#longfic

The ropes around your wrists are replaced with a silk marriage tie, and you are dethroned and wed again overnight. The new King John smiles like he's pleased with your choice, and toasts you and your- husband.

Huge and quiet, only nodding and repeating his wedding vows when prompted, he stays tied to you through the wedding feast. He lifts food to your lips, though it tastes like ash in your mouth, and his teeth nip at your fingers when you do the same. Where else will those teeth mar you? You'd seen this man behead five of the royal guard alone, ripping apart the knights meant to protect you and your former husband- what sort of cruelty will come to you, the living symbol of the crown he helped depose?

The crowd, rough and full of more of King John's men than your own previous court, cheer and call out when your husband stands, hauling you with him by the silk still wrapped around your wrist, and you shudder. You didn't want to die, but you're scared. You have had enough nights with your former king to know the bed is a place of pain or discomfort at best, hands fisted in the blankets as you endured.

What worse things will you endure now?

Your husband motions you forward. "Show me where your rooms are," he says, and you walk silently ahead of him. You've been allowed to keep the same rooms as before, at least for now. Maybe you'll move elsewhere.

When the door closes there is no one else with you, not even a maid- most fled, and the smart ones are back with the new king's men, being charming and sweet to keep their own heads attached.

Your hands shake as you pull at the laces of your gown. You couldn't tie it well without a maid before the feast, and it's loose already, fabric pooling around your hips, your ankles, and you're too scared to scream when huge, rough hands close around your waist.

"Easy, little wife," your lord husband murmurs. His hands are warm, burning hot against your skin through the thin shift. "Last piece. Let me see you." Your shift follows your dress, down over your shoulders and only briefly held up by his hands, before joining the rest of your finery on the floor.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, the only sound except breathing and the low flames in the hearth. Your husband's hands scrape up your ribs, callused and strong, fingers brutally thick, and you whimper and bite through your lip when he cups your breasts.

"Shh," he soothes, and squeezes, gently, as chapped lips touch your ear. "You're alright. Breathe with me," and the huge chest at your back expands, releases, drawing you into his rhythm as his hands squeeze and caress your breasts in time, only gently, no pinching or groping. Your lip stings. You're shaking in terror and breathing in time with a man still wearing the silk wedding tie around his wrist, the same hands that killed guards you knew stroking your skin. There's a glazed disconnect creeping over you, a curtain of snow falling between you and the world, and you shuffle obediently back as your husband takes you to the bed. You wait as he arranges pillows and furs, building a nest of soft bedding, the firelight catching on his pale hair, the curve of a scar, his eyes as he turns to look at you.

He doesn't lie you down, or bend you over; instead you're brought to sit in his lap, your back still against his chest, and your legs spread apart over his thighs. He's still dressed, you think numbly, and then his hands leave your breasts and move down, curving over your belly and below, fingers spreading across your thighs as his thumbs reach where you're soft and sensitive, and he-

Oh, it-

His lips finds your ear again and suck, gently, as his hands move so carefully over your flesh it aches, touches so sweet you shake even harder than you had in fear, the pleasure of his hands warming you, burning through the snow covering your mind until you gasp and moan, suddenly alive again, hips rocking to meet where his fingers have spread you open, one of them carefully crooked inside, you're wet, so slick and throbbing, what is this- how is he- you feel so achingly empty and yet full on his finger, your body grasping at him in a way you never felt, not in all the nights pierced by your king-

"There you are, so beautiful, so fucking- come on, come back to me, mine now, my wife, all mine," your husband growls, and his teeth catch the shell of your ear, his body flexing against yours as your thighs quiver. "Feel that? Feel so good on just my finger. Can't wait to get that hot cunny on my cock." His hand between your thighs presses harder, cupping you, the finger in your body rubbing something inside that makes you writhe against him. You're moaning, high pants and whines that slip out before you realize it. The other hand rises up, finds your breast and plucks at your nipple before gently holding your throat- fear nearly closes you off again, but instead of a choking squeeze he only turns your face, lifts your chin to make you look at him.

His eyes are dark in the dying embers, his scars and skin mottled with a flush. "Look at me. Keep your eyes on me," he says, and his hand is so strong and hard in and against your body, you're straining and gasping, moaning loudly, wet and aching and you need it, you need something, you can't keep up this pulsing hot pressure, it's going to break something in you- and then your husband shifts his hand and all the burning heat rolls outward, a wet bloom between your thighs that you can hear, slick squelches and your own gasping cries as you shatter apart with your eyes locked to his.

He crashes his mouth into yours, swallowing the sounds, even as his finger curls and pumps harder into you, making you whine, shuddering. Too much, it was too much even before and now it makes your belly cramp, but even as you squirm, hips jolting, your husband releases you- and oh, the way he smiles, bringing his hand up to his face as you watch, eyes enormous in shock as he licks his finger clean.

You curl panting into the pillows as your husband deposits you off his lap and stands, still shaking with whatever he did to you. All your muscles are trembling, and the soft silks and furs feel luxurious, soothingly cool against your sweating skin. It's like all the pressure and heat melted and sank into you, became pleasure, overwhelming and wild, a taste of something strange and unknown.

Your thighs ache, your belly too, and between your thighs all the soft and delicate flesh is throbbing, slick and hot, like a bruise. You gently draw a finger down between your legs, and bite again at your bloody lip as you touch a firmer bump of flesh that makes your body clench tight. It all only aches, no sharp pains, and your fingertip is damp as well when you lift it away- cloudy fluids that smell heavy, rich, something that makes your cheeks flush.

Your husband laughs a little, and you startle, staring at him. He's crossed over with scars, pockmarks of old disease and healed wounds, his face only the least of it. It's amazing he has all his fingers, you think, and then you realize the heavy organ between his legs and the size of it, and the fear crawls back up your throat.

He's thick, broad from base to tip, so heavy it hangs down over his sack. There's a damp smear at the tip as well. The touch of his hand has left you so sensitive your own exploring finger made you flinch, how painful will this beast of a man be when he puts that whole thing in you?

Your husband beckons, and you crawl over the bed to the edge, kneeling up. You're shaking again, and worse when he frowns. "Just got you relaxed," he says, cups your chin. "The old king did fuck you, right? He actually used his cock on you?"

Your mouth opens and closes. You dart your eyes down, back up, and get a nod of encouragement. "Yes. I was a dutiful wife, I accepted my husband to bed when summoned." He frowns even deeper, and you hasten to add, "I won't fight you, I promise, I will be a good wife-"

You're shushed with a finger to your lips. Your husband is scowling. "Fucked you but you didn't even know what I was doing when you peaked. Fuckin' waste of a king, doing fuck all with a lady like you." You gape at him, what does he mean peaked? Was that the- the touches he gave you, the pleasure, the bursting dam?

You're caught staring, unsure, already biting at your lip again when your husband bends to kiss you, tongue licking at the sharp, stinging pain, and you're herded back into the pillows again. He seems intent on covering you, first with his mouth and then his hands, gently prodding and licking, touching you in so many strange places- your ears, your throat, and when his lips meet the pounding pulse there you moan, heat blooming through you again. He repeats the motion, tongue stroking hot and wet, and you find yourself reaching up to trail your fingers through his hair. It's surprisingly soft, short pale waves against your skin, and he seems to like it- he rumbles low in his chest, and sucks at you harder, so you do it again, and find that you like it- the way his eyes close, how his body arches and settles more firmly against you.

Then his lips drift lower, over the curve of your breast and to the nipple, and you gasp out a little shriek, sparks flaring in your skin. Oh, oh this is- this is like his hand between your thighs, sensitive and hot, a gentle ache growing in your breast and belly together, and your husband moans, soft and sweet, as he fits more of your flesh into his mouth and sucks.

Your nipple is tight and throbbing, more pleasure flowing through your veins and growing where your thighs have spread around your husband's body. You can't catch your breath, watching as his lips purse and tug, and there's the gentlest touch of his teeth and you- oh the ache and you know what's coming, worse to know what's coming, the burning need and the damp heat building again.

He keeps sucking, licking wetly over your breast before taking your nipple again, over and over as you pant, hips squirming, trying to get pressure where you're so sensitive it nearly hurts. You can't do it, not with your thighs apart and your husband bracing himself above you, but when he switches to the other nipple and tugs it between his teeth you wail.

"Please," you beg, though you don't know what you're pleading for, "please, my lord, I can't- please-"

He hums around your breast, and a broad hand slips between your thighs, cupping you gently. His finger breaches you again, a gentle stretch, but still you crave more. You want him to touch you like he had been, where he'd moved the digit in and out so torturously, found secret places that made you shake and break apart, the peak of pleasure. "My lord-"

Your husband releases your nipple, and blows on it, something you could never imagine but makes your body throb. "Hm, you want more, wife? Want this again?" His finger curls and tugs at you from the inside, and you gasp out a desperate yes. "Say my name."

You gape at him over your heaving chest as he kisses his way down your body, licking into your navel, another surprising place of sparks and heat. "My- my lord husband-" you gasp, and then shudder as his hand shifts, his shoulders as broad as a curtain wall pushing your thighs apart. His mouth is right against those delicate places.

"Say it and I'll give you another peak, and get you ready to take me. I know you know it. Said it for our wedding vows." He looks up at you, only the barest light left to curve over his cheek, the rest of his face thrown into shadow between your thighs. "Come on. Smart girl to keep your head attached, smart enough to remember. Say my name." He blows again, and there's a spike in the ache in your belly, a quivering going up and down your legs. "Say it. Say my name so I can fuck you so good you'll forget your own, say my name," and your mouth drops open on a moan as his tongue licks hot and wet from your entrance up to the straining, tight-wound point above it.

"Si- oh, oh, my- Simon!"

You gasp a breath and lose it immediately as his mouth sinks down, sucks and licks like at your breast but more, so much more, slick and hot and his twisting, wriggling tongue finding every fold and hidden place, curling up and around, you can't breathe, his finger curls and is joined by another- your body pulses, straining, hands in his hair to keep him there because the worst thing in the world would be if he stopped. You need Simon to stay between your thighs and keep drawing the pleasure out of you, drinking from an endless well, and the fire bursts into stars behind your eyes as your husband flings you over another peak.

And he doesn't stop, still tonguing at you, moaning against you, and you're so swollen and sensitive you can feel it, the vibrations crawling up his chest and into your belly. You pound your fists at his shoulders, moaning, begging, hips writhing as he pins you, takes what he wants, and abruptly all your fighting bursts out of you with a wet gush you can hear him swallowing.

You gasp weakly as he finally withdraws, his lips and chin dripping, your arms and legs weakly splayed over him. Your cheeks are damp. Everything is limp and shivering, even your teeth chatter, as the sudden end of the unceasing pleasure makes your skin prickle, hot and somehow still cold, fingertips tingling.

Then Simon sits up, and bends your thighs up, knees to your chest, and his- his cock- it presses to your entrance, as broad and unyielding as the man behind it, and your breath is all punched out as your husband takes you in a single smooth movement.

Your mouth moves weakly, lungs frozen, thighs and belly as tight as before, against the huge intrusion forcing its way inside.

He's too big, too big, you can't breathe around it, and you're going to rip in half-

Simon bends and kisses you, sucks at your bottom lip, making it sting again, and you feel the sweat on his brow and the strain in his muscles as he holds still, as he groans and buries his cock inside you and waits, gives you time to remember to breathe, and you're suddenly crying again, tears streaming past your temples and into your hair, because this huge terrifying man has given you pleasure and comfort and is- being good to you, in a way your former king and husband never even thought of.

You pet his hair again with trembling fingers, breathing around the ache, feeling the way your body is so slick that all the small, involuntary twitches of his hips makes him move smoothly in you, how the swollen folds have parted around his cock and now cling to him, taking him, claimed by your husband with the silk wedding tie still looped around his wrist.

You grasp the end, and as he pants and moans, as your body shivers, you clumsily wrap it around your wrist again, holding the end tightly, keeping it in place. "I'm ready, Simon," you breathe out, and he presses another kiss to your lips and draws his hips back and away, and then inside again, deep and heavy blows that force the air from your lungs in sharp moans.

Every roll of his hips drags his cock in and out, and the pleasure returns, deeper inside; one and two fingers had felt so good but this is so much more, too much for your body, but somehow you keep taking more of it every time. Simon is panting, every clench or squeeze of your entrance around him drawing another soft sound from his lips, and you crave more. He gave you so much, and now you want to give him that pleasure, not as a means to an end but to enjoy it, to drink your name off his lips.

"My wife," he murmurs, and his hips snap against yours harder, faster. "Gonna be so good to you. Put you on my cock every night and wake you up with my mouth in the morning. Give you all the babes that limp-dicked king couldn't. Fuck, you feel so good, so fucking tight, this little cunny." His hand cups your breast again, rubs your nipple, and you moan around a pulsing clench that makes you feel every inch of his cock. "Does it feel good, wife? Tell me you like getting your tight cunny fucked."

You bite your lip, Simon's thumb tugging it out of your teeth. "I- I like-" You can't say it aloud. You didn't even know that word before tonight, didn't know that a soft touch could bring pleasure undreamed of. "I can't! Simon, I can't!"

He chuckles, a low rasp that makes you throb. "Oh, don't cry, there's time. I'll fuck you every night until you can, and again after." Simon shifts, spreading his knees, and your legs are pulled up against his shoulder, you're nearly bent in half, and now at every stroke his cock pounds you so deep you start to think again he'll rip you apart, but oh what an exquisite torture it would be. There are no words left in you, even if he'd ordered you to speak, just the ever-tightening pressure and heat in your belly as you moan, wail, as your head thrashes against the pleasure being forced upon you.

Your- cunny- throbs, aches, clinging tightly around Simon's cock as it pulls out and splitting around it as he pushes in, and the delicate bump at the top is smacked over and over against his hips, each touch another spark to the tinder. You pull at his hair again with the hand holding the wedding tie, bringing his face to yours, so he can cup your cheek as you cling to him. His lips rub against yours, a sloppy kiss too wild and feverish to be more deliberate, and you feel the straining muscles of your legs burn.

"One more, wife," he groans, "one more to make it take," and the hand holding your legs drops abruptly- your thighs part- his hand squirms between your legs to the slick hot flesh where you're parting around his cock- oh- oh- the dam bursts-

You cry out against his mouth, sobbing, as his cock breaks you apart and his thumb on your flesh rubs and rubs and you burn up, you fall apart, you scream around his tongue in your mouth as your exhausted, worn out muscles all clench together, cunny hot and wet and throbbing, pulsing with your heartbeat, as your husband groans against you and a new slick flood joins the hazy, wet mess between your bodies.

You gasp limply as Simon takes your mouth, letting him suck and lick at you, as his hips press tight to yours, like he's trying to stay as deep inside as possible. He's shaking as well, his thighs jumping against yours, his heart pounding, and you weakly grasp his hand when his fingers twine into yours around the wedding tie.

He stays there, barely keeping his full weight off you so you aren't crushed, for so long your eyes start to drag closed. It's only when your hips shift and you whimper, sensitive and sore, that he eases away.

There's so much leaking out of you, your body over-full, and you whine and try to hide your face when he parts your thighs and looks, clearly delighted with it. A thumb pushing his seed back inside makes you quiver. "Easy, wife. Just making sure it stays in." He pets at you, stroking the soft folds and hair, like soothing an animal. "Did so good, love." He tugs your hand away to kiss you again. "My love. My wife."

Simon kisses you as he finally allows your thighs to close, stroking your hips where they ache, and you're drawn into his chest, cuddled close. A long and terrifying day, a night that broke apart everything you thought you knew about the marriage bed- you're falling asleep even as the blankets are pulled up, soft covers tugged around your bodies. You can't fight it off, not now that your body is finally able to rest.

"Simon," you murmur, lips pressed to a scar that snakes across his chest, "Simon, my husband." The world outside of the bed has vanished into shadow.

His lips press to the top of your head, hand cradling your belly. "Oh, wife, thank you. A whole new life for us is just starting."

The accusation in her voice was undercut by the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

“I -” My voice came out rougher than intended. “I wasn’t watching, I just -”

“You were TOTALLY watching!” But she was smiling now. That trademark Yuna confidence - the same one that had millions of people glued to their screens watching her fancams, begging for more - was flooding back in, replacing the flustered panic from seconds ago. Except this time, it wasn’t filtered through a phone screen. It was right here, soaking wet and naked and absolutely lethal.

She stood up fully - all legs and wet skin and that ridiculously expensive bikini barely containing anything. Up close, her body was even more insane. Long, toned legs that seemed to go on forever. A tiny waist flaring into surprisingly full hips. Her small tits pushed against the bikini top, nipples clearly visible through the thin black fabric. The sash clung to her curves, somehow emphasizing everything.

“Oh my god, you perv,” she said, taking a step closer. Water droplets rolled down her neck, disappearing between her breasts. “How long were you standing there?”

“Yuna -”

“No no no, I’m genuinely curious.” Another step. I could smell the ocean salt on her skin, mixed with something warmer. Muskier. “Because if you JUST got here, okay, whatever. But if you were like... watching me for a while...”

She was close now. Close enough that I could see the goosebumps on her arms despite the heat, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath.

“...then that’s kind of insane, right? That’s like, criminally horny behavior. Watching your girlfriend’s maknae finger herself and getting hard about it?”

“She’s not my -” I started, but the words caught in my throat.

Yuna rolled those humongous puppy eyes.

“I should go -” I tried to cover myself with the towel, stammering. “I’m just heading to - Yeji locked me out of the bathroom because she needs to get to her Pilates class and -”

“You should,” she agreed, but she was still advancing. “Unnie would literally kill you. Like, actual murder. Girlfriend or not.”

Her eyes dropped to the tent in my towel again. Lingered.

“But also...” Her voice dropped, playful and dangerous. “You’re still here.”

She took one more step, close enough now that if I reached out, I could touch her.

“Tell me something, oppa.” She tilted her head, and something in her expression shifted - that sly, foxy calculation I’d seen on stage a hundred times. “When you heard me just now... getting myself off...” Her voice dropped lower, more suggestive. “Did it turn you on?”

She gestured at her body - the wet bikini, the long legs, everything on display.

“You’re telling me you never had your hand wrapped around -”

Her fingers reached out, lightning quick, and brushed against the tent in my towel.

The touch - even through fabric - sent a jolt through me. My body betrayed me completely. My cock jerked hard against the towel, and the movement was enough to loosen the tuck I’d made at my waist.

The towel fell.

It dropped to the tiles with a wet slap, and suddenly I was standing there completely exposed - my cock springing up, thick and still glazed with the mixture of mine and Yeji’s cum, evidence of our morning devotion painted across every inch.

Yuna’s breath caught audibly. Her eyes went wide as saucers, pupils blown so dark they swallowed the brown, her gaze locked onto my cock like a predator spotting prey.

I watched her throat work as she swallowed. Hard.

She took an unconscious step closer, and I saw the exact moment her brain registered what she was seeing - not just size, but evidence. The glossy sheen wasn’t sweat. Her eyes traced the dried streaks along my shaft, the way it caught the sunlight, still fresh enough to glisten.

“Holy shit,” she breathed, her voice barely a whisper, tinged with genuine shock.

Her cheeks and ears flushed a deep crimson that spread down her neck - stark contrast to her earlier confidence, the physical evidence of genuine fluster battling with rapidly mounting arousal. The blush deepened as her eyes traced every detail, her breath quickening.

Her hand moved to her own throat, fingers pressing there like she was imagining it. Then lower, absently grazing her collarbone. Her nipples visibly hardened further through the thin bikini fabric, betraying how quickly embarrassment was losing ground to hunger.

“Unnie never mentioned you were packing like that.” A pause, her eyes widening further as another realization hit. “Actually, she basically never mentions you at all.”

The way she said it made it sound like Yeji had been hoarding something valuable. Something Yuna suddenly wanted to taste.

