwise—without you in it."
Tears blur your vision as he continues.
"I know our beginning was unconventional. I know our path forward will have challenges. But I also know, with absolute certainty, that what we've found together is worth fighting for—worth building a life, a partnership, and two kingdoms around."
He takes your hand, his touch steadying your trembling fingers.
"Will you marry me? Not just as princes and princesses fulfilling constitutional requirements, but as Jay and Y/N, building something real within the framework of our royal duties?"
The question hangs in the air, though your heart already knows the answer. You think of your journey—from reluctant princess to woman standing in her power, from diplomatic arrangement to genuine love, from fear of losing yourself to finding a partner who sees and values all of you.
"Yes," you say simply, your voice thick with emotion. "Yes to all of it—the duty, the challenge, the love. Everything."
He rises, pulling you to your feet and into his arms. "I love you," he murmurs against your lips. "The princess, the diplomat, the woman who still occasionally trips over her formal gowns... all of you."
You laugh through your tears. "And I love you—the perfect prince, the midnight pianist, the man who sees me clearly when I'm still learning to see myself."
His kiss is a pledge, a promise of the future you'll build together—one that honors duty while making space for love.
Tomorrow will bring announcements and celebrations, diplomatic strategies and constitutional requirements fulfilled. But tonight belongs to the two people who found each other beneath the crowns and titles—a connection neither of you expected but both now recognize as the most precious of diplomatic achievements.
A love powerful enough to bridge kingdoms while remaining, at its heart, deeply, uniquely your own.