Something flickered across her face - too quick to fully name. Hurt? Curiosity? The faintest shadow of why would she hide this from me?

But it vanished as fast as it appeared, replaced by that calculating look I’d seen her use on stage when she knew the camera was on her. Her tongue swept across her bottom lip.

Her expression shifted as understanding dawned. “Wait. THAT’S why she keeps you around.” A breathless laugh, but there was an edge to it now - something competitive, almost vindictive. “You’re not her boyfriend - you must be her dick appointment. Her personal premium subscription.”

I saw her eyes trace every detail - the thick shaft, the prominent veins, the way the head glistened with dried cum. Her pupils dilated even further, her breath quickened, and I watched in real-time as arousal replaced everything else.

The sound of the front door slamming echoed across the villa, followed by a car engine starting. Yeji’s manager, picking her up for class. We were alone now. Completely, utterly alone.

And that’s when I saw it - the exact moment an intrusive thought crossed Yuna’s mind. Her expression shifted from shocked to calculating, a sly, foxy grin spreading across her face.

“So...” She looked up from my cock to meet my eyes. “You’re walking around with THAT, and you got hard looking at me.” Her tone was mocking, teasing, but laced with raw desire. “And here I thought unnie was hiding some like, casual situationship or whatever. But no wonder she keeps coming back to you when half the industry’s in her DMs. Like, I GET it now.”

She took a step toward me, barefoot, her hips swaying, every inch the sultry, seductive siren that had driven countless men to their knees. The defensive panic had completely evaporated, replaced by something more familiar. That Yuna confidence in full force.

The wet bikini clung to every curve - all legs and wet skin and that ridiculously expensive three-piece barely containing anything. The chain straps glinted in the sunlight. Her nipples were hard as diamonds, poking through the thin fabric.

“You’ve jerked off to me before, right? Like, actually stroked this cock -” She gestured at it with zero shame, “ - thinking about fucking me?” She tilted her head, eyes glinting with something between amusement and hunger. “Come on, oppa. Be honest. All those fancams with millions of views? The ones where I’m doing body rolls in that tiny skirt, or when I’m on the floor with my legs spread?”

She ran her hands down her own body - over her tits, her waist, her hips - putting herself on display.

“Because like... a LOT of guys have wanted to know what that looks like up close.” Her smile turned wicked. “Backup dancers, producers, fans who got lucky. They all watched me on stage and then got to find out if I’m as good off it.” She bit her lip. “And I am, by the way. I’m really, really good.”

She took another step closer, voice dropping.

“So I’m just wondering if you ever thought about it. If you ever watched me perform and imagined what I’d look like under you? What I’d sound like moaning your name?” Her eyes flickered with something vulnerable beneath the bravado. “What it’d feel like to shove this fat cock inside me and make me scream?”

A pause. Her confidence wavered just slightly.

“Because I need to know if I’ve been in your head at all. If you wanted me even a little bit.” Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “Tell me I’m not the only one who’s been thinking about this.”

“Yuna, I -” I tried to protest, but my voice cracked.

She laughed, a sultry, knowing sound. “Don’t even fake innocence. Your dick is literally snitching on you.” Her eyes never left my cock, which was now fully erect, standing at attention despite having just painted Yeji with three loads just minutes ago.

“You know what’s actually insane? I’ve been SO worked up all morning - literally climbing the walls - and then I finally get a moment to myself by the pool and you CATCH me.” She pouted theatrically, but her eyes remained sharp. Calculating. “And then I come back here and hear you two going at it like you’re filming for OnlyFans. Like, I’m happy for unnie, truly, but oh my GOD.”

She was advancing on me now, each step deliberate, her body language screaming dominance despite her earlier vulnerability when I’d caught her. Water droplets still clung to her skin, rolling down her neck, her collarbone, disappearing between her breasts. I could smell the ocean salt mixed with something warmer. Muskier. Her arousal.

“There I am, walking around with this needy pussy -” She touched herself briefly through the bikini bottoms, almost absently. “ - nobody to help me out. Meanwhile unnie’s upstairs getting her brains fucked out. Kind of unfair, don’t you think?”

“I think it’s only fair,” she continued, her voice a sultry whisper as she invaded my space, so close I could feel the heat radiating off her body, “that I get to try unnie’s favorite toy. Just for a bit. What do you think?”

“Yuna, we shouldn’t -” I took a step back, my mind screaming loyalty to Yeji even as my cock throbbed with need. “Yeji and I - we have a thing, and I don’t -”

“Oh, come on,” Yuna interrupted, rolling her eyes. “Unnie goes through guys like they’re limited edition. Have you SEEN her Kakao? Her Instagram DMs? She probably hooked up with someone at that industry party last week.” She licked her lips. “Besides... look at you. You’re already rock hard for me. Your body’s already made the choice.”

Before I could protest further, she closed the distance. Her hand came up to cup my face, soft and warm, and she leaned in, her lips crashing against mine in a deep, hungry French kiss. Her tongue invaded my mouth, aggressive and demanding, tasting faintly of salt and something sweet.

She pressed her body against mine, and I felt my cock, still slick with cum, pressing into the damp fabric of her bikini bottoms. The pressure made her gasp into my mouth, and then - fuck - my cock slipped through the gap between her thighs, emerging at the other end beneath her tight, perfect ass.

Her thighs clamped around my shaft, soft yet firm, squeezing me as she ground forward. I could feel her lips through the soaked fabric, her heat radiating against my cock. Her small, perky tits pressed against my chest, and I could see the streak of her own pussy juice glistening across her cleavage, mixing with the seawater and sweat.

Her other hand reached down, wrapping around the base of my cock where it protruded from between her thighs, her fingers slick and sure.

“Yuna -” I gasped, breaking the kiss, trying to take a step back to create distance, to think, to -

But I didn’t realize I’d backed all the way to the edge of the pool.

My foot found nothing but air, and I felt myself falling backward, arms windmilling.

Everything slowed - that horrible drawn-out moment where you realize you’ve fucked up but momentum’s already decided your fate.

Just as I began to tip backward, Yuna’s hand closed fully around the base of my cock, her grip instinctive. The sudden backward motion lifted my cock upward, and because her hand was locked on and my shaft was sandwiched between her thighs, the upward force literally lifted her off the ground.

Her eyes went wide, a yelp of surprise escaping her lips as her feet left the terrace. The sudden pressure on her pussy lips through the bikini, combined with being yanked forward, made her gasp and moan simultaneously. Her other hand, which had been on my face, shot to the back of my neck for balance, her nails digging in.

We fell together, a tangle of limbs and lust, hitting the pool with a massive splash that sent water cascading over the edge. The pool chair she’d been sitting on earlier teetered dangerously, saved only by Yuna’s foot catching it mid-fall and kicking it back.

We plunged beneath the surface, the cool water a shocking contrast to the heat of our bodies. I felt her bikini top come loose, her hand still gripping my cock, our bodies intertwined in the churning water.

Chapter 3: Submerged in Sin Underwater and under pressure. Desire that drowns reason.

We surfaced from the pool, water cascading off our bodies, and I was still disoriented - from the fall, from the shock, from the sheer insanity of the situation. But Yuna wasn’t disoriented at all. She was on me in a flash, her wet body pressing against mine, her lips crashing onto my mouth with desperate hunger. My cock, still rock-hard despite everything, poked against her pubic bone beneath the surface, and she moaned into the kiss, grinding against it.

“Mmm,” she hummed against my lips. “I love how that feels.”

“Yuna - wait -” I tried to break away, tried to summon some semblance of loyalty to Yeji, but Yuna just smiled against my mouth, her eyes glinting with mischief.

She pressed a single finger to my lips, silencing me. Her expression said trust me.

Then she disappeared beneath the water like a mermaid diving for treasure.

And oh god, the treasure she found.

This is really happening. I’m letting Yeji’s maknae suck my dick in a pool while Yeji’s at Pilates. My life choices are -

I felt her lips - warm, wet, impossibly soft - envelop the head of my cock, and every coherent thought evacuated my brain. Her mouth was heaven. She started slow, her tongue swirling around the sensitive tip, lapping up the remnants of my earlier cum and Yeji’s juices like it was her favorite husik. Then she took me deeper, her lips forming a perfect seal as she slid down my shaft inch by glorious inch.

The sensation was indescribable. Sure, Yeji gave head sometimes - she’d practiced it obsessively during our trainee days, treating it like vocal training: methodical, perfecting breath control, studying technique with Type-A precision. But it was functional, clinical even - exercises that happened to help both her throat control and my stress relief, not something she did for pleasure. And she’d made it abundantly clear over the years that she much preferred being on the receiving end, demanding her pussy be worshipped rather than the other way around. I’d never minded. With Yeji, I got everything else - the vulnerability she showed no one, the way she’d grip my hand after, the soft confession in her sleep-roughened voice. But that wasn’t something I could think about right now. Not with Yuna’s tongue doing... that.

Because Yuna was a fucking artist. Her tongue did things I didn’t know were possible, flicking along the underside of my shaft, tracing the prominent vein, then flattening to massage the entire length as she bobbed up and down. She hollowed her cheeks, creating suction that made my knees weak, and then she’d relax, letting me slide deeper into her throat without a hint of gagging.

My hands shot to her head beneath the water, fingers tangling in her soaked hair, and I couldn’t help but buck my hips forward. She took it all, adjusting her angle to let me fuck her mouth, her hands gripping my thighs for balance.

She surfaced after what felt like an eternity, gasping for air, her face breaking through the water in an image that would be burned into my brain forever: lips swollen and glistening, eyes half-lidded with lust, water streaming down her flushed cheeks. Somewhere in the rational part of my brain that was still functioning, I registered that this was Yuna - the girl who called Yeji ‘unnie,’ who’d probably heard us through the walls, who was looking at me right now like I was prey she’d been hunting. That should have scared me. Instead - she looked like a fucking siren, and I was completely under her spell.

The sun beat down on us, turning the pool water into liquid diamonds. I could hear nothing but her breathing, the gentle lap of water against tiles, and the distant crash of ocean waves.

“Where -” I gasped, barely able to form words. “Where the fuck did you learn to do that?”

She grinned, catching her breath, water droplets falling from her chin. “What, that?” A teasing glint in her eyes. “You liked it?”

“That’s - that’s not an answer -”

But before I could press further, she dove back under.

This time, she took me even deeper, her nose pressing against my pelvis as she deepthroated me with ease. Her tongue worked magic, and I felt her hum around my shaft, the vibrations sending shockwaves through my body. She came up for air again, that same devastatingly hot expression on her face - mascara slightly smudged, lips swollen, chest heaving - and then went back down, establishing a rhythm: submerge, suck, surface, repeat.

Each time she came up, I got a glimpse of pure debauchery: her small, perky tits now fully exposed, the bikini top lost somewhere in the pool, nipples hard as diamonds, water droplets catching the sunlight, her face a mask of focused pleasure.

“Seriously,” I managed when she surfaced again. “Where did you -”

“Oh my god, so needy.” She licked her lips, grinning. “Fine, I’ll give you my origin story. But you have to earn the rest.” Then she dove back under.

I gave in. Completely, utterly gave in. I started thrusting my hips to meet her mouth, fucking her face beneath the water, and I felt my fourth orgasm of the day building - a deep, primal heat coiling in my balls.

Yuna felt it too. She resurfaced one more time, pulling off my cock with an obscene pop, and her eyes sparkled with sadistic glee.

“Nuh-uh,” she said, pulling back with that wicked grin. “You don’t get to cum yet.” She wrapped her hand around my shaft, squeezing. “I need to hear you say it first. That you want me. That you’ve been thinking about fucking me.” Her eyes gleamed. “Beg a little. It’s hot.”

Of course she wanted me to beg. Because that’s what this was really about, wasn’t it? Not just getting off - she could’ve done that with any of the industry contacts she’d casually mentioned. This was about making me choose her over Yeji, even if just for a moment. Making me admit it out loud.

“Yuna -” I groaned, my cock twitching desperately in her grip.

She silenced me by jamming my shaft between her thighs again, squeezing them together. The pressure was exquisite, and she started grinding backward and forward, her pussy lips dragging along the top of my cock. Then, with one hand, she reached down and untied her bikini bottoms. The sash that had been clinging to her torso floated to the surface, and she pulled the bottoms out from behind with a smooth jerk.

The sensation of the fabric slipping out, dragging roughly between my cock and her pussy, was almost too much. And then - suddenly - I felt her bare lips on my shaft, hot and slick, no barrier between us.

“Fuck - Yuna -” I tried to protest, but she stuffed the soaked bikini bottoms into my mouth, silencing me just like I’d done to Yeji earlier.

“Shh,” she whispered, grinning. “Your turn.”

She wrapped one arm around my neck for balance, and with her other hand, she guided mine to her bare breast. My palm cupped the soft, perky flesh - small but perfectly formed, high and proud, with a hard, sensitive nipple that pebbled under my touch. My instincts took over, and I squeezed, kneaded, pinched, drawing soft gasps and moans from her lips.

All the while, she kept grinding, her hand on my cock ensuring it stayed between her thighs, pressing against her lips but never quite slipping inside. It was torture. Pure, exquisite torture. I felt the tip catch on her entrance with every thrust, so close I could feel her heat, her wetness, but she wouldn’t let me in.

The midday heat made everything feel surreal - her wet skin sliding against mine, the chlorine smell mixing with her arousal, the way the water refracted light across her body in dancing patterns.

I should have stopped her. Should have pulled away, found that shower, called Yeji and confessed everything. Instead, I stood there in the pool while Yeji’s dongsaeng gave me her sexual resume, each revelation simultaneously making me harder and making me a worse person. The math wasn’t mathing, but my dick had stopped caring about logic somewhere around the third underwater deepthroat.

“You wanna know where I learned that?” she asked breathlessly, grinding against me. “Okay so - mmm, fuck - first world tour, right? There was this Australian backup dancer and he had this ACCENT -”

She paused, adjusting the angle so my cock pressed directly against her clit, and shuddered.

“Oh god, right there - anyway, he was insanely hot and I basically dragged him into the tour bus bathroom after the Sydney show and was like, teach me everything.”

She demonstrated by opening her mouth, miming deepthroating. “Just let him fuck my throat over and over until I figured out the breathing thing. The angles. All of it. It was like a masterclass except way sluttier and I literally couldn’t talk the next day.”

She giggled breathlessly. “Worth it though.”

I groaned around the fabric in my mouth, my hips bucking involuntarily.

“Then there was this producer in LA - ahh, fuck -” Her voice hitched as I pinched her nipple. “He was like, old as hell but actually knew what he was doing? He taught me the humming trick. You know, vibrations and shit.” She grinned wickedly. “Made him cum in like two minutes and he looked at me like I was a wizard. I felt SO powerful.”

She leaned in, her lips brushing my ear. “And then in New York, during our US leg -” She giggled, the sound breathless and dirty. “Found this cute fan, pulled him backstage, and basically used him as practice. Over and over. I love it, you know? The control. The way a guy’s whole body goes stiff when you take him deep. The way he looks at you after like you just blew his mind and his dick.”

Every time she sensed I was about to cum - my body tensing, my muffled groans growing louder - she’d suddenly stop or slow down, blue-balling me with expert precision. I lost count of how many times she did it. She was torturing me. And the worst part? I could see it in her eyes every time she stopped - that flash of satisfaction, like she was conducting an experiment and I was giving her exactly the data she wanted. How far could she push Yeji’s ‘secret boyfriend’ before he broke? Turns out: pretty fucking far. My balls felt like they were about to explode, swollen and aching, pressure building to catastrophic levels. My eyes widened in desperation, and whatever thin thread of self-control I’d been clinging to - the part that remembered Yeji, loyalty, consequences - snapped completely. I stopped being a person who made choices and became pure need.

I roughly grabbed her hips, my grip bruising, and started thrusting hard, surprising her. Her eyes went wide.

“Oh - fuck, okay, someone’s -” she gasped, but I was beyond words.

The bikini bottoms fell out of my mouth as I gasped, “Yuna - I can’t - I’m gonna -”

She felt it too, the moment my body gave up all pretense of control. In one fluid motion, she slipped beneath the water, her mouth enveloping my cock just as I exploded.

I came hard. Harder than I’d ever come in my life. It felt like my entire soul was being sucked out through my cock, rope after thick rope of cum shooting into her waiting mouth. I saw stars, actual fucking stars, my vision whiting out as my orgasm ripped through me. I was vaguely aware of my hands gripping the edge of the pool for balance, my legs shaking, my voice echoing across the villa in a guttural roar.

When she finally surfaced, she was an image of pure debauchery. Her hair was plastered to her face, her lips swollen and red, and she opened her mouth to show me the pool of my cum resting on her tongue. It was obscene, filthy, and the hottest thing I’d ever seen. She let it slowly drip from her mouth onto her chest, the white mixing with the water and trickling down between her tits, before she closed her mouth and swallowed, her throat bobbing as she took every drop.

“Holy shit,” I gasped, thoroughly impressed, aroused, and completely drained. “That was... fuck.”

The post-nut clarity hit like a freight train. What the fuck had I just done? I’d let Yuna - Yeji’s groupmate, her dongsaeng, someone who lived in the same villa - suck me off in broad daylight. And the worst part? I’d loved every second. That realization should have sent me running.

“I need to... I should probably go take that shower now.”

But Yuna wasn’t done. Not even close. She swam closer, her eyes dark with hunger, her body still trembling with pent-up need.

“Shower?” She laughed, low and dangerous. “We’re not even close to done, Minho.” Her hand found my cock again, already starting to stir despite having just exploded. “I didn’t cum yet. And I’m literally dying to have my brains fucked out.”

She pressed against me, her bare pussy rubbing against my thigh. “So no. You’re not going anywhere.”

I should have said no. Should have drawn a line, preserved whatever microscopic scrap of loyalty I had left. But her hand was already wrapped around my cock, and my body was already responding, and the truth I didn’t want to admit was that she was right. We weren’t done. Not even close. And I was going to let this happen. Again.

Chapter 4: The Tides That Turn Consequences arrive wearing a Maknae’s face.

I tried to act like I’d had enough - like I was some kind of gentleman who knew when to walk away. But the truth? There was nothing I wanted more than to jam my cock into Yuna’s burning pussy and fuck her until we both passed out or the sun went down, whichever came first. Hell, maybe both would happen simultaneously. My body was already making that decision for me, my cock twitching back to life despite having just blown what felt like my entire genetic lineage into her mouth.

I started to push away from her, tried to muster some semblance of self-control, but my feral urges snapped me back like a rubber band. I lunged forward, roughly grabbing her by that perfect, tight ass, making her squeal in surprise as I lifted her naked body onto the edge of the pool. Water splashed everywhere, cascading over the tiles as I positioned her exactly where I wanted her.

Another line crossed. Another point of no return. At this rate, there wouldn’t be anything left to salvage when Yeji came back.

“Minho - wait, what are you -”

But she didn’t finish the sentence because she realized exactly what I was doing. I was eye level with her pussy, and for the first time, I got to really study it.

Yuna’s pussy was a work of art - completely different from Yeji’s. Where Yeji’s was a neat, bikini-trimmed mound with full, meaty lips that gripped like a vise, Yuna’s was bare, smooth as silk, with delicate, pale pink lips that were slightly swollen from arousal. Her inner lips were small and tucked in, a shy little slit that barely peeked out. But what really caught my attention was how wet she was - not just damp, but absolutely dripping, her arousal glistening on her thighs, mixing with the pool water. Her clit was a small, prominent pearl, already engorged and begging for attention.

She caught me staring and slowly, deliberately, widened her legs, an invitation and a challenge all at once.

“Like what you see?” she teased, her voice breathy. “I mean, you’re just... staring. Kind of creepy but also kind of hot?”

I didn’t answer. I just pressed my nose against her mound, inhaling her scent - clean, slightly sweet, with an underlying musk that made my mouth water. Then I dove in.

The first lick was exploratory, my tongue dragging slowly from her entrance to her clit, and the taste hit me like a drug. Yuna tasted different from Yeji too - less earthy, more delicate, almost honey-sweet with a hint of salt from the ocean. Her pussy was softer, more yielding, and as I licked deeper, I felt her walls flutter against my tongue.

Yeji had taught me well. Years of being her personal pussy-worshiper had turned me into a fucking expert. I started with broad, flat strokes, licking up every drop of her arousal, then focused on her clit, flicking it with the tip of my tongue in quick, rhythmic bursts. She gasped, her hips jerking forward, and I grinned against her pussy.

I switched tactics, sucking her clit into my mouth and rolling it gently between my lips while my fingers found her entrance. I slid two inside, curling them upward to find that spongy spot on her front wall, and when I hit it, Yuna screamed.

“Oh my god - fuck -” Her voice pitched high. “Minho - where did you -”

She couldn’t finish the thought because I was relentless. I added a third finger, stretching her open while my tongue traced figure-eights around her clit. I alternated between sucking, licking, and gentle nibbling, each technique pulling different sounds from her throat - gasps, moans, sharp inhales. Her pussy was clenching around my fingers, so wet that I could hear the obscene squelching sounds every time I thrust.

“Holy shit -” she gasped, her legs trembling. “I’ve literally never - ohh fuck - been eaten out this good before!” Her hand flew to my hair. “Like, where the fuck did you learn to do this? Did you watch tutorials or something? Because this is - ahh - insane!”

I didn’t answer. I was too busy finger-fucking her while my mouth worked her clit, and honestly, I was too proud of myself to stop and gloat. Some pathetic part of me needed to prove I was better than every Australian dancer, every LA producer, every backstage groupie she’d casually mentioned. Like winning this competition would somehow make the betrayal worth it. I felt like I was one-upping every guy she’d ever been with, and the thought made my cock rock-hard again, precum leaking into the pool.

Yuna’s screams echoed through the villa, bouncing off the walls. She threw her head back, one hand tangling in my hair and shoving my face harder against her mound, the other supporting her leaned-back torso on the paved stones. She was desperately trying to get my tongue deeper, her hips rocking against my face in frantic, unconscious thrusts.

“Oh god, oh fuck, oh -” She was babbling now, words spilling out between moans. “This is gonna trend on my body’s personal Twitter because I’m - fuck - I’m gonna cum so hard -”

Her thighs clamped around my head like a vice.

“Holy shit - I’m literally - fuck, I can’t -” The words dissolved into a scream, as if it wasn’t already painfully obvious what was happening.

Her entire body tensed, her legs locking around my head, and then she shattered. Her pussy clamped down on my fingers in rhythmic pulses, her back arching off the pool edge, her scream reaching a pitch that could probably shatter glass. And then she squirted - a gush of clear, warm fluid spraying across my face, drenching me as her orgasm ripped through her.

I kept going, riding out her climax, my tongue and fingers coaxing every last spasm from her trembling body. Her legs shook violently, her toes curled so hard they probably cramped, and her eyes rolled back in her head as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. Her stomach muscles contracted visibly, her small tits bouncing with each convulsion, and she let out these broken, breathless sobs that were somehow the hottest sounds I’d ever heard.

When it finally subsided, she collapsed back onto the stones, panting, her chest heaving, her entire body glistening with sweat and water. Her pussy was still twitching, aftershocks rolling through her.

“That’s -” she gasped, trying to catch her breath. “That’s never happened before. The squirting thing. Like, never.” She propped herself up slightly, looking down at me with wide eyes. “I’ve seen it in porn but I thought it was fake? Or like, only certain girls can do it?” She laughed breathlessly. “What the fuck. Seriously, where did you learn that?”

I smirked, wiping her juices off my face with the back of my hand. “You’re not the only one with tricks.”

She stared at me, the infamous siren who could conquer any man, reduced to a quivering, breathless wreck. I felt the tides turning, a dominating urge surging through me. I grabbed her by the neck - not hard, but firm - and pulled her toward me, my mouth brushing against her neck. She shuddered, a soft moan escaping her lips.

“Fuck,” she whimpered. “That’s - oh, that’s my spot -”

“You like that?” I whispered against her ear, my breath hot on her skin. “Want to know my secret?”

“Yes -” she breathed, her hand moving between her legs, furiously rubbing her still-pulsating clit. “Tell me.”

“Yeji,” I murmured, my teeth grazing her earlobe. “She taught me everything. How to worship pussy like it’s a religion. How to make a woman scream my name.” I licked up her neck slowly. “Every trick, every technique - years of practice. All from her.”

And there it was - weaponizing the most intimate parts of my relationship with Yeji to make her dongsaeng cum harder. Using years of trust and vulnerability as foreplay. I’d officially hit rock bottom, and apparently rock bottom had a sub-basement.

Yuna moaned, her fingers working faster as she imagined it - me and Yeji, tangled together, her teaching me, training me. “Fuck, that’s -” Her breathing quickened. “That’s so hot. Unnie’s been keeping you as her personal - ahh - secret weapon this whole time.”

Her juices mixed with the puddle of water beneath her, and I could tell she was about to cum again just from the mental image and her own fingers.

But my moment of dominance didn’t last long. Yuna recovered faster than I expected, that confident, seductive grin returning to her face even as her legs still trembled.

Of course she did. Because that’s who Yuna was - the girl who could get facefucked into a squirting orgasm and be back in control sixty seconds later. I’d been an idiot to think I’d actually gained the upper hand. She’d just let me borrow it for a minute.

“Okay, okay,” she said, pushing me away gently, her voice still breathy but gaining strength. “Your mouth game is literally S-tier. Like, hall of fame level.” She bit her lip, eyeing my erection. “But I need to know what you can do with that big boy now.”

She slipped back into the water, turning her back to me, her perfect ass pressing against my rock-hard cock. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes dark with hunger, that siren look creeping back.

“Come on, Minho,” she beckoned, arching her back and pushing her ass higher, the curve of her spine absolutely sinful. “Drive me crazy. Make me lose my mind. Show me why unnie keeps you locked down like limited edition merch.”

She reached back, her hand wrapping around my shaft, stroking slowly. “Prove to me why Yeji’s so obsessed with this cock that she won’t let anyone else near it.”

Her grip tightened slightly. “But like, don’t get cocky yet.” That wicked grin widened. “I’ve had a LOT of dick, oppa. All those industry boys, that one time with three guys from the company after MAMA - which was insane by the way.” She positioned my tip against her entrance, just barely touching. “You’ve got some serious competition. Better make it memorable.”

Chapter 5: The Siren’s Surrender Poolside chaos. When want becomes need becomes ruin.

I positioned myself behind Yuna, my cock throbbing with desperate need as I pressed the tip against her entrance. The heat radiating from her pussy was intoxicating. I could feel her lips beginning to part around my head, yielding to the pressure -

But then she reached between her legs, grabbed my cock with a firm grip, and yanked it downward.

The sudden movement threw me completely off balance. I fell forward, my cock sliding along the outside of her pussy instead of inside, and my pelvis collided with her ass with a resounding CLAP that echoed across the terrace. Water flew everywhere, splashing against the pool tiles and her back.

“Nu-uh,” she said with a breathy laugh, looking back at me over her shoulder. That siren look was back in her eyes. “Not yet.”

“Yuna -” I groaned, trying to angle my hips, but her hand was still wrapped around my shaft, keeping me exactly where she wanted me - which was anywhere but inside her.

“You haven’t begged yet,” she said, arching her back even more, that playful edge in her voice. The curve of her spine was sinful, her ass pushing higher, presenting herself while simultaneously denying me. “Come on, oppa. Tell me what you want.”

“You know what I want -”

“Yeah, but I wanna HEAR it.” Her grip tightened, stroking once slowly. “Say you want to fuck me. That you want to shove this thick cock inside me.” Her grin widened. “Use your words.”

She squeezed for emphasis, making me hiss through my teeth.

“Because like... do you actually want this?” Her voice dropped, more intimate now. “Want to know what all those other guys felt?” A pause. “Because if you don’t say it, you’re literally gonna be the only one who didn’t get to fuck me. How sad would that be?”

It was psychological warfare, and she was winning. I pulled back, trying to angle my cock up, to slip past her defenses, but she adjusted her grip instantly, keeping me on the edge of madness. I wrapped one arm around her waist for leverage, my other hand cupping her breast, squeezing hard, trying to distract her or overpower her coordination.

She just moaned, arching even more. “Mmm, that’s nice. But you’re still not inside me.”

“Come on, Minho.” Her free hand found mine on her breast, guiding me to pinch her nipple. “Just admit it. You’ve thought about this, right? About me?”

I tried to thrust forward. She adjusted her angle, my cock sliding along her lips but not in.

“All those times you watched our performances,” she continued, slightly breathless now from her own teasing. “Did you ever imagine this? Me bent over for you?”

“Yuna - fuck -”

“What about when you were with unnie?” Her voice got quieter, more dangerous. “Did you ever close your eyes and think about me instead? When you came inside her, did you ever picture my face?”

The mention of Yeji hit like cold water, but it mixed with the building desperation in my body. The image she was painting - forbidden, wrong, and exactly what some dark part of me had fantasized about.

“Yes!” The word exploded out of me, echoing across the villa. “Yes, okay? I’ve thought about you!” My hips bucked involuntarily. “Every time I saw you on stage, every time you walked around in those shorts that showed everything - I wanted you! I wanted to fuck you! Now please -”

The moment I said it, her hand released my cock.

I lunged forward and speared into her pussy with the force of a man possessed, burying myself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. It felt like I could split mountains with that momentum.

“FUCK!” Yuna screamed, her voice cracking, breaking on the word as I filled her completely.

Her pussy was different from Yeji’s - where Yeji was a calculated vice grip that squeezed every inch with almost intimidating precision, Yuna was softer, wetter, more yielding but still incredibly tight. Her walls fluttered around me, adjusting to my size, and the heat was overwhelming. She was slick with arousal, making every movement smooth and effortless, but the sensation was no less intense. If Yeji’s pussy was a weapon designed to dominate, Yuna’s was a sensual trap, designed to lure you in and never let go.

I pulled back slowly, feeling every ridge and fold, then slammed back in. Yuna gasped, her back arching further. I established a relentless rhythm, my hips pistoning as I fucked her standing doggy-style in the pool. Water sloshed around us with each thrust, splashing over the edge, the sound mixing with skin slapping against skin and Yuna’s increasingly desperate moans.

The sun had shifted higher now, turning the terrace into an oven. Sweat mixed with pool water, making our bodies slide together with each thrust. The smell of chlorine and sex hung heavy in the air.

“Oh god -” she gasped, her hands gripping the pool edge for stability. “Yes - fuck - just like that -”

I grabbed her hips harder, pulling her back to meet my thrusts. Each impact sent ripples through her ass, the perfect bounce that I couldn’t tear my eyes away from.

“Harder -” she breathed, then louder: “Harder!”

I obliged, increasing the force, the pace. The pool water churned around us.

“Oh my god -” She was talking between moans now, her voice high and broken. “I can’t - this is -” A sharp gasp as I hit something deep. “Okay the last time I got fucked this good was - ahh - Sydney maybe? That dancer?”

She tried to look back at me, her face flushed. “But like - fuck - he wasn’t this big - you’re literally - ahh - ruining me for everyone else -”

“Fuck’s sake, Yuna,” I grunted, the question coming out more aggressive than I intended. “How many guys have you fucked?”

“I - oh god -” She tried to think, but I didn’t slow down. “Like - ahh - ninety? Maybe a hundred?” Her voice pitched higher as I hit a particularly deep angle. “I literally stopped counting after North America because it got too complicated -”

“A hundred?” Something primal surged in me. I slammed into her harder, making her yelp. “And I’m better than all of them?”

“Yes -” It came out as a whimper. “Fuck yes - you’re - oh my god - you’re so much better - you’re ruining me -”

She was trying to sound confident, trying to maintain that seductress persona, but every word was broken by gasps and moans. Her body was betraying her, submitting to me in a way I could tell she wasn’t used to.

I fucked her for what felt like an eternity, my stamina somehow holding despite this being my fifth round of the day. The angle was perfect, letting me go deep, hitting spots that made her legs tremble and her voice break into these high, desperate sounds.

Finally, she reached back, her hand finding my hip, stopping me mid-thrust.

“Wait -” she panted, her whole body heaving. “I need - change positions -”

She pushed forward, and my cock slipped out of her pussy with an obscene pop. A large bubble of trapped air followed, surfacing with a wet burst that would’ve been funny if we weren’t both so far gone. Our mixed fluids leaked into the pool, cloudy ribbons swirling in the clear water.

Yuna pulled herself out of the pool, water streaming off her lithe body, cascading down those impossibly long legs. Chlorine and sex hung thick in the air. She climbed onto the lounge chair with feline grace, then laid back, her legs spreading wide in invitation.

She looked like a goddess sprawled on that lounge chair - tan skin glistening, legs spread wide, chest heaving. The contrast of her delicate features and the absolute debauchery of her expression was intoxicating.

I got another perfect view of her pussy - swollen, pink, gaping slightly from my fucking. Her lips were puffy, glistening with arousal, and below it, her tight, puckered asshole remained untouched, a forbidden promise for another time.

“Come here,” she breathed, one hand trailing down her stomach to spread herself open for me. “I want to feel you deeper.”

I followed her like a man possessed, water dripping from my body as I positioned myself over her. I squatted down, angling my cock - thoroughly coated with her juices - toward her entrance.

Before I could thrust, her impossibly long legs wrapped around my hips and pulled, forcing me inside in one slick, smooth motion. She gasped, her eyes going wide, and I groaned as the new angle let me sink even deeper than before.

“Oh fuck,” she whimpered. “That’s - you’re so deep -”

I didn’t waste time. I started moving, building back to that punishing rhythm, and Yuna’s hands flew to my shoulders, pulling me down. Her lips found mine in a deep, desperate kiss. Our tongues tangled, our moans muffled as I fucked her with everything I had.

Her legs squeezed around my torso, her heels digging into my lower back, urging me deeper with each thrust. The lounge chair creaked beneath us, protesting the abuse.

“Mmph -” she gasped against my lips, breaking the kiss just long enough to speak. “Yes - fuck - yes -”

Her hand slipped between our bodies, fingers finding her clit and rubbing frantically. The added stimulation made her pussy clench around me, fluttering, and I groaned.

I grabbed her waist with both hands, my grip tight enough to leave marks. The sensation drove her wild. Her entire body arched off the chair like she was possessed, her small tits pressing against my chest, her nails raking down my back hard enough to sting.

“Don’t stop -” she whimpered. “Please don’t stop - I’m so close -”

I could feel my own orgasm building, slow but inevitable. The fifth of the day, and somehow still powerful, that heat coiling in my balls. I broke the kiss, gasping, “Yuna - I’m - I’m gonna -”

“Wait!” Her eyes flew open, wide and commanding. She pushed against my chest with surprising strength, forcing me to pull back.

I stumbled, my cock slipping out, slick and throbbing and angry at being denied. I stared at her in confusion, chest heaving.

She sat up, a wicked grin spreading across her flushed face. Her hair was a mess, her lips swollen from kissing, her whole body glistening with sweat and pool water.

“Okay - my turn,” she breathed, voice rough with arousal. “You earned it.” She was already moving, that wicked grin spreading. “Let me - fuck - let me show you why guys literally can’t shut up about this.”

Chapter 6: The Siren’s Satisfaction Marathon riding. Exhaustion wearing the face of desire.

I collapsed back onto the lounge chair, my chest heaving, every muscle in my body screaming from exhaustion. Five orgasms. I’d already blown five loads today, and somehow this insatiable siren wanted more.

Yuna stood over me, water still dripping from her hair, that wicked grin on her face. She looked like a goddess backlit by the afternoon sun - all long legs and wet skin, her small tits perfect and perky, her pussy still glistening and swollen from the pounding I’d just given her.

“Your turn to just lay there,” she purred, climbing onto the chair. “I wanna feel you from this angle.”

As she turned around to straddle me reverse cowgirl, I took the opportunity to cheekily slap her ass. The sound echoed across the terrace, a sharp crack that seemed to hang in the humid air, and her ass jiggled from the impact in a way that was absolutely mesmerizing.

It was plumper than Yeji’s, I couldn’t help but notice. Where Yeji was an athletic freak of nature - her body sculpted from marble and countless hours of dance practice, abs that could grate cheese and an ass that was pure, toned muscle like a weapon forged in a gym - Yuna was slimmer overall but blessed with godly hips and an ass that had just enough give to be perfect. Perfect for grabbing, perfect for slapping, perfect for watching bounce.

“What?” she asked, looking back at me over her shoulder with a coy smile as she positioned herself over my lap. Her hair fell across one eye, still dripping with pool water.

“Your ass,” I said, not even trying to hide my appreciation. My hands found her hips automatically. “I’m obsessed with it. The way it bounces, the way it feels...” I squeezed for emphasis. “I could watch it all day.”

She bit her lip, feigning shyness but clearly pleased. “You’re not the first guy to say that while fucking me, you know.” Then her expression shifted to that wicked grin. “But you’re probably the fastest I’ve ever let inside me. Like, most guys have to work for it. Wine and dine, or at least buy me coffee.” She glanced back at my cock, still hard despite everything. “You should be proud. Badge of honor or whatever.”

As she spoke, she reached down between her legs, her fingers wrapping around my shaft. Without missing a beat in her monologue, she guided me to her entrance and sank down in one smooth, practiced motion. Her pussy swallowed me whole, still slick and hot from our previous round.

“Fuck,” I groaned, my head falling back against the chair. My hands gripped her waist tighter.

She moaned softly - just a little hum of satisfaction - and started rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles, getting comfortable, adjusting to the angle.

Then she glanced back at me, that teasing smirk playing on her lips.

“No wonder Yeji was screaming like that earlier,” she said breathlessly, already starting to move. There was something in her voice - a mix of jealousy and satisfaction, like she’d just confirmed a suspicion she’d been harboring. “You really know how to wreck a pussy.”

Before I could respond, she started riding in earnest. Her hair dripped water onto my chest, cold droplets contrasting with the heat of our bodies. Her hair dripped water onto my chest, cold droplets contrasting with the heat of our bodies. From this angle, I had a perfect view - her spine curving down to that perfect ass bouncing on my lap, water droplets catching sunlight on her skin. The wet skin-on-skin contact made every movement slicker, smoother, but somehow more intense.

The wet skin-on-skin contact made every movement slicker, smoother, but somehow more intense. Each time she rolled her hips, there was this slick, obscene sound, and I could feel every ridge and fold of her pussy as she moved.

“So,” she started, lifting herself up and dropping back down, establishing a rhythm. “I don’t usually fuck idols. Like Yeji does.”

“No?” I managed, my voice strained. She was moving faster now, really bouncing, and it was torture.

“Nah.” She bounced harder, her ass slapping against my thighs. “Male idols are so full of themselves. They think they’re God’s gift just because they have fangirls screaming their names.” She rolled her hips in a particularly devastating way. “But most of them? Terrible in bed. Like, genuinely bad.”

“How - how would you know?” I gasped as she picked up speed.

“Because I tried! Obviously.” She laughed breathlessly. “But nobody tells them they suck because they’re idols, you know? Too precious. So they just keep thinking they’re amazing when really they just -” She demonstrated with a few rough, graceless bounces. “ - pump away like that with zero technique.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, even through the pleasure. “So what, you - ah, fuck - you avoid them?”

“I hunt better prey.” She leaned back, changing the angle so I hit deeper, and we both groaned. “Guys who actually get how lucky they are, you know? Staff members, backup dancers, random hot guys I meet at clubs.” She was riding me harder now, really moving. “Because those guys? They actually try to make it good. They worship you like you’re doing them a favor.”

Her words were punctuated by moans and gasps as she rode me, her small tits bouncing with each movement. Water droplets flew from her hair, catching the sunlight.

My hands slid from her waist to her ass, grabbing, squeezing, trying to guide her movements but mostly just holding on. “You’re really good at this,” I groaned without thinking.

“At what?” She grinned down at me, knowing exactly what I meant.

“This. Riding. You’re - fuck - you’re incredible.”

“Yeah?” Her grin widened, something competitive flashing in her eyes. “You should feel lucky then. Most guys don’t get this far.” She bounced harder, as if to prove her point. “Actually, the last guy who got me this worked up was - mmm - Tuesday night? Wednesday morning? Right after our comeback stage.”

“Yeah?” I groaned.

“Yeah. He was cute. Quiet type.” She adjusted her angle, taking me deeper, and we both gasped. “Got him alone in one of the tech rooms and just - fuck - he went down on me for SO long. Like, I actually had to check my phone at one point to see if we had enough time before load-out.”

“Dedicated,” I managed.

“Right?” She was bouncing faster now, really riding me, chasing something. “Super eager. But his dick was like -” She made a so-so gesture with her hand while still moving. “Average? Maybe slightly above? Nothing like this.” She emphasized her point by dropping down hard, taking me to the hilt, and I groaned.

My orgasm was building rapidly. “Despite five previous loads, despite my wrecked body, despite my body being absolutely wrecked, she was riding me like it was a competition and she was determined to win. The way her pussy squeezed me, the visual of her ass bouncing, the sound of her voice mixing dirty stories with casual conversation - it was too much.

“Yuna -” I warned, my fingers digging into her hips. “I’m gonna -”

But she either didn’t hear me or didn’t care. She just kept riding, kept talking, her rhythm never breaking.

“Oh, and that dancer in LA -” She was breathless now, words coming out between gasps. “During our US leg - he had stamina but zero rhythm. Just - ahh - kept going and going but it was like - mmm - like fucking a metronome -”

I couldn’t hold back. My sixth orgasm of the day exploded out of me with a force that shocked even me. I bucked up involuntarily, burying myself as deep as possible as I pumped what felt like an impossible amount of cum deep into her pussy. I could feel it squirting out around my cock, our bodies too tightly pressed for it all to stay inside.

“Fuck!” I roared, every muscle in my body tensing, stars exploding behind my eyelids.

But Yuna just pressed a hand firmly against my chest, forcing me back down into the chair, and kept riding. She didn’t even pause. Didn’t even acknowledge it.

“ - and I literally had to fake it because he wasn’t getting me there -” she continued, as if I hadn’t just filled her with cum. “Which was so annoying because I was SO close but he just - ugh -”

The overstimulation was immediate and intense. My cock was hypersensitive, every movement of her pussy sending shockwaves through my body that bordered on painful. But she didn’t stop. She kept riding, kept talking, her rhythm never faltering even as my cum leaked out of her with each bounce.

“Then there was this producer guy - older, whatever -” She rolled her eyes even as she moved. “Came in like two minutes and acted like he did something impressive. Men are so -”

Her words cut off as she glanced down, finally noticing the absolute mess between us - cum coating both our thighs, dripping onto the chair, leaking out of her with each movement.

She looked back up at me, still riding, and asked almost conversationally, “Wait. Did you cum inside me?”

“Yes -” I gasped. “Yuna - please - I can’t -”

“Oh.” She said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. She processed this for a moment, still moving. Then shrugged. “Well, I’m not done yet, so...”

Then her talking shifted focus, and somehow this was worse.

“Unnie must really love this cock,” she said, her voice taking on a teasing edge as she rode me. “I bet she rode you just like this morning, huh? Did she bounce on it like this?” She demonstrated with a particularly hard drop that made me groan in agony-pleasure. “Did she take it this deep?”

“Yuna -”

“I bet her pussy isn’t as wet as mine though.” She was getting breathless now, chasing her own orgasm. “I bet she doesn’t get this sloppy. Wait, does she?”

All I could do was hold onto her waist for dear life, my fingers probably leaving bruises, as she used my oversensitive cock to get herself off. Her movements became more erratic, more desperate, her breath coming in short gasps.

“Fuck -” she whimpered. “Fuck, I’m - I’m gonna -”

And then she came. Hard.

Her entire body went rigid, her back arching like a bow, her pussy clamping down on my abused cock with industrial-grade suction - the kind Yeji bragged her Dyson had. She screamed - actually screamed -”Fuck - yes - Minho!” - her voice echoing off the villa walls.

Her orgasm seemed to last forever. Her walls spasmed around me in rhythmic pulses, her thighs shaking violently, her hands clawing at my chest hard enough to leave marks. Wave after wave crashed through her, her whole body trembling, and I watched in awe as this confident, cocky siren completely fell apart on top of me.

Spoiled brat always gets what she wants, I thought to myself.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she eased up. Her movements slowed to a gentle rock, then a stop. We were both panting, covered in sweat and pool water and cum. She lifted herself slowly, carefully, and my cock slipped out with a wet, obscene squelch.

We both looked down at the aftermath. My cock was glistening with our mixed fluids, still twitching slightly. Her pussy was absolutely wrecked - swollen, red, gaping slightly - with thick ropes of my cum leaking out and dripping onto my stomach in heavy globs.

Impulsively, without thinking, I reached down. I dipped my fingers into the cream pooling at her entrance, gathering some on my fingertips, and brought them to her lips.

She locked eyes with me - those dark, intense eyes - and slowly, sensually, licked my fingers clean. Her tongue swirled around each digit, lapping up every drop of our combined fluids while maintaining that intense eye contact.

In that moment, something passed between us. Not love - we weren’t delusional - but something. A deep, unspoken understanding. A connection forged through the most intense, raw, animalistic fucking either of us had experienced in a long time. We were both naked, breathless, absolutely destroyed, covered in each other’s fluids, and for a brief moment, time stood still.

The world was quiet except for our breathing.

And then we heard it.

The villa door banging open. Then slamming shut.

“YO!” Ryujin’s voice boomed through the house, loud and unmistakable, echoing off the walls. “ANYONE HOME?”

Yuna and I froze instantly.

Our eyes locked, going wide with panic. We were still in the exact same position - her straddling me on the lounge chair, cum leaking from her pussy, my hands on her hips, both of us completely naked and covered in evidence.

The exact same position I’d found her in when I first caught her masturbating on this very chair.

Intro | Masterlist | Series Index Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

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Author’s Note

That wraps the Yuna and Minho pool scene!

Fun fact: the original plan was to stop the whole story right here. This was just going to be a standalone smut one-shot (sun, chlorine, and reckless horniness). In fact, this stretch of the story was originally concieved as private gooning material without an actual plot in mind. Yuna gets her victory lap, Minho survives six rounds, the lounge chair barely holds together, and we fade to black.

But then I had this intrusive thought:

"Okay... but what if they got caught?"

Everything kind of spiraled out of control from there. Because if anyone was going to walk in at the absolute worst possible moment - kicking the door open and yelling "YO!" with zero shame - it had to be Ryujin, right? The whole vibe changes once she shows up, because the jealousy and the actual group dynamics suddenly matter, and Minho stops being just a convenient POV camera and turns into an actual guy trapped in the middle of their mess. A notoriously bratty dom just barged in, meaning Yuna isn't the only threat on the terrace anymore.

The rest of the saga basically grew wildly out of this one interruption. The rivalries, the feelings hiding under all the smut, the weirdly specific histories each girl gets - it all starts right here just because Ryujin couldn't be assed to knock.

So if this feels like a natural ending point, it technically is (or was). But it's also where the actual plot starts.

Thanks for surviving Yuna's first act of terrorism - I hope you enjoyed the unhinged, chlorine-soaked mess!

you told yourself that you weren’t going to act crazy. he never asked you to be his girlfriend, it was never like that, so fine. you aren’t going to act like the jealousy isn’t real, but you’re unabashedly prideful. you told yourself as soon as you saw it that he wouldn’t get the satisfaction of seeing you be upset about it. sealed your feelings off as much as you possibly could.

he’s been blocked for a total of five days. in that short time you’ve received the works from him– calls from text now numbers, texts from yuji’s phone. yuta dm’ing you on instagram over and over trying to provide an alibi like you’re some kind of idiot. chill on him, y/n, that wasn’t even him!

this is the second phone call yuji’s tried to hold with you today about reaching out to megumi. he claims he’s just bored and wants to talk to you, but somehow the conversation always leads back to the same thing. you’re much too occupied with legos to care.

“i’m not defending him, you know.” yuji tries to reason, punctuated by a fuck! fucking dickhead, he snuck me. “but!” he begins again, “he didn’t know she was gonna post that. she knows you guys are fucking with eachother, you know? girls are like that.”

“don’t need you to tell me what girls are like. and i don’t care.”

you really don’t need him to tell you. this is the obvious consequence of getting too close to someone like megumi. someone who tends to be the object of everyone’s lust for good reason– all mysterious, withholding, attractive– of course this happened. you let him come over and play house with you and then he’s off to get attention from someone else. it’s not even his fault, you want to say. it’s your own fault.

yuji scoffs. as in he’s not going to debate with you about whether or not you care when he knows you do. “anyway, i think he likes you. you know? likes you. i think you know he likes you, actually. he just… he’s megumi.”

“whatever that means.”

“it means he’s been single since i met him. when we were thirteen. he’s never even tried to have an actual girlfriend– hey–!”

there’s signs of a struggle on yuji’s end of the call, and then: hello?

megumi doesn’t sound like he hasn’t slept in days or anything. doesn’t sound stressed or frantic, just sounds like himself. your mouth opens, and you force it shut. you hang up.

-

someone is banging on your door at two in the morning like the police. you don’t move to answer it, trying to stay in your spot on the couch because you’re pretty sure it’s him. that hunch is confirmed when the knocks move over to the window, the sound of his voice saying bro come on, this is stupid, i know you’re awake.

you roll your eyes, pausing the shitty movie on the tv so you can shuffle toward the door. it’s your third night in a row being up this late, wallowing, and the sleep debt that you owe is starting to sink into your bones. he wants to come in, plead his case and then get sent away this badly? sure. whatever.

he seems surprised when you open the door and just.. step aside so he can enter. whatever speech he had planned is released into nothing, morphs into a look of confusion.

“megumi, it’s late.” you say quietly, hand clutching the knob of the door. “decide whether you’re gonna come in or not.”

you don’t sit beside him on the couch. you lean up against the wall across the room instead, next to the tv. you pull your blanket around yourself more, a protective shield against him, head cocked to the side in wait. after all, he’s the one who showed up. he doesn’t get to sit in silence and wait for you to lay all your cards out in front of him.

“i didn’t fuck her.” is how he starts, with the most important information first. “i pulled up to sell to her and .. i was going to. but i didn’t.”

“awesome.” you say, but you sound more disinterested than you do relieved. on the inside though, your heartbeat slows down just a bit. “thanks for telling me. can you go home now?”

“no.” he shakes his head. his leg is bouncing a little nervously, and he leans back into the couch cushions for comfort. “i didn’t know she snuck the fucking .. picture. she wanted everyone to know i was there, obviously.”

“well, yeah. and you were there. actually, how come you’re not there now?”

megumi pauses, avoids your eyes when he says “you’re… not my girlfriend. i didn’t think-”

“that it was wrong. i know. it wasn’t wrong, megs, you’re a free agent.”

he winces at that, like you said something incorrect. like it wasn’t his own words that were slowly breaking you apart, you’re not my girlfriend. as if you don’t know that.

your blood feels like it’s running hot inside of you. “you would have hated if i did something like that. hated it. it would be me begging you to talk to me right now. even though you’re not my boyfriend.”

“i know. but… still. i didn’t fuck her and-”

he gets interrupted by your laugh, the way you lean over slightly like he just told you a joke. “you’re fucking with my head right now.”

cue his slow, careful exhale and hesitant speech like he’s talking to a child. “i’m not trying to—”

“i don’t fucking care if you’re trying to or not. you are.”

“what do you want me to do? you want me to block her? i already did that.”

“did you want to block her?”

“i want you to stop being upset. i don’t care about keeping a random girl’s number.”

“you cared enough to try and fuck her, though. couldn’t even just sell your weed and go the fuck home.”

he doesn’t respond. you’re genuinely tickled by that, giggling to yourself again. “right.”

megumi stands carefully, slow steps to close the space between you. you don’t move from where you’re leaning, trying to keep your voice firm. “go home, okay? i don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

megumi just says no, gets closer and closer– and what the hell is the matter with you? why aren’t you trying to make a break for the kitchen, for your bedroom, why aren’t you moving?

he’s so close now that your chests are almost pressed together, his hand hovering at your side. like he’ll get electrocuted if he touches you without pausing first.

when he does touch you, you don’t have a clear view of his eyes anymore. it’s all wet and blurry, fat tears heavy in your vision and bound to fall the next time you blink. you push him, and he doesn’t budge. stands solid in his place and just lets you fight, head dipping down to nose against your shoulder. “j-just go home–” you beg, chest tight with embarrassment at how close you are to his ear, every one of your little hiccup sobs perfectly audible. “go home– fucking go home, just leave me alone.”

the palm of his hand smooths its way up, up your side and your chest so he can cup your face. “you’re fucking with my head.”

“y-you’re such a lying ass–”

“m’not lying. everything is you, you, you.”

you’re overwhelmed, and he won’t stop talking, won’t stop tracing his lips along the side of your neck and bothering the skin there. “always. need to see you, need to fuck you, need to make a million by tomorrow so i can give you everything you want, i want you. s’that what you wanted to hear me say?”

his thumb comes up to wipe the tears off of one side of your face, body pressing heavier against yours like he’s trying to conjoin with you. you shake your head.

“not if you’re lying to me.”

he doesn’t reassure you, at least not in the way a regular person would. you don’t even have the air to gasp when he steps back and throws you over his shoulder, makes his way to your bedroom in the dark.

“f-fucking put me down. i said go home!”

he’s gentle when he lays you down on your back, brings the zipper of his jacket down with one hand and shrugs it off. he hovers over you and waits. gives you just enough space to get from under him. what the hell is the matter with you? you don’t.

he rewards you with a knowing smile. “yeah, i missed you too.”

you watch him push your shirt up with parted lips, trembling under the drag of your shorts coming down and off of your legs. “not wearing panties”, he comments, shoots a look at you. “were you expecting someone?”

you cut your eyes at him, say maybe i was.

he shakes his head at you, laughing. “you’re lying through your fucking teeth.”

you open your mouth to argue, but it turns into ah, a rebuttal trapped in the shock of feeling his tongue run up your folds once. he lets a hand rest warmly on top of your stomach, sinks his tongue into you slowly and then brings his mouth up so he can take your clit into his mouth.

your hips shift up against the sensation, chases it, hand instinctively embeds itself into strands of his hair.

he rolls his tongue in a way that forces a keen out of your mouth, fingers digging soft little pressure indents into the skin of your tummy. you can feel how he’s moaning and panting through his motions, head bobbing ever so slightly so he can use his whole tongue– cover the whole surface area.

you make a betrayed sound when he pulls his mouth off of you, decides to pepper kisses along your inner thigh instead. “it really pissed her off.”

you squint down at him. “what did?”

“when i wouldn’t fuck her.”

you exhale through your nose, “why are you even thinking about her right now?”

through kisses to your thighs, your stomach, your clit, he expounds further. “i’m not really thinking about her. it was just funny. always so funny when bitches beg for attention that i just give you, free of charge.”

“you gave her what she wanted, anyway. it was a nice photo.”

“it was a sneak photo.” he corrects, “she’s desperate. shouldn't've linked her at all, i know that already.”

you’re mad all over again. sure, it feels good now to hear him imply you’re special to him, that he’s choosing you. but you were here, in your apartment that night. he drove in the opposite direction and tried to choose someone else. how does that make sense?

you shimmy up the bed and out of his grasp, pressing your back against the headboard.

“you really shouldn’t have. so why?”

megumi sits up, sighing. “i’m… used to doing whatever i want, y/n, this is the longest i’ve gone without…”

he watches the tears well up in your eyes and decides to detour to another sentence.

“we didn’t.. do anything. she- we tried, i was going to, and i couldn’t. so i sold her the weed i promised her and went home.”

you don’t really know how to respond and luckily he doesn’t want an answer. he just wants it to sit somewhere inside you, for future rationalization. when he reaches for you again, it’s unsurprising to your subconscious that you don't resist it.

“i miss you.” he insists, voice laced thinly with pleading. if you weren’t listening to his every word, it could have even gone over your head. your head tips back when you feel his fingers searching for your clit, rubbing circles gently around it. “missed her, too.”

“i’m mad at you.” you strain, breath hitching.

“yeah.” he agrees, but his finger sinks into you easily, much assisted by all the slick pooling up at your entrance. “she’s not, though.”

the intrusion is gone almost as soon as it comes, and you have to suppress the whine that threatens to reveal itself. you watch him lift his shirt over his head and toss it, how he lets the clothes covering his bottom half fly onto the floor right along with them. from where he sits up on his knees in front of you, his cock is hard and leaking against his stomach.

“got bigger since the last time i saw it.” you mention, and you’re being half serious, watching how the head of it pulses a blush red.

“shut up,” he laughs. “been saving it for you. almost a week is a long time.”

“s’your fault.”

he nods, pulls you by your hips so you can lay on your back again. “it is.”

it’s bliss. the hot, familiar stretch of him, the way he always makes you so wet and slick that he can get himself inside without much resistance. one push past that first ring of tension and he’s filling you, his mouth falling open in a heavy breath. your back threatens to arch off of the bed, legs coming to wrap around him.

he takes your chin into the space between his index finger and his thumb, finally, connects your lips in a kiss. it’s not until you feel it, his mouth moving against yours, that it hits you that it’s the first time he’s kissed you all night. in days. almost a week really is a long time.

“gumi-” you plead against his mouth, but he doesn’t give you space to say much else, keeps dragging his cock along the wetness of your insides and doesn’t let up on the kiss for a second. your attempt to pull away is futile, his long fingers coming to claim the base of your throat. holding you there so he can lick into your mouth.

“missed hearing you call me that, too,” he breathes, hips speeding up until you can hear the squelch of your cunt from the friction. the pressure inside of you is building up fast, like adding wood to a fire.

he’s not content with just the staccato of your moans, though he should be, all things considered. “you’re being quiet,” he tuts, hooks an arm under your legs one at a time so you can move them to hang over his shoulders. your cunt squeezes around him, the deeper angle frying something in your brain.

you’re not actually being quiet. you’re being so loud that it’s going to be embarrassing to see any of your neighbors in the parking lot tomorrow. but you know what he means, that he needs to hear you speak.

it’s not the right time for any flowery language. your nails scratch down the skin of his back roughly and you hear him hiss above you.

“d-don’t ever– do that to me again.” you whine, “don’t– you’re mine—“

“i am?” he asks, stupid smile on his face indicating that he’s pushing ur buttons on purpose. it’s like he can’t help himself. “c’mon, tell me. this your dick?”

the gravelly sound of his voice makes you tighten up again, and if you can hear the way you’re gushing around him, then so can he. he puts more pressure behind his thrusts, low noises falling from his lips.

his gaze pours into yours, wants an answer. you have one.

yes, yes— m-mine, it’s mine— you’re mine.

“mhmm..” he encourages, “can’t give it up to anyone, can i?”

he has to stop himself from laughing a little at how serious you are, even in this position, when you say no.

he leans down to kiss you again, sucks your bottom lip into his mouth.

“i won’t, i promise. m’so sorry, baby. i’m sorry.”

“it’s—fuck—”

there’s some part of you that is hesitating on telling him it’s okay. the length of his dick breaks through the metaphysical wall, head bullying the spongy spot deep inside you so good that he forces it out. “i-it’s okay– it’s–”

“mm? you forgive me, beautiful?”

the words leave you, eyes squeezed shut because the weight of his stare is too much for you. all that’s left is the same syllables in a desperate kind repetition, mhm, mh-m..

you want to scream when he pulls out, nails digging into his bicep in a ditch effort to get him to put it back in.

“relax,” he says, watches your body twitch with need. “turn around and arch up.”

your body moves slowly as it wobbles into its position, head resting on the pillow and ass on full display for him. you cry out pathetically when he lands a smack down on your ass, hips pushing back against the head of his dick becasue it’s right there, you can feel it, all he has to do is just–

“y-you’re being mean..” you complain, and the irritation builds when you hear his chuckle behind you, fingers gripping at the meat of your ass.

he sheathes himself inside you wordlessly, one full thrust that brings his hips flush against your ass. you bury your face into the pillow to muffle the noise. he lets you do it, though normally he wouldn’t. even over the plap, plap, plap of your bodies meeting, the sound of him hammering his way into your sobbing cunt over and over, he can still hear you loud and clear.

“getting my dick all wet,” he muses, catches your wrist when you throw your hand behind you so he can use it to pull you back. “missed this pussy so much.”

there’s drool soaking into your pillowcase, the fabric sticking wetly to your cheek, and your legs are going numb just slightly. he pulls your head up by your hair after a few more thrusts, uses the proximity to your ear to whisper to you, soft and so casual:

“y’gonna let me nut in you this time? hm?”

and your response is immediate, well, once you can push through the brain fog. “please.”

please, gumi– please, pleasepleaseplease–

you get what you want. he thrusts once, twice, nestles himself all the way in and fills you up with a groan.

your legs give out under you, belly pressed to the bed now and he just follows you. keeps his pace the same as it always was, pushing through his overstimulation as his hand comes under you to find your clit.

“c’mon, i got you.” he mumbles, presses a kiss to your shoulder. cold drops of sweat from his hair are soothing the skin at the back of your neck. “not gonna stop til’ you give it to me, you know that.”

your eyes roll back for their final time, broken noise from your throat ringing in the air when you cum. you think your ears might be ringing, or maybe that part is just a figment of your imagination, but your whole body feels like it’s vibrating with sound. he slows his hips into a grind so you can ride it out all the way to the edge. doesn’t stop until your body stills under him, like he promised.

-

“i want to go to the cat cafe tomorrow.” you mumble against his neck, eyes closed peacefully and legs tangled with his own. it’s so hot in the room that you guys have pushed the comforter all the way off the bed, skin taking in the cool air coming from your open window.

megumi snorts, fingers ghosting over the exposed skin of your shoulder. “i thought you were asleep.”

“i’m not.”

“clearly. i have to do some driving tomorrow.”

“can i come?”

you feel his nod. “yeah, of course you can come.”

“and then can we go to the cat cafe? they do walk ins.”

he pauses to think, trying to make a quick calculation about how long tomorrow could actually take. he has to deliver all the way to bumblefuck where inumaki lives, and then he’ll have to re-up across town once he eventually makes it back, and then–

“you hate me.” you pout, but you nuzzle closer to him anyway.

“yeah, totally.” he jokes. his expression lost to the dark, but you can hear the grin.

“we can go.” he affirms. “i’ll be done in time.”

.

.

next day edit: click for next part hehe its already here

“Y-Yeah, I’m not one of the higher ranked ones so..” You trail off, finishing up so you can end the conversation. “Thanks for letting me clean up.” He nods and smiles.

“Well, alright. You gave me a good time. Hope you figure out whatever’s going on.” You thank him and he waves you off, presumably too tuckered out to get out of bed. It was a good time for you too, helping you with letting out energy. See? You were right. Everything about Shanks was just because you were pent up.

You step onto the ship, now that you’re here you don’t feel sleepy anymore. What if they come and jump you and letting you go was a test? However.. nothing bad happens. Monster comes out and when it sees you it walks you to the storage room, then leaves once you’re inside. That’s it. Seems like taking note of when you came back was just another part of its night watch, too. You lay in bed, too nervous to fall asleep. What if you wake up on a plank? Or get no food? Or you step onto the deck and suddenly you’re looking at your own body while your head leaves your neck? It’s keeping you awake and you eventually get up to get water.

Walking back from your quick drink you hear something, following it. It doesn’t sound like anything bad, anyway; it’s actually fairly quiet. You caught it only due to how silent the night is. You stand in front of Shanks’s room, it’s coming from inside. You aren’t going to do something crazy like put your ear to the door so you reasonably stand there to see if you can hear it from outside. A moment passes until you hear it, a person moaning. Your face goes hot. Awkward! You quickly make it back to your room and tuck inside your futon. Of course he would bring someone back to the ship, he’s a handsome man and has that rugged charm that could seduce more people to count. Still, something starts to corrode your heart; why do you feel like this? It’s like you caught him cheating on you, which is insanely hypocritical considering you yourself just came back from a one night stand. A dark thought festers in your mind.

‘..I should’ve stayed a little longer, I wonder what his moans would’ve sounded like.’ Your brain starts to wander, but you’re not really horny anymore. Instead you imagine your hands on his body, then going to sleep next to him and waking up to him like that person likely would. What you’re feeling must just be envy that he can sleep afterwards but you can’t, since you had to come back even if you wanted to keep sleeping; or if you wanted to do it through the night. Will he do it through the night? You grip the blanket subconsciously, this isn’t your problem. This isn’t a situation you should worry about.

_______________

You don’t remember falling asleep, but you wake up. It’s dark in the storage room as always since there’s no windows, even the light in this room isn’t very good. Apparently they’ve been meaning to fix it but keep putting it off. What a coincidence since the exact same thing was back at your base. Maybe this is a sign.

‘How many pirates does it take to screw in a lightbulb?’ You joke sleepily to yourself, sitting up. No punchline. The sleep you got wasn’t as energizing as your brain would’ve liked.

You step outside with caution, also heading into the kitchen with caution.

..No one is here.

You start to panic, why is no one here? Are they hungover or did they leave you here? What if they left to have you starve as a lesson?

“H–Hello?” You call out, then jump when you spot Monster. It makes monkey sounds, obviously, and you nervously nod. ‘This thing isn’t going to rip me apart, right? It hasn't happened so far but I’ve only seen it with the others and yesterday night.’ You worry, but it tilts its head at you before stepping forward.

“Monster!” Bonk Punch walks in, then clutches his head like his own yell hurts. “You’re scaring him.” It steps back and jumps onto the pirate’s shoulder. You sigh in relief.

…

Awkward.

“You’re looking like you're waiting for me to lunge at you. I’m not doing anything. We let you go with that guy, you’re not in trouble.” He says and you relax a bit. “I thought you might’ve gotten kicked out when Monster said you got back early but it looks like you didn’t.” He taps his neck and you touch yours. Shoot, you must have a hickey.

“I wasn’t paying attention..” You mumble. You usually cover them for work but you don’t have anything to cover it with here.

“It’s fine~ Means you got lucky, right?” He walks over and grabs a huge glass of water, chugging it down before slamming it on the table with a sigh of relief. “I’m only up early because I have to navigate the ship. The moment I get it on course I’m leaving it to someone else to keep watch.” He suddenly looks at you. “Hey, you aren’t hung over.”

“No, I’m not.” He hums at your answer. “Almost everyone will be hung over, and Monster wants to sleep, so you keep watch on the ship.” Your mouth gapes.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, if I wake up and it’s off course then you’ll be in trouble.” His gaze sharpens and you nod quickly. Figures. “Alright, we’re heading to bed right after.” He and the monkey finally leave and you let out a long breath.

“I was gonna use this chance to sleep in..” No sleeping in for you unfortunately. Shanks is hung over too, likely. Your heart stings when you remember what you heard last night and you shake your head. You’re at most friends, you need to calm down. Still, your mind keeps going back to him. You have some time before the navigator has the course ready, you should do something nice.

You head to the infirmary, digging through the place for pain meds, putting them near a large glass of water once you’re back at the kitchen. The cook probably wakes up earlier so you got some for him too. You’ve got a lot of toast to make.

One by one you toast bread, they have a smaller version of the same toaster in the Marine kitchen that can batch toast. It took a while for you to figure it out, especially since it doesn’t actually look like it’s used often, but once it gets going there isn’t much for you to do. Once you feel there’s enough for a man the size of that cook you turn it off. This isn’t because you hold deep affection for Shanks, that is unpatriotic, but you’ll make his toast individually on the pan. You’re starting to stress a bit about it, what if he notices it’s different and points out your care? No, he doesn’t seem like the type to do that. As the toast is sizzling you take a deep breath. You’re worrying over nothing.

…

THE NAVIGATION!

You messed up, you messed up. You run outside and quickly check only to find your fear. You’ve gone off course. Not by much but it’s noticeable.

Badump Badump

You’re sweating, maybe the punishment will just be something small like push-ups. You get the ship back on course and head into the kitchen to see the ship’s cook about to eat the toast you left on the pan.

“No!” You run over, stopping in front of him. He freezes. “The last two pieces are for Shanks.” You quickly say and he puts them down. You go pale when you realize you yelled.

“You made these?” He asks and you slowly nod.

“Yeah, sorry. I figured you wake up earlier than the others to cook so I made some for you too, but- uh- the last two are for Shanks. He’s your captain, so..” He looks down at the toast he was about to eat. The rest had blueberry jam, but these don’t have anything. You’re quickly coating on a chocolate spread instead. He thought it was because you got tired.

“Oh. Alright.” He puts a cover over the toast once you’re done and goes to prepping ingredients. You didn’t get scolded or hit for yelling.

“...Am I still getting food?” You ask cautiously.

“Huh? Why wouldn’t you?” He questions back and you pause.

“Because I— nevermind.” You don’t need to push it. The cook looks back for a moment but goes back to his task.

“Captain wakes up later than you think when he’s hungover, you should make his toast later.”

“oh.” Oops. He’ll get stale toast.

…

“I have to get back to watching the path, bye.” With that, the conversation is done. You go back out to do your given job.

________

When Bonk Punch woke up he didn’t get mad at you, he said it wasn’t off by enough to make a huge difference; though his leniency is partially attributed to his ability to sleep in. You ate a snack Lucky Roux made and when Shanks came inside he ate the stale toast like it was the tastiest thing ever. Nothing is showing that you’re in trouble.

“Pain meds too? Lucky you godse-”

“Not me.” He motions to you with his head and the captain looks at you.

“(N/n) you godsend.” He holds your hand while speaking.

“I-It’s alright. I messed up and let it go stale, anyway.” He’s close!

“Couldn’t even tell.” He states with a smile. There’s chocolate on his lips. His eyes glance to your neck and his grip on your hand loosens.

“Ah, sorry.” You suddenly feel the need to apologize.

“Nothing to say sorry for.” He feels less excited than before.

“..Okay.” You gently hold his hand back. “I used your spread for the toast, since you don’t like blueberry. Or is it that you loved blueberry? I just remembered that you had a strong opinion about it-”

“I hate it.” His eyes are slightly wide, he lets go of your hand. “You remembered.” You nod and he smiles, turning away. “Okay, let’s eat!”

“I haven’t served yet.” Lucky Roux points out and he flinches.

_____________

You and Shanks sit on the front deck. You’re wearing a different outfit that can cover the hickey better.

“You changed.” Shanks starts.

“People kept pointing out the hickey.” You reply.

“Right.”

…

“You brought someone back too, right? I came back in the middle of the night and heard them in your room.”

“Huh!?” He jolts. “Y-Yeah, I did.” It’s like he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

…

The conversation that used to come easily for you both has turned awkward.

“I—have to go help with something.” Shanks stands up and leaves. You’re used to being the one leaving so it catches you off guard. He didn’t even wait for you to say bye.

(Shanks’s POV)

Shanks stops at the pillar of the crow’s nest, then lets out a big sigh and sinks onto the ground on his butt.

“Ugh.” Once he’s on the ground he feels a bit better. He was getting tipsy yesterday and ended up getting someone to sleep with despite having no plans to. Then again, he was planning not to so he could hang out with you; but he wasn’t paying attention and you looked scared so you ended up going with some other guy. ‘This is my fault.’ His self blaming nature is kicking in again, accountability turns to negativity. ‘I told myself I’d use this chance to get him to be more comfortable with the crew and I left him alone. It’s fair he went with someone else.’ A moment passes. ‘Why am I this upset?’ Sure he would be upset that he didn’t get to be with you but his crew vouched for you, so they're warming up to you, and you did something fun for yourself that was risky. He should be happy.. but he’s not. He wasn’t happy when his crew let you go, he wasn’t happy when you went home with someone else, and he wasn’t happy seeing you with a hickey. He wasn’t even all that happy talking to you, or that you knew he also got someone, instead of talking about how it went like he would the others. Is it because you aren’t one of his crewmates? Because you’re a marine? He’s acting like you cheated on him and he cheated on you back, as if you two were together. As if he.. had a crush on you.

…

As if he had…

“Huh?” His eyes go wide. Was he.. jealous? Hurt? That you went with someone else? That you slept with someone else? He leans back and stares up into the sky. “I have a crush on a marine soldier.” He mumbles to himself in disbelief, his heart quickening. This isn’t from relief, this isn’t from happiness. “No.” He’s scared. ‘No no no, this can’t be happening.’ His head falls into his hand and he curls up. ‘Not now, why now!?’ It’s only about time for everything to start, to play his role. This will not be happening now. ‘I need to get him off this ship. As soon as possible.’ He needs you off, away, back at that marine base. ‘But.. what will happen to him?’ What about the plan that he has?’ He grips onto his hair hard enough to sting. He can deal with this, it’s clearly in early stages and only because of the longing for unimportance. A superficial crush. Once the plan is finished you will leave, you will forget him, and you will keep your job; the job that will keep you away from him. He needs you to keep that job at all costs, this plan needs to continue, and he will make this work as he always has. Your face flashes into his mind and he pushes it away forcefully. He can deal with this. He has to.

______________________

(Your POV)

Shanks has become distant. You can tell. He talks with you and jokes with you but it’s different now no matter the facade he keeps putting up. You started thinking that you’re overreacting and being prideful assuming that you can figure out the mind of someone you met so recently but you couldn’t shake it off. It’s different. The walls that felt open are up. He doesn’t try to touch you, he doesn’t try to pry into your life, he doesn’t get into anecdotes of his past, he doesn’t even randomly pop in when you’re doing chores. It’s starting to drive you crazy.

“Come into my life, put me on your ship, talk to me, pry into me, then suddenly you’re all distant. What did I even do!?” You curse while angrily picking up trash. He’s been acting distant ever since you left at that bar, what are you supposed to do about that!? Is he mad you left? Was it really a test? Did you fail his test and now you’re just another number to him again? You notice your hands starting to shake. “I-I just.. thought..” You were starting to feel a little important. Someone was talking to you about life, someone so.. large in the world. It was making you feel like something. He came and lifted you up like you weren’t just another piece of fodder and now he’s just as suddenly lost interest. “Was he cruel all along?” He tricked you. He knew you would rely on him and took the chance to play with a “lesser” for fun.

“Mariney?” You look to the side and see Maddie. Right, her! If he tricked you into thinking you were something then there’s a chance he never had intention to help her either! You open your mouth to speak, then close it. How are you supposed to break that news? She was so scared of the pirates deep down and now that she’s starting to trust them you break the news that it was all a lie? That it really is hopeless, and you won’t be able to do a thing to protect her. “Mister?” She walks over to you, getting scared at your obvious emotional state. Ignorance.. ignorance is bliss. If it comes to that then you’ll do as best as you can to help her, and if you fail…

You’d rather it be quick enough she wouldn’t even know. So her last moments will be the way she is now, the audacious little girl who believes she’ll grow up to be strong.

“I’m okay.” You pat her on the head gently. “It’s okay. I got a little panicked earlier when I saw a spider, that’s it.” Her expression lightens.

“That’s it?” She seems to have bought it. “You could’ve just called for me. I’m really good at squishing them.” It’s not like you can let them free into nature in the middle of the ocean. The moment you leave an island they can become an invasive species to another one as well.

“You’d do a lot better if you helped me clean.” She jolts and starts to sneakily leave.

“Ummm.. I’m only good with spiders. Bye!” She skitters off. Once she’s gone you look at the ground with a heavy heart. This ship has become cold once again.

Gasp! Season end.. is this a cliffhanger? Anyway things don't go happy go lucky like you'd like them to. I'd expected angst, but i guess it got out of hand.. I have polls so that you guys can decide how i go about this. It may not seem like much of a choice but it matters, trust me. I also have a poll for what i should work on so check that out. So maybe 3 or 4 polls? If you're reading this immediately then wait a bit for me to post them, then I'll link them below.

Tag list: @abarosoap, @eater-of-sand, @yuurivalr, @aruaruaru, @rorawrnoa-zoro, @sasahzs, @psychictamsy

Poll 1

Poll 2

Poll 3

Poll 4

Poll for what i work on

notes: hey everyone. this fic has quite possibly taken over my life. it took a fuckton of planning, writing time, and actual dedicaiton. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO KNOW SHIT ABOUT STAR WARS TO READ THIS FIC!!! Everything is explained in depth via the reader' s backstory through her pov and through research and dialogue in Dick's pov. This fic is not everyone's cup of tea, and that's okay! I love all of you so much <3

TO MY MOOTS: Since I believe most or all of my moots are fic-adjacent, I have tagged you all on the masterlist and will be tagging you in the chapters as well! If you would like to be removed from the taglist, let me know and I can take you off.

AS FOR MY NOT MOOTS: if you would like to be ADDED to the taglist I can put you on there!

warnings: violence, gore, death, torture, swearing, manipulation, no use of y/n, shitty people in general, probably xenophobia (not by reader or any MC), non-canon material (duh), probably too much foreshadowing, scars, throat injuries, chronic pain/injuries

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Worldbuilding Notes (to be updated as the series progresses)

Spotify Link

part i - A Senator's Son and a Jedi's Daughter

5.7k || April 7

tracks 1-6

part ii - Greed's Council

5.9k || April 11

tracks 7-12

part iii - Atychiphobia

6.4k || April 18

tracks 13-18

part iv - The Parliament

5.9k || April 21

tracks 19-24

part v - Silence as Aggression

[wc] ||

tracks 25-30

part vi - Sacrificial Monsters

[wc] ||

tracks 31-36

part vii - Angel of Death

[wc] ||

tracks 37-42

part viii - North's Face

[wc] ||

tracks 43-48

part ix - The Art of Subtlety

[wc] ||

tracks 49-54

part x - Red Horizon

[wc] ||

tracks 55-60

part xi - The Pen and the Sword

[wc] ||

tracks 61-66

part xii - Soldier Hymn

[wc] ||

tracks 67-72

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thank you for reading!! if i missed any tags please let me know!!!

copyright of romanwitchgirl on tumblr-DO NOT REPOST TO ANOTHER SITE

i do not own Star Wars or DC Comics

You’ve been here two weeks and the place still smells like fresh paint and the green iced tea you keep in the fridge—extra lemon, always, because anything less feels like a betrayal.

You’re left-handed, so the smudges on the canvas propped against the living-room wall are exactly where they should be. It’s a half-finished night scene: streetlights blurred by rain, the kind of nostalgic blur you chase when the hospital pager isn’t screaming. You hum along to an old Olivia Dean track playing low from your phone, the one that always makes you feel a little too much. I could be the twist, the one to make you stop…

Your eyes are heavy. The kind of sleepy that comes after a twelve-hour shift and too much chocolate from the corner store. You love that sleepy feeling—it’s honest. You used to be louder, brighter, a little chaotic when happiness hit. Now you’re calmer, steadier. But when the rare free evening stretches out and the music is right, that old crazy-happy version of you still peeks out, dancing alone in socks across the wooden floor like no one’s watching.

You’re wiping a streak of blue from your left thumb when the knock comes.

Not the polite daytime knock, no this one is urgent, three sharp raps that cut straight through the rain and the song.

You glance at the clock—12:17 a.m. Your hair is twisted up in a messy knot, paint on your oversized sweater, bare feet cold on the floor. You open the door anyway.

The man standing there is tall, shoulders filling the frame, black hoodie damp from the rain. Raindrops cling to dark hair that falls across his forehead. His arms are crossed tight like he’s holding something back, and the ink peeking from his sleeves—full sleeves, bold lines, no hesitation—catches the hallway light. He looks strong. Solid. Nothing like the boy you remember from seven years ago.

But his eyes.

Those eyes hit you first. Wide, dark, frantic.

“Hi,” he says, voice low and rough. “I’m sorry—it’s late. I wouldn’t… I heard rumors. The new neighbor in 5D is a kids’ doctor?”

You nod once, professional even at midnight. “Pediatric resident, yeah. What’s wrong?”

He exhales like the words have been choking him. “My daughter. Ellie. She’s two and a half. The fever started fast—really fast. She’s burning up, coughing and won’t settle. I gave her the usual stuff but it’s not coming down and I—” His jaw flexes. “I’m across the landing. 5C. I know it’s late but I didn’t know who else—”

Something in the way he says Ellie tugs at a memory you can’t quite place yet. You grab your bag from the hook by the door—stethoscope, thermometer, the small kit you always keep ready. “Let me get shoes. Two minutes.”

He waits in the hallway, shifting his weight, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. You notice the tattoos again—delicate script on one wrist, something bolder climbing toward his elbow. Strong. Changed. Not the lanky twenty-year-old who used to laugh quietly at your bad jokes.

You step out, lock the door, and follow him across the landing. The hallway light flickers once.

Inside 5C the apartment is warm but tense. A small night-light shaped like a cloud glows in the corner. Toys are scattered in neat baskets—someone keeps order even when the world tilts. On the couch, under a soft blanket, is Ellie.

She’s tiny, cheeks flushed bright red, dark lashes fluttering against fevered skin. Her breathing is too fast, a little raspy. She clutches a stuffed bear like it’s the only steady thing left.

You kneel beside her immediately, left hand gentle on her forehead. Hot. Too hot. “Hey, sweet girl,” you murmur, voice soft the way it always gets with little patients. “I’m here to help, okay?”

Ellie’s eyes open—big, glassy, the same shape as the man hovering behind you. She doesn’t cry. Just watches you with that quiet toddler trust that breaks hearts.

You work fast but calm: temperature, ears, throat, lungs. “103.8. Sounds like an ear infection brewing on top of a virus. We need to bring this fever down safely.” You glance up at him. “Do you have children’s ibuprofen? Cool cloths? I can walk you through—”

He’s already moving, handing you the medicine bottle like he’s been holding it ready for hours. His hands are steady but his eyes are raw. “She’s never been this sick before. Not like this.”

You dose her carefully, help him cool her with damp cloths. Ellie leans into your touch without hesitation, small fingers curling around your left wrist like she’s claiming it. The calm version of you stays in control, but something warmer flickers underneath— that old crazy-happy spark, quiet for now, but awake.

Ten minutes later the fever starts its slow drop. Ellie’s breathing evens out. She drifts, still holding your wrist.

Only then do you really look at him again.

He’s crouched on the other side of the couch, elbows on knees, watching you both. The tattoos, the broader chest, the jawline sharpened by years—you tilt your head.

Something clicks. Slow. Like a song you haven’t heard since you were eighteen.

“Wait…” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Jungkook?”

His eyes meet yours and the relief in them is immediate, almost painful. He knew the second he saw you in the doorway. “Yeah,” he says, quiet. “It’s me.”

You sit back on your heels. The boy you dated for one soft, sunlit year at the very end of your teens—the one who used to trace invisible patterns on your palm and say he was always calculating how to make you smile—is now this man. Inked. Strong. Carrying the weight of a sick toddler and a life that clearly didn’t go easy.

He rubs a hand over his face. “I recognized you the day you moved in. The way you hum when you’re unlocking your door... I didn’t say anything because… well, it’s been seven years. And Ellie was already sick yesterday. I figured I’d just… stay out of your way.” A small, tired smile. “Then tonight happened.”

Ellie makes a soft sound in her sleep, fingers tightening on your wrist.

You swallow. Nostalgia hits like the rain outside, steady, impossible to ignore. “You look… different. Good different. Stronger.”

He shrugs one shoulder, but his gaze stays on you. “Life does that. You look the same. Still sleepy-eyed. Still beautiful.” The last part slips out like he couldn’t stop it. He clears his throat. “Thank you. For coming. I didn’t know who else—”

“You don’t have to explain,” you say, calm again, but your heart is doing something complicated. “I’m glad I was here.”

The rain keeps tapping. Olivia Dean is still playing faintly from your apartment across the landing, the chorus drifting through the cracked door you left open. ’Cause I make it so easy to fall in love…

Jungkook hears it too. His eyes flick toward the sound, then back to you. Something soft and wondering crosses his face.

You close your apartment door behind you with a soft click that sounds way too loud in the quiet hallway. The rain is still going, softer now, like it’s decided to mind its own business. Your sweater smells faintly like Jungkook’s apartment—warm laundry and that faint baby-powder scent that clings to sick toddlers. You lean your back against the wood for a second, bag sliding down your arm to the floor with a dull thud.

“What the hell just happened?” you mutter to the empty room.

Your voice comes out half-laugh, half-groan. You drag a hand down your face, left thumb still smudged with blue paint, and shuffle straight to the fridge. The green iced tea is waiting—extra lemon, the slices floating like little life rafts. You take a long sip straight from the bottle because glasses feel like too much effort right now. The cold hits your teeth and wakes you up just enough to laugh again, this time properly.

Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook. With tattoos. And shoulders. And a daughter.

You sink onto the couch, the half-finished canvas staring at you like it knows you’re distracted. Seven years. You were eighteen and he was twenty, the kind of young where love felt like staying up until 3 a.m. sharing earbuds and laughing at nothing. Gentle. Easy in that teenage-end-of-adulthood way. It ended because life pulled you in different directions,your scholarship, his family stuff, both of you too soft and too scared to fight for it. No drama, no scars. Just… faded.

And now he has a kid.

Ellie.

You stare at the ceiling, tea bottle cold against your chest. “He has a daughter now,” you say out loud, testing how it sounds. It sounds ridiculous. And kind of… nice? No. Weird. Definitely weird. “Guess he got married. Or… something. People do that. Grow up. Have babies. Get tattoos that look really good—wait, no, brain, stop.”

A snort escapes you. You’re tired, nostalgic, and a little bit giddy in that confusing post-midnight way. The calm version of you wants to file this away neatly: helpful neighbor moment, done. The old crazy-happy part—the one that used to blast music and dance in socks—is already replaying the way his voice dropped when he said “You look the same. Still beautiful.”

You groan and reach for the half-eaten chocolate bar on the coffee table. Dark chocolate with caramel swirls. “You win some and you lose some,” you tell the chocolate like it’s your therapist. “He’s probably married. Or has a partner. Hot single dad with a sick kid at midnight? That’s someone’s whole fantasy. Not mine. I have shifts and paint and this tea that cost too much. Moving on.”

You take a big bite. The caramel sticks to your teeth. Nostalgia hits harder than expected—memories of him tracing patterns on your palm, calling you “lefty” in that soft voice, the way he used to hum along to whatever song you played even if he didn’t know the words. He looked different tonight. Stronger. Like life had pressed on him and he pressed back. The tattoos suited him. Made him look… safe. Capable. The kind of man who’d knock on a stranger’s door at midnight because his baby was sick.

You shake your head, laughing quietly at yourself. “Get it together. You’re a doctor. You helped a kid. That’s it. Tomorrow you’ll probably never see him again except awkward hallway nods.”

But your left wrist still feels warm where Ellie held it. And the song from earlier is stuck in your head, you hum a few bars, off-key on purpose, then switch to something louder and sillier just to shake the feeling. You end up dancing a little in the middle of the living room, socks slipping on the floor, chocolate in one hand, iced tea in the other, laughing because this is ridiculous and your heart is doing stupid fluttery things it has no business doing.

Eventually you collapse into bed, paint still on your hands, mind a messy swirl of fever checks, dark eyes, and the quiet fear in Jungkook’s voice when he talked about Ellie. Sleep comes fast, but it’s full of half-dreams: small hands, rain on windows, and a man who used to be a boy looking at you like seven years hadn’t happened at all.

The next day is a long shift—crying babies, worried parents, the usual chaos that keeps your hands busy and your mind mostly focused. Mostly. Every quiet moment your brain wanders back to 5C. Ellie’s flushed cheeks. Jungkook’s tired shoulders. The way he said your name like it still fit in his mouth.

By the time you get home it’s past nine at night. Your feet hurt. Your scrubs smell like hospital. You stopped at the 24-hour pharmacy on the way, picking up a bottle of children’s fever medicine, the good kind, the one with the little syringe for accurate dosing. You also grabbed a small pack of those honey-lemon cough drops that are gentle on tiny throats. Practical. Neighborly. Not because you couldn’t stop thinking about them. Definitely not.

You stand in front of 5C for a long minute, bag in hand, debating. Just leave it. Knock? No knock. Knocking feels like opening a door you’re not sure you want open. Leaving it feels… safe. Polite.

You crouch down, left hand steady, and set the small paper bag right against his door. A quick note on the back of a pharmacy receipt: For Ellie — fever reducer + gentle cough drops. Dose is on the box. Hope she’s feeling better. — 5D

You straighten up, brush your hands on your scrubs, and whisper to the door like an idiot, “Night, little one. Get better.”

Then you slip back into your apt, lock the door, and immediately go for the chocolate again. One square. Two. The green iced tea joins you on the couch while you put on the same song, volume low. You stare at the half-finished painting and try not to smile at how your heart feels lighter than it should after a twelve-hour shift.

“He has a daughter,” you remind yourself again, softer this time. “Probably married. Or dating someone really lucky. You’re just the nice doctor neighbor now.”

But the thought doesn’t land as heavy as it did last night. Instead it feels… curious and warm.

Two days slip by in a quiet haze of shifts, half-finished canvases, and the familiar comfort of green iced tea. You keep the volume low while you paint, the lyrics wrapping around thoughts you refuse to examine too closely.

You don’t see them. You tell yourself that’s fine. Normal, even.

Until the afternoon you decide you need new painting supplies.

The little art store two blocks from the building is your happy place—shelves of brushes, tubes of color that smell like possibility, the kind of calm that makes the hospital feel far away. You load your basket with cadmium yellow, a new set of brushes, and a heavy pad of thick watercolor paper that costs more than it should. By the time you step outside, the bag is digging into your left shoulder, your right hand balancing another smaller one. The sky is gray but not raining yet. Your stomach growls once, reminding you that skipping meals for extra sleep or a long bath is a habit that’s catching up to you.

You’re adjusting the strap when a voice comes from behind, low and familiar.

“Here—let me take that before it snaps your arm off.”

A hand reaches past you, gentle but sure, lifting the heavy bag from your shoulder. You turn, startled, and there he is.

Jungkook.

He looks different in daylight—black t-shirt stretched across broader shoulders, tattoos fully visible now, curling up both arms in bold, deliberate lines. A small silver chain rests against his collarbone. His hair is slightly messy, like he ran his hands through it too many times. In his other hand he holds a small shopping bag of his own—probably something for Ellie.

He offers a small, almost shy smile. “Hey. 5D.”

You blink, the weight gone from your shoulder leaving you oddly lighter. “Jungkook. Hi.”

“I saw you from across the street. That bag looked like it was winning.” He nods toward the art store. “Painting stuff?”

“Yeah. Watercolors. I… paint a little when I have time. Which isn’t often.” You rub your left shoulder absently, still processing how easily he just stepped in. “Thanks for the rescue. I always overestimate how much I can carry when I’m in there.”

He chuckles, the sound warm and low, nothing like the frantic tone from two nights ago. “No problem. Least I can do after you showed up at midnight like some kind of miracle doctor.” His eyes meet yours, direct and sincere. “Ellie’s doing a lot better. The medicine you left helped bring the fever down faster. She slept through the night. I… I can’t thank you enough. Really.”

You feel heat creep up your neck, a mix of professional pride and something softer. “I’m glad. Ear infections can sneak up fast on little ones. How’s she been since?”

“Grumpy but eating again. She keeps asking for the ‘nice lady with cold hands.’” He shifts the heavy bag to his other hand like it weighs nothing. “She’s two and a half going on thirty. Already has opinions about everything.”

You laugh despite yourself, the sound lighter than you expected. “Sounds about right for that age. They’re tiny dictators with the best hearts.”

There’s a small pause, comfortable but charged. People walk past on the sidewalk, carrying their own bags, living their own afternoons. Jungkook glances toward a restaurant just down the block—a cozy place with big windows and outdoor tables, the kind that always smells like fresh bread and herbs. The sign says “Luna’s Table” and you’ve heard coworkers rave about their food being stupidly good.

He clears his throat. “Look, I know it’s sudden, but… would you let me buy you lunch? As a proper thank you. They have crazy good pasta and salads here. Nothing fancy, but it’s honest food. My treat. You helped my daughter when I was losing my mind, It’s the least I can do.”

You hesitate, mouth opening on instinct to say no. You’re one of those people who would rather sink into a hot bath with music playing or steal an extra hour of sleep than sit down for a proper meal when time is tight. Your shift starts in a couple of hours. You already planned to skip lunch, maybe grab something quick later if you remembered.

But then Ellie’s voice cuts through the moment.

From behind Jungkook’s leg, a small head peeks out. She must have been standing there quietly the whole time, holding onto his jeans with one hand, her stuffed bear dangling from the other. Her cheeks are still a little pink from the leftover fever, but her eyes are bright and focused—on you.

“Nice lady,” she says, clear and serious for such a tiny person. She tugs Jungkook’s hand once. “Lunch. With nice lady.”

Jungkook looks down at her, surprised but softening instantly. “Ellie-ya, we don’t have to—”

She nods like the decision is already made, then looks straight at you with those big, trusting eyes. “Please? Appa says you make fevers go away. You come eat too.”

The words hit like a gentle nudge from the universe. You glance at the time on your phone. You do need to eat something real before the shift or you’ll be running on fumes and chocolate again. Saying no to a sick toddler who just asked so politely feels… impossible. Like it was written that you’d end up here.

You exhale a soft laugh, shaking your head at the absurdity and the warmth blooming in your chest. “Well… if Ellie’s asking, how can I say no? Lunch sounds good. But only if it’s quick—I have a shift starting soon and I’m terrible at remembering to eat when I get busy.”

Jungkook’s face lights up with quiet relief, the kind that makes the tattoos and the strong frame seem less intimidating and more… human. “Quick it is. Promise. And thank you. Again.”

The three of you walk the short distance to Luna’s Table. Jungkook carries your heavy bag without complaint, Ellie holding his free hand and occasionally glancing back at you like she’s making sure you’re still there. Inside, the restaurant is warm and inviting—wooden tables, soft lighting, the smell of garlic and fresh basil wrapping around you like a hug.

You slide into a booth across from him. Ellie climbs up beside her dad, bear in her lap, watching you with open curiosity.

Jungkook hands you a menu. “Their carbonara is ridiculous. Or the lemon chicken if you want something lighter. Whatever you want.”

You order the lemon chicken—something bright and easy—while he gets pasta for himself and a small kid’s portion of plain noodles with butter for Ellie. Conversation starts slow but flows easier than you expected.

“So… painting,” he says, nodding toward the bag he set beside the table. “You always had that creative side. I remember you doodling on napkins during lectures.”

You smile, a nostalgic flicker warming your cheeks. “Still do. It’s my way of unwinding. Hospital days can get heavy. What about you? Those tattoos are new. They suit you.”

He glances down at his arms, flexing one hand almost self-consciously. “Got them over the last few years. Each one means something. Life… got complicated after we lost touch. But they remind me I can carry things and still keep going.”

You nod, understanding more than you let on. The food arrives quickly. Ellie pokes at her noodles with a fork that’s too big for her, but she eats steadily, occasionally offering a piece of buttered noodle to her bear.

Jungkook watches you for a moment, then says quietly, “I didn’t expect to run into you like this. Or at all. But I’m glad. Really glad.”

You take a bite of the lemon chicken, and feel that pull again. The mature version of whatever you once had. Not the light teenage rush. Something deeper. Steadier. Like two adults who know how heavy life can get, but sitting here makes it feel lighter.

Ellie suddenly pushes a noodle toward you on her fork. “Try. Good.”

You lean in and take the bite she offers, making an exaggerated happy sound that makes her giggle. The sound is small but bright, cutting through the restaurant noise.

Jungkook’s eyes soften as he watches the exchange. “She doesn’t do that with just anyone.”

The meal passes too quickly—easy talk about shifts, his work from home in tech, how Ellie loves watching rain on the window.

When it’s time to go, Jungkook insists on paying, then carries your supplies all the way back to the building. Ellie waves at you with both hands as they head toward 5C.

You step into 5D, heart doing that confusing, fluttering thing again. Lunch. With your ex from seven years ago and his daughter. Because a toddler asked.

You laugh to yourself, already reaching for the iced tea, again.“This is getting ridiculous.”

But the smile stays longer than it should.

And for the first time in a long while, skipping a relaxing bath doesn’t feel like a sacrifice.

The lunch lingers in your mind longer than it should.

Not the food—though the lemon chicken really was stupidly good—but the way Jungkook carried your heavy supplies without making a big deal out of it. The easy way he listened when you mentioned a tough case from your shift last week. How Ellie kept sneaking glances at you over her noodles, like she was quietly adding you to her small list of important things.

You tell yourself it’s just nostalgia doing its thing, justlike... like old connections resurfacing because of a midnight fever scare and a random sidewalk meeting. Nothing more.

But two evenings later, you’re proven wrong again.

You come home from your shift exhausted, the kind of tired that makes your hand feel clumsy when you try to unlock your door, and all you want is a long, hot bath with music playing low and maybe one square of chocolate before sleep claims you. You’re already picturing it—steam, JVKE humming through the speaker, the calm version of you finally winning the day.

Then you hear it.

Soft crying from across the landing. is not dramatic, just the small, hiccuping sound of a toddler who’s had enough.

You pause, key halfway in the lock. The crying stops for a second, then starts again, quieter. A man’s voice murmurs something soothing—Jungkook. You can’t make out the words, but the tone is tired, patient, edged with worry.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you cross the landing and knock lightly on 5C.

The door opens almost immediately. Jungkook looks wrecked in the softest way—hair messy, t-shirt rumpled, one shoulder of it stained with what might be spit-up or tears. Ellie is in his arms, face buried in his neck, her small body still shaking with leftover sobs. Her eyes are puffy, nose running, and she’s clutching her bear like it’s the only thing keeping her together.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough. “Sorry if we’re loud. She’s been… off since the fever. Teething on top of everything, I think. Nothing’s working tonight.”

You don’t hesitate. “Can I come in for a minute?”

He steps aside without question.

Inside, the apartment is dimly lit, the cloud night-light glowing again. You set your bag down and wash your hands quickly in the kitchen sink out of habit. Ellie peeks at you from Jungkook’s shoulder, her crying slowing to sniffles when she recognizes you.

“Nice lady,” she mumbles, reaching one small hand toward you.

Your chest does something complicated. You take her hand gently, left thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Hi, Ellie. Rough night?”

She nods solemnly, then holds her bear out to you like an offering. “Bori sad too.”

You take the bear with both hands—your left one steady as always—and press a soft kiss to its worn head, the way you’ve learned little kids sometimes need. “There. Bori feels better now. See?”

Ellie watches with wide eyes, then leans forward, arms out. Jungkook transfers her to you without a word, and suddenly you’re holding a warm, sniffly toddler who tucks her face into your neck like she belongs there. She smells like baby shampoo and faint medicine.

Jungkook rubs the back of his neck, watching the two of you. “You’re good at this. Really good. I’ve read every book and I still feel like I’m guessing half the time.”

You sway gently with Ellie, the motion automatic from years of pediatric work. “Books help, but sometimes they just need to feel safe. She’s had a lot this week—fever, new teeth, new neighbor showing up at midnight.” You smile softly. “She’s allowed to be overwhelmed.”

He exhales a quiet laugh. “Yeah. We both are.”

Ellie’s sobs taper off completely as you hum a low, wordless tune—the same melody that’s been stuck in your head for days. She relaxes against you, small fingers playing with the collar of your scrubs. The calm version of you stays steady, but that old spark of crazy-happy flickers again, quiet joy at how easily she trusts.

Jungkook leans against the counter, arms crossed, tattoos shifting with the movement. “I keep thinking about that lunch. How you said yes even though you looked like you’d rather be anywhere else. Ellie basically guilted you into it.”

“She’s very persuasive,” you say, still swaying. “And the food was worth it. I usually skip meals when I’m tired—prefer a bath or sleep. But… it was nice. Really nice.”

His eyes linger on you a beat longer than necessary. “It was. For me too.” A pause. “Listen, I know you just got home and you’re probably dead on your feet. But if you’re not in a hurry… stay for a bit? I can make you that green iced tea you seem to live on. Extra lemon. I noticed the slices when you were here the other night.”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised. “You noticed that?”

“I notice a lot of things,” he says simply, no flirtation, just honest.

The words land soft but heavy. Mature. Like he’s not playing games anymore—he’s a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to say the small truths out loud. The way life hit him hard enough to leave tattoos and tired eyes. The way you’ve both changed but somehow still fit in the quiet moments.

Ellie makes a small, contented sound against your neck, her breathing slowing.

You nod. “Tea sounds good. Just for a little while. Then I really should soak in the tub before I pass out.”

He moves around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, slicing lemons with the kind of care that says he’s used to doing things precisely. You settle on the couch with Ellie, who has gone almost completely limp, trusting you to hold her while her dad works.

When he brings the glass over—perfectly sweetened, extra lemon floating on top—he sits on the other end of the couch, giving you space but not distance. The tea is exactly right. Cold and refreshing in a way that cuts through your exhaustion.

“Thank you,” you murmur after the first sip. “For this.”

Jungkook watches you over the rim of his own water glass. and glances at Ellie, then back at you, voice lower. “I thought about you a lot after you moved in. Before the fever night. Wondered if you’d remember me. If you’d want to.”

You take another sip, the tart lemon waking you up just enough. “I did remember. Eventually. You look… different. Stronger. Like you’ve carried a lot and came out the other side.”

“I have,” he admits quietly. “Ellie’s mom—my brother’s wife—passed with him in an accident. I became her guardian overnight. It changed everything. Made me grow up fast. The tattoos… some are for them. Some are for her. Reminders that I can keep going.”

The confession sits between you, honest and raw but not heavy in a way that demands fixing. You reach over and squeeze his hand once—left hand, paint still faintly under your nails. “You’re doing it. She’s lucky to have you.”

He turns his palm up, fingers brushing yours. The touch is simple. Steady. “And now you’re here. Across the landing. Making fevers go away and letting my daughter guilt you into lunch.” A small smile. “It feels… easy. In a way I didn’t expect. Like it doesn’t have to be complicated this time.”

Your heart does a slow, deliberate flip. Not the giddy teenage rush. Something deeper. Warmer. The kind of mature pull where two people who know life isn’t always gentle still make the hard parts softer just by existing in the same space.

Ellie stirs slightly, murmuring “nice lady” in her sleep before settling again.

You don’t pull your hand away.

The tea is cold by the time you finish it. The bath can wait a little longer tonight.

Because right now, sitting on his couch with a sleeping toddler in your arms and the man you once loved looking at you like you make everything simpler, falling feels less like a risk and more like the most natural thing in the world.

Weeks pass in the gentle rhythm that only new routines can create.

Mornings start to feel different. You still wake up to the soft hum of your alarm, still reach for the green iced tea first thing—extra lemon slices always ready in the fridge—but now there’s the occasional sound of small footsteps and a low, patient voice from across the landing. Ellie has taken to “patrolling” the hallway some mornings, her bear tucked under one arm, calling out “nice lady?” in her tiny, determined voice if your door opens even a crack.

Jungkook always apologizes when he catches her, but his eyes smile more than his mouth does these days.

One Saturday morning, three weeks after the midnight fever night, you’re painting in the living room with the window cracked open. The canvas is finally coming together—a rainy street scene with warm window lights bleeding into the gray. Your left hand moves steadily, smudging just enough to feel right. Olivia plays low in the background, the same songs looping because it matches the quiet ache in your chest you can’t quite name yet.

A knock interrupts the brushstrokes.

You open the door to find Jungkook holding two paper cups and Ellie standing beside him in a bright yellow sweater, bear dangling from her fingers.

“Delivery,” he says, lifting one cup. “Green iced tea. Extra lemon. I asked the café guy to make it exactly how you like it—told him it was for the doctor who saved my daughter from a meltdown.”

Ellie holds up her own small cup with both hands. “Juice. For me.”

You laugh, the sound lighter than it’s been in days, and step aside to let them in. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” Jungkook replies simply. He sets the cups on your table, careful not to disturb the paint supplies. “Also, Ellie insisted we check if you were painting today. She’s been talking about ‘colors on paper’ since the art store.”

Ellie toddles straight to your canvas, stopping a safe distance away like she knows not to touch. She points with one small finger. “Pretty rain. Like outside.”

You crouch beside her, left hand still holding the brush. “Yeah, baby. It’s supposed to feel like the rain we had last week. Want to see how I mix the gray?”

She nods solemnly. You let her watch as you blend colors on the palette, explaining in simple words. Jungkook leans against the wall, arms crossed, tattoos shifting as he watches the two of you. There’s something soft and wondering in his expression—like he’s still getting used to how naturally you fit into their mornings.

Later, while Ellie sits on the floor carefully arranging your spare brushes by size (her new favorite game), Jungkook helps you clean a few palettes in the sink. His shoulder brushes yours once, warm and solid.

“You’re calmer than I remember,” he says quietly, not looking at you. “Back then you were all bright chaos—dancing in the dorm kitchen at 2 a.m., dragging me to late-night food stalls. Now… you seem settled. In a good way.”

You rinse a brush under the water, left hand steady. “Life taught me to slow down. Long shifts do that. But the crazy-happy part still comes out when I have time. I danced around the living room last week after a good painting session. Almost knocked over the tea.”

He smiles, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’d like to see that sometime.”

The words hang between you, easy and heavy at the same time.

The weeks keep unfolding like that—small, overlapping moments that build without anyone forcing them.

Some evenings Jungkook knocks with leftovers because “I made too much again.” Ellie always brings her bear and insists on sitting next to you on the couch. You start keeping extra chocolate in a bowl on the table because she’s discovered she likes the caramel kind “a little bit.”

One Thursday night after your shift, you come home to find a small package outside your door: new lemon slices pre-cut in a container and a note in Jungkook’s neat handwriting. For your iced tea stash. Ellie helped pick the lemons. — 5C

You stand in the hallway smiling like an idiot, the calm version of you melting into something warmer.

Another afternoon, you run into them at the small park nearby. Ellie is on the swings, Jungkook pushing her gently. When she spots you, she demands “push with Appa!” so you end up on one side, Jungkook on the other, both of you laughing as Ellie squeals with delight. Her laughter is small and bright, cutting through the autumn air like the best kind of song.

Later, sitting on a bench while Ellie collects leaves, Jungkook leans back, stretching his inked arms along the backrest.

“I think about you a lot,” he admits, voice low enough that only you can hear. “Not just because you’re across the landing. Because you make things feel… easier. I’ve been carrying a lot since my brother and his wife—Ellie’s parents—were gone. The guilt, the fear I’m not enough for her. But when you’re here, even just for tea or a walk, it feels lighter. Like I can breathe.”

You look at him, really look—the strong line of his jaw, the tattoos that tell stories he hasn’t fully shared yet, the quiet strength in how he watches his daughter. “You are enough, Jungkook. She knows it. I see it every time she reaches for you.”

He turns his head, eyes meeting yours. “And you? Do you know how easy it is to fall with you? Not the young, messy way we were before. This feels… mature. Real. Like two people who’ve seen harder days still choosing the soft ones together.”

“I feel it too,” you say softly. “It’s scary how easy it is. But good scary.”

Ellie runs back then, arms full of colorful leaves, demanding you both admire her collection. The moment breaks, but the warmth stays.

That night, after they’ve gone back to 5C and you’re alone with your canvas and iced tea, you put on Olivia Dean again. The lyrics feel different now, less like a memory and more like a promise.

You dance a little in the living room, socks sliding, that old crazy-happy spark flaring brighter. Laughing at yourself because this—neighbor knocks, toddler leaf collections, quiet confessions on park benches—is becoming your new normal.

The weeks had settled into something quietly beautiful, but one Thursday evening cracked it open wider.

You had come home from a long shift, the kind that left your shoulders tight and your mind replaying tiny patients’ faces. Instead of heading straight for the bath like usual, you found yourself knocking on 5C after hearing Ellie’s soft giggles mixed with Jungkook’s low laughter drifting into the hallway. The door opened to warm light and the smell of something simple cooking—ramen with extra vegetables, probably.

Ellie spotted you first and ran over on unsteady legs, arms up. You scooped her up without thinking, left hand supporting her back as she tucked her face into your neck like it was the most natural place in the world.

Jungkook stood by the stove, wooden spoon in hand, watching the two of you with that soft, wondering look that had become more frequent lately. “Perfect timing. We were just about to eat. Stay?”

You did.

After dinner—Ellie proudly feeding her bear a single noodle—Jungkook put her to bed while you cleared the table. When he came back, the apartment felt quieter, the cloud night-light casting gentle shadows. He grabbed two glasses of your favorite green iced tea (he’d started keeping lemons just for you) and nodded toward the couch.

“Sit with me?” His voice was lower than usual, almost hesitant. “There’s… stuff I’ve been wanting to tell you. About the years since we lost touch. About how I ended up here. With her.”

You settled beside him, close enough that your knee brushed his. The calm version of you stayed steady, but your heart picked up pace. “Only if you want to. No pressure.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, tattoos shifting with the movement. For a moment he looked exactly like the shy twenty-year-old you once knew—eyes down, shoulders slightly rounded—before he straightened and met your gaze.

“We broke up… it was gentle. You went off for your scholarship, I was figuring out my own path. I thought we’d both just grow into different people and that was okay. But life didn’t stay simple.”

He took a slow breath, fingers tracing the rim of his glass.

“My brother—Seojun—and his wife Jiyoon… they were everything to me. They had Ellie when she was just a baby. I was there the day she was born. Held her when she was ten minutes old and she grabbed my finger like she already knew me. I became ‘Appa’s brother’ to her. The fun uncle who showed up with silly gifts and helped with night feeds when they needed a break.”

His voice caught for a second. You reached over and rested your left hand on his arm, quiet support. He covered it with his own without looking away.

“Fourteen months ago… there was an accident. Car crash on the highway. They didn’t make it. I got the call while I was in the middle of a work meeting. One minute I was reviewing code, the next I was Ellie’s only family. Their will was clear—they wanted me to raise her. No hesitation on paper. But in real life?”

He let out a shaky laugh that didn’t quite hide the pain. “I was terrified. Twenty-seven years old, single, running a small tech company from home, still figuring out how to be an adult myself. I spent the first week after the funeral sitting on the floor of their apartment with Ellie in my lap, both of us crying, and I didn’t know how to explain they weren’t coming back. I called lawyers. Looked into other options. Thought maybe my parents or a more stable family could do it better.”

You squeezed his arm gently. “That’s human, Jungkook. Anyone would doubt themselves.”

“Yeah… but I couldn’t do it. The second I tried to imagine handing her over, something in me broke. She was already mine in every way that mattered. From that first hospital day. From every time Seojun called me at 3 a.m. saying ‘Jungkook-ah, come meet your niece.’ I looked at her tiny face—those eyes that are exactly my brother’s—and I knew. I had to grow up right then. No more shy kid calculating risks from the sidelines, and I became her dad. Officially. Legally. Every single day since.”

He paused, voice dropping softer. “It changed me. I got the tattoos—some for Seojun and Jiyoon, some for Ellie, reminders that I can carry heavy things and still keep moving. I learned how to do night feeds, doctor visits, toddler tantrums. I read every parenting book I could find. But some days… I still feel like that shy teenager you knew. The one who got nervous holding your hand because he didn’t want to mess it up. When Ellie reaches for me and calls me Appa, part of me still panics that I’m not enough. That I’m faking this whole ‘strong dad’ thing.”

You turned toward him fully, your left hand sliding up to cup his cheek. The touch was gentle, paint still faintly under your nails from earlier that day. “You’re not faking it. I see you with her. The way you carry her when she’s tired, the way you notice every little thing she needs. That’s real maturity, Jungkook. Not perfect, but real. And the shy part? It’s still there because you’re still you. I like both versions.”

He leaned into your palm, eyes closing for a moment like the words were something he’d been waiting to hear. When he opened them again, they were brighter, more open.

“Meeting you again—right across the landing—felt like the universe giving me a second chance at something soft. I recognized you the first day you moved in. The way you hum when you’re unlocking your door, that left-handed grip on your bags. I didn’t say anything because I was scared. Scared I’d complicate your life with a ready-made family and all my baggage. But then Ellie got sick and you showed up at midnight like it was nothing. And every week since… you make it feel easy. Being a dad. Being around someone who sees the shy parts and the strong parts and doesn’t run.”

The air between you felt thicker now, charged with years and new honesty. Not the light, teenage love from before—this was heavier, deeper, two adults who had been shaped by loss and responsibility choosing each other anyway.

You smiled softly, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “You make it easy too, you know. Coming home to knocks and tea and a little girl who thinks I’m magic because I made her fever go away. I used to skip meals for baths or sleep, but lately I find myself looking forward to these moments more than the quiet ones alone.”

Ellie made a small sleep sound from her room, the monitor on the table crackling softly. Jungkook glanced toward it, then back at you, his hand still over yours.

“I’m not rushing anything,” he said quietly. “But I needed you to know the whole story. How I became her father. How I grew up overnight even though sometimes I still feel like that nervous kid who liked you too much to say it right the first time.”

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his for a brief moment. The touch was simple. Warm. Full of the mature kind of promise.

“Thank you for telling me,” you whispered. “I’m glad it was you across the landing. Both versions of you.”

The moment stretched, heavy with everything he had shared and everything still unspoken. Then his hand came up slowly, fingers sliding into your hair at the nape of your neck, careful, like he was asking permission with every touch.

“Can I…?” he whispered, voice rough and low, the shy teenager peeking through the strong man he had become.

You answered by closing the small distance.

The first kiss was soft. Tentative in the way only something truly wanted can be. His lips brushed yours once, testing, then pressed again with quiet certainty. There was no rush, no explosion of young passion like the hurried kisses you once shared at twenty and eighteen. This was slower, deeper—two people who had carried years of life pressing their mouths together like they were finally allowing themselves to breathe the same air again.

He tasted like green tea and something warmer underneath. His hand stayed gentle in your hair while the other found your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer on the couch. You melted into it, left hand sliding from his cheek to the back of his neck, fingers brushing the short hairs there. The kiss lingered, turning from sweet to something more intent, mouths moving in a rhythm that felt both brand new and achingly familiar.

When you finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, your foreheads touched again. His eyes were dark, lashes low, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the night you showed up for Ellie,” he admitted quietly. “Maybe since the day you moved in. But I kept telling myself not to complicate things.”

You let out a soft laugh, the crazy-happy spark flickering warmly in your chest. “You’re not complicating anything. You’re… making it feel right.”

He kissed you once more, quick and soft this time, like he couldn’t help himself, then settled back against the couch, keeping your hand in his. The silence was comfortable, the kind that didn’t need filling right away.

After a moment, you squeezed his fingers. “Since you told me your story… I should tell you mine. The parts after we lost touch. It wasn’t all smooth for me either.”

Jungkook turned toward you fully, giving you his complete attention the way he always did—focused, patient, like nothing else in the world mattered right now. “I want to hear it. All of it.”

You took a breath, staring at your joined hands. Your left thumb traced one of his tattoos absentmindedly.

“College… it broke me for a while. I thought leaving was the right decision. The scholarship felt like this big, bright future. But the program was brutal. I was eighteen, away from home, surrounded by people who seemed so much more prepared than me. The first two years I questioned everything. There were nights I cried in the dorm bathroom because I was convinced I had made the worst decision of my life. That I wasn’t smart enough, strong enough.”

You paused, the memories still sharp even years later. “Then came the surgical rotation. We had to work with real cadavers—cutting open actual flesh, seeing everything up close. I threw up after the first class. Actually threw up in the sink while the professor was still talking. I locked myself in a stall and thought, ‘This is it. I’m not made for medicine. I should quit and do something easier.’ I felt so weak. So unprepared for how heavy real life was going to be.”

Jungkook’s thumb stroked the back of your hand, steady and warm. He didn’t interrupt, just listened with those dark eyes that made you feel seen.

“But then… pediatrics happened. I got placed in the children’s ward during my third year. The first time I helped a young mother on the street—her baby was choking on something small, right outside the hospital. I ran over, did the maneuvers I’d only practiced on dummies, and the baby started breathing again. The mom hugged me so tight she was crying. That moment… it clicked. This was where I belonged. Helping the smallest patients, the ones who couldn’t speak for themselves yet.”

A small smile tugged at your lips as happier memories surfaced. “There was this one baby, maybe six months old, who had the tiniest toothless smile. I was having the worst day—another sleepless night, doubting everything again. I picked him up for a check-up and he just grinned at me with those gummy gums, like the sun had come out. That smile fixed something in me. I walked out of that room knowing I was on the right path again. Pediatrics wasn’t just a rotation. It became my home. The place where the hard parts felt worth it because the little wins were so pure.”

You looked up at him, voice softer. “So yeah… I had my breakdowns. The throwing up after surgery, the nights I wanted to quit. But I found my way back. Just like you did with Ellie. We both grew up the hard way, but we ended up here.”

Jungkook lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, right over the faint paint smudge that never quite washed away. “I’m proud of you. For staying when it was ugly. For finding the toothless smiles that kept you going.” His voice dropped, warm and certain. “And I’m really glad those paths brought you back across the landing from me.”

The kiss that followed was slower, deeper than the first. Less tentative, more sure. His hand cupped your jaw while yours rested against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. It wasn’t rushed or desperate—it was the kind of kiss that said “I see all of you, the hard parts and the soft ones, and I’m still here.”

When you pulled apart this time, you were both smiling, a little breathless, the crazy-happy spark in you dancing brighter.

Ellie’s monitor let out a small murmur. Jungkook glanced at it, then back at you with a quiet laugh. “She has perfect timing.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, the weight comfortable and right. “She really does.”

The night stretched on with more quiet talk and a few more soft kisses, the kind that felt like promises rather than endings. Outside, the city hummed its usual song. Inside 5C, two people who had once been young and uncertain were finding each other again—this time as the adults they had fought to become.

Jungkook started texting you in the mornings, short messages about Ellie’s latest discovery (a new word for “bird” or how she tried to feed her bear cereal). You replied with photos of your half-finished canvases or quick updates from your shift breaks. Just steady threads pulling you closer across the landing.

One Tuesday evening you came home to find him waiting outside your door with a small container of soup. “Ellie made me cook extra. She kept saying ‘for the nice lady.’” You invited him in. You ate together at your tiny table while music played softly in the background. He asked about the songs you loved lately; you asked about the tech projects that kept him working from home. Conversation wandered easily from silly childhood stories to the small frustrations of adult life. When he left, he brushed a soft kiss against your cheek at the door — nothing more, but it lingered.

The next weekend Ellie dragged both of you to the park again. She insisted on holding one of your hands and one of his, swinging between you like a tiny bridge. Jungkook caught your eye over her head and smiled — that slow, warm smile that made your stomach flip. Later, while Ellie chased leaves, the two of you sat on the bench talking about favorite movies from years ago. He remembered the ones you used to quote; you remembered how he used to hum along even when he didn’t know the words. When Ellie got tired, he carried her home on his shoulders and you walked beside them, the three of you moving like it was the most natural thing.

Some nights he knocked with whatever he had cooked that day, and you ended up on his couch watching whatever cartoon Ellie demanded before bed. She always crawled into your lap halfway through, falling asleep against your chest while Jungkook watched the two of you with quiet eyes. You started staying longer after she was tucked in — just talking, sharing small pieces of your days, letting kisses happen naturally when the moment felt right. Soft presses at first, then deeper ones that left you both a little breathless and smiling against each other’s mouths.

One rainy Thursday you had a rare afternoon off. Jungkook suggested a short walk to the nearby market because Ellie wanted “pretty fruits.” You went along, ending up carrying bags while he kept one arm loosely around your shoulders to shield you from the drizzle. At home you helped chop vegetables for dinner, shoulders brushing as you worked side by side in his kitchen. Ellie “helped” by stacking blocks on the floor and announcing each one’s name. When dinner was ready the three of you ate together like it had always been this way — easy laughter, Ellie stealing bites from your plate, Jungkook’s foot gently nudging yours under the table.

He began walking you to your door after evenings together, stealing one last kiss that tasted like the dessert you had shared. You started leaving small notes on his doorstep when your shifts ran late — silly drawings or reminders to rest. He replied with photos of Ellie’s latest artwork dedicated “to nice lady.”

One evening after putting Ellie to bed, you stayed on his couch longer than usual. The conversation turned quieter, more intimate. He told you about a tough work call that day; you shared a story about a little patient who had made you laugh until you cried. The space between you disappeared slowly until you were curled against his side, his arm around you, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your shoulder.

When he kissed you that night it felt different — slower, more intentional. His hands framed your face like you were something precious he was still learning how to hold. You kissed him back with the same care, exploring the way his breath hitched when you tugged gently at his hair, the way his body relaxed under your touch. There was heat building, but no rush. Just the steady discovery of each other again — the man he had become and the woman you were now.

Afterward you stayed tangled together on the couch, trading soft words and quieter kisses until the monitor crackled with Ellie’s sleepy murmur. He walked you across the landing with his hand in yours, pressing one final kiss to your forehead before you slipped inside your own apartment.

The next morning he sent a photo of Ellie holding up a drawing of three stick figures holding hands. The message simply read: She says this is us.

You smiled at your phone for a long minute, heart full in a way that felt brand new and deeply familiar at the same time.

You weren’t calling it dating. You weren’t labeling anything.

But every shared meal, every walk with Ellie between you, every kiss that grew longer and surer, every quiet night talking until the hours slipped away — it was building something real. Something steady. Something that made coming home feel like the best part of the day.

The call came on a quiet Wednesday afternoon when you were off shift and halfway through sketching a new canvas.

Jungkook’s voice on the phone sounded tight, the kind of controlled panic that only parents learn. “Hey… I’m really sorry to ask this, but my biggest client just moved our meeting up by three hours and it’s in-person downtown. My usual sitter is out sick and my mom can’t get here in time. Ellie’s been fine all morning but she’s still a little clingy. Would you… could you watch her for a couple of hours? I’ll be back before dinner.”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Of course. Bring her over.”

Ten minutes later he appeared at your door with Ellie on his hip, a small backpack slung over his shoulder, and gratitude written all over his face. Ellie reached for you immediately, bear clutched in one fist.

“You sure this is okay?” he asked, setting the bag down. “I know it’s last minute.”

“It’s more than okay,” you said, taking Ellie from him. She settled against you like she belonged there, small head resting on your shoulder. “Go handle your meeting. We’ll be fine.”

He lingered for a second longer than necessary, eyes moving between you and his daughter. Then he leaned in, pressed a quick, soft kiss to your temple, and another to Ellie’s hair. “Thank you. Text me if anything comes up. I’ll hurry back.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and suddenly it was just you and Ellie in your apartment.

She wasn’t difficult. She was curious.

For the first hour she followed you around like a tiny shadow while you finished your sketch, pointing at colors and demanding names for each one. You let her sit on your lap at the table and “help” by handing you crayons, her serious little face concentrating hard on every movement. When she got bored of that, you pulled out paper and let her scribble her own pictures — mostly circles and wobbly lines she proudly declared were “birds and appa and you.”

Lunch was simple: chopped fruit and the yogurt she liked. She fed herself with surprising focus, occasionally offering a strawberry to you or her bear. Afterward you read her two books on the couch, doing all the voices until she giggled so hard she nearly fell off your lap.

Then came the part that undid you both a little.

Ellie started rubbing her eyes, the clinginess from earlier returning. Instead of fighting it, you carried her to the couch, wrapped her in the soft throw blanket you kept there, and hummed the same low tune you’d used the night of her fever. She curled into your side, bear tucked under her chin, one small hand fisting the front of your shirt like she was making sure you wouldn’t disappear.

You stayed there, stroking her back in slow circles, watching her lashes flutter and finally still as she drifted off. The apartment was quiet except for her soft breathing and the distant sound of rain starting again outside.

That was when Jungkook came back.

He let himself in with the spare key you’d given him the week before (just in case, you’d both said). You looked up from the couch and caught the exact moment his expression changed.

He stopped in the doorway, bag still in hand, eyes softening as he took in the scene: you on the couch with his daughter asleep against your chest, her tiny fist still curled in your shirt, your hand gently resting on her back. The half-finished drawings scattered on the table. The blanket you’d pulled over both of you. The way the afternoon light came through the window and painted everything golden and soft.

He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there watching, something raw and wondering crossing his face — like he was seeing a version of life he had quietly imagined in the hardest months after becoming Ellie’s dad, but never fully let himself believe could happen.

A life with someone who didn’t just help, but fit.

Someone who made the ordinary afternoons feel like they belonged to all three of you.

You offered him a small, gentle smile over Ellie’s head. He crossed the room quietly and knelt beside the couch, one hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from his daughter’s cheek. His fingers lingered, then moved to rest lightly over yours where they lay on Ellie’s back.

“She went down easy?” he whispered.

“After stories and strawberries,” you murmured back. “She drew you a bird. It’s on the table.”

He glanced at the drawings, then back at you. His eyes were bright, a little glassy at the edges. “You look good like this,” he said, voice so low it barely carried. “Holding her. Being here. It makes me think about… all the nights I stayed up wondering if I was doing this right. If she would ever have someone else who just… knew how to be with her like this.”

You turned your hand palm-up under his, lacing your fingers together. “She has you. And right now she has both of us. That’s enough.”

He leaned in and kissed you — slow, grateful, the kind of kiss that carried weeks of building closeness and the weight of everything he wasn’t saying yet. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a moment, Ellie sleeping peacefully between you.

“Thank you,” he whispered against your lips. “For today. For all the days lately.”

You kissed him once more, softer this time, then glanced down at the little girl who had somehow become the center of everything.

“She’s out cold,” you said with a small smile. “Want to move her to the bed so we can sit properly?”

He nodded, carefully lifting Ellie into his arms. You followed him to your bedroom, watching as he laid her down and tucked the blanket around her with practiced care. When he straightened, he pulled you close again, arms wrapping around your waist, chin resting on top of your head.

Jungkook held you like he was afraid the moment might slip away if he let go. The wordless thing you had been building felt less like something happening to you and more like something you were both choosing — one shared afternoon, one sleepy toddler, one steady kiss at a time

The following Saturday afternoon found the three of you in Jungkook’s apartment again, the kind of lazy weekend where time moved slower.

Ellie had been playing on the living room floor with her blocks, building lopsided towers and knocking them down with delighted squeals. You were sitting cross-legged nearby, helping her stack the bright blue ones while Jungkook worked on his laptop at the table, occasionally glancing over with a soft smile. The rain from earlier had cleared, leaving golden light spilling through the windows.

When Ellie’s tower finally collapsed for the fifth time, she let out a dramatic little huff and toddled straight toward you instead of her father.

“Up,” she demanded, arms raised.

You opened your arms without thinking and lifted her onto your lap. She settled immediately, tiny hands grabbing fistfuls of your shirt like she was anchoring herself there. Her fingers twisted the fabric tight, refusing to loosen even when Jungkook stood up and walked over, crouching in front of you both with an amused grin.

“Hey, Ellie-ya,” he said gently, holding his own arms out. “Come to Appa? Let’s build another tower together.”

Ellie shook her head once, burying her face against your chest. Her grip on your shirt only tightened, small knuckles turning white. “No. Stay.”

Jungkook laughed softly, the sound warm and light, but you caught the way his eyes flickered — something deeper flashing across his face before he masked it with another chuckle. “Alright, guess she’s made her choice today.”

He sat down beside you on the floor instead, close enough that his knee pressed against yours. Ellie peeked out from your shirt just long enough to give him a triumphant little smile, then went right back to clutching you, her whole small body relaxing like this was exactly where she wanted to be.

You rubbed slow circles on her back, murmuring nonsense about the colors of the blocks. Ellie listened for a moment, then lifted her head, looked straight at you with those big dark eyes, and said clearly:

“Y/N.”

Your breath caught.

She had never used your name before — always “nice lady” or nothing at all. Now it came out simple and certain, like she had been practicing it in her head and decided it fit.

“Y/N,” she repeated, patting your chest with one hand while the other stayed firmly twisted in your shirt. “Stay.”

Jungkook went very still beside you. The laugh he let out this time was quieter, almost breathless. “Well… that’s new.”

You felt warmth bloom across your cheeks, but you didn’t pull away. Instead you pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Ellie’s head. “Okay, sweetheart. I’m staying right here.”

From that moment something shifted inside you without you fully realizing it.

You started doing little things naturally, the way you had once imagined you might if you ever became a mother someday. Small adjustments you didn’t even notice you were making.

When Ellie got fussy later that evening, you instinctively rocked her in the exact rhythm that always calmed the babies at the hospital. You hummed the same soft tune while preparing her snack, cutting the fruit into the tiny pieces she liked best. You wiped her hands and face with the warm cloth Jungkook handed you, but you did it with the gentle thoroughness you used on your tiniest patients — careful, patient, full of quiet affection.

You didn’t think about it. It just felt right.

But Jungkook noticed everything.

He watched from the kitchen while you helped Ellie wash her hands at the sink, your body angled protectively so she wouldn’t slip. He saw the way you automatically checked her forehead with the back of your fingers when she yawned, the same way you’d done the night of her fever. He caught how you rearranged the cushions on the couch so she could lean against them comfortably while you read her a story, your voice soft and engaged like nothing else in the world mattered more than this moment.

Each small thing undid him in a way he hadn’t known was possible.

He had spent so long being the strong one — the one who had to figure everything out alone after the accident, the one who carried the weight of becoming a father overnight. He thought he had accepted that this was his life now: just him and Ellie against the world.

But seeing you slip so effortlessly into the role — not forcing it, not performing it, just being there with that natural care — hit him somewhere deep and tender he hadn’t let himself feel before. It wasn’t just attraction anymore. It was devotion, sudden and strong, the kind that made his chest ache in the best possible way.

Later, after Ellie had finally fallen asleep in her bed (still clutching the corner of the blanket you had tucked around her), Jungkook pulled you into the hallway just outside her room. He backed you gently against the wall, hands framing your face as he looked at you like you were the most precious thing he had ever seen.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion. “Watching you with her today… the way she reached for you first. The way she said your name like it was already hers. And then you just… you took care of her like you’ve been doing it forever.”

He kissed you then — deeper than usual, more intense, like he was pouring every unspoken feeling into it. His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him as if he needed to feel you there, solid and real.

When he pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours. “I’m falling so hard for you. Harder than I thought I could. You make this feel possible — all of it. Being her dad, being with someone, having this kind of life. I didn’t know I could want it this much until I saw you with her today.”

You smiled against his lips, fingers threading through his hair. “She chose me today. I think I’m choosing both of you right back.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, full of that new layer of devotion that made every touch feel heavier with meaning. His hands stayed on you like he couldn’t bear to let go, like he was already promising silently to hold onto this — onto you — with everything he had.

Jungkook was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching the two of you with that soft look that had become constant lately. “There’s a little parents’ event at Ellie’s daycare this Friday. It’s just a short show — the toddlers do a simple dance and sing a couple songs. Nothing fancy, but… she’s been practicing the moves every day. Would you come with us?”

Ellie immediately dropped her block and clapped her hands. “Y/N come! Dance with me!”

You laughed, heart doing a silly little flip at how naturally she said your name now. “I’d love to.”

The daycare parents’ event turned out to be a little bigger than Jungkook had first described.

“It’s not just the toddlers dancing,” he explained the night before while you were both sitting on his couch after Ellie went to bed. “There’s a small reception afterward with photos and snacks. A few parents dress up a bit — nothing crazy, but nicer than everyday clothes. I was thinking… maybe we could too? For Ellie.”

You agreed without overthinking it.

Friday afternoon you came straight from your shift and changed into something a step above your usual post-work comfort. A soft cream-colored blouse with delicate buttons, tucked into high-waisted dark jeans that made your legs look longer. You added a simple gold necklace and light makeup — just enough to feel put-together. When you stepped across the landing, Jungkook opened the door already dressed.

He looked good. Really good.

A charcoal button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled once to show a hint of his tattoos, paired with well-fitted black trousers and polished shoes. The shirt hugged his shoulders in a way that reminded you exactly how strong he had become over the years. His hair was styled neatly, a little effort put in, and he smelled faintly of the cologne he saved for important days.

Ellie was dressed in her favorite yellow sun shirt, but Jungkook had added a soft tulle skirt over her leggings and tiny white shoes that made her look like a proper little performer. She twirled the second she saw you, skirt flaring out.

“You both look nice,” you said, unable to hide your smile.

Jungkook’s eyes swept over you appreciatively. “So do you. Ready?”

The three of you arrived at the daycare looking every bit the picture of a young family. Jungkook carried Ellie on his hip at first, then set her down so she could walk between you, holding one of your hands and one of his. You had brought a small bag with extra wipes and a spare shirt for her, just in case. Jungkook had remembered her favorite snack and a water bottle.

The gymnasium was decorated with more balloons and fairy lights than last time. Parents were dressed up in their own versions of “nice but realistic” — button-downs, pretty blouses, dresses that weren’t too formal. No one was in a full suit or gown, but everyone had made an effort.

Ellie’s class performed again, the same adorable chaotic dance. She kept glancing at you and Jungkook in the front row, waving every time the music paused. When the song ended and the kids ran to their families, Ellie sprinted straight to you again.

This time she didn’t just reach for you — she launched herself.

You caught her, laughing as her tiny hands grabbed your blouse. The fabric wrinkled under her grip, but you didn’t care. She buried her face in your neck, legs wrapping around your waist.

A couple standing nearby smiled warmly.

“Oh, she’s so attached to her mom,” the woman said. “Look at that hug! You two must be so proud of how far she’s come since starting here.”

Jungkook didn’t miss a beat.

“We are,” he said smoothly, stepping closer so his arm could slide around your waist, hand resting just above where Ellie’s legs were wrapped. “She’s been practicing every single day at home. Couldn’t be prouder.”

You opened your mouth to gently correct the assumption, but Jungkook’s fingers gave a light squeeze on your side — a silent let it be. His touch was warm through your blouse, steady and reassuring.

The fluffy feeling hit you again, harder this time.

Oh my God. He just called us “we” like it’s the most natural thing.

This man — tattoos, strong shoulders, button-down that fits him way too well — is standing here in nice trousers, arm around me, while our… while Ellie clings to my blouse like I’m hers.

People are looking at us like we’re a real little family. Me. In my slightly-fancy blouse. Him looking like he stepped out of a responsible-dad catalog.

Jesus Christ, is this my life now? I went from throwing up after cadaver class to this?

Fluffy doesn’t even cover it. My chest feels like someone stuffed it with warm cotton and fairy lights. I might actually melt into the floor if he keeps his hand there.

You adjusted Ellie on your hip, pressing a kiss to her temple while your mind kept its ridiculous

The daycare parents’ event turned out to be a little bigger than Jungkook had first described.

“It’s not just the toddlers dancing,” he explained the night before while you were both sitting on his couch after Ellie went to bed. “There’s a small reception afterward with photos and snacks. A few parents dress up a bit — nothing crazy, but nicer than everyday clothes. I was thinking… maybe we could too? For Ellie.”

You agreed without overthinking it.

Friday afternoon you came straight from your shift and changed into something a step above your usual post-work comfort. A soft cream-colored blouse with delicate buttons, tucked into high-waisted dark jeans that made your legs look longer. You added a simple gold necklace and light makeup — just enough to feel put-together. When you stepped across the landing, Jungkook opened the door already dressed.

He looked good. Really good.

A charcoal button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled once to show a hint of his tattoos, paired with well-fitted black trousers and polished shoes. The shirt hugged his shoulders in a way that reminded you exactly how strong he had become over the years. His hair was styled neatly, a little effort put in, and he smelled faintly of the cologne he saved for important days.

Ellie was dressed in her favorite yellow sun shirt, but Jungkook had added a soft tulle skirt over her leggings and tiny white shoes that made her look like a proper little performer. She twirled the second she saw you, skirt flaring out.

“You both look nice,” you said, unable to hide your smile.

Jungkook’s eyes swept over you appreciatively. “So do you. Ready?”

The three of you arrived at the daycare looking every bit the picture of a young family. Jungkook carried Ellie on his hip at first, then set her down so she could walk between you, holding one of your hands and one of his. You had brought a small bag with extra wipes and a spare shirt for her, just in case. Jungkook had remembered her favorite snack and a water bottle.

The gymnasium was decorated with more balloons and fairy lights than last time. Parents were dressed up in their own versions of “nice but realistic” — button-downs, pretty blouses, dresses that weren’t too formal. No one was in a full suit or gown, but everyone had made an effort.

Ellie’s class performed again, the same adorable chaotic dance. She kept glancing at you and Jungkook in the front row, waving every time the music paused. When the song ended and the kids ran to their families, Ellie sprinted straight to you again.

This time she didn’t just reach for you — she launched herself.

You caught her, laughing as her tiny hands grabbed your blouse. The fabric wrinkled under her grip, but you didn’t care. She buried her face in your neck, legs wrapping around your waist.

A couple standing nearby smiled warmly.

“Oh, she’s so attached to her mom,” the woman said. “Look at that hug! You two must be so proud of how far she’s come since starting here.”

Jungkook didn’t miss a beat.

“We are,” he said smoothly, stepping closer so his arm could slide around your waist, hand resting just above where Ellie’s legs were wrapped. “She’s been practicing every single day at home. Couldn’t be prouder.”

You opened your mouth to gently correct the assumption, but Jungkook’s fingers gave a light squeeze on your side — a silent let it be. His touch was warm through your blouse, steady and reassuring.

The fluffy feeling hit you again, harder this time.

Oh my God. He just called us “we” like it’s the most natural thing.

This man — tattoos, strong shoulders, button-down that fits him way too well — is standing here in nice trousers, arm around me, while our… while Ellie clings to my blouse like I’m hers.

People are looking at us like we’re a real little family. Me. In my slightly-fancy blouse. Him looking like he stepped out of a responsible-dad catalog.

Jesus Christ, is this my life now? I went from throwing up after cadaver class to this?

Fluffy doesn’t even cover it. My chest feels like someone stuffed it with warm cotton and fairy lights. I might actually melt into the floor if he keeps his hand there.

You adjusted Ellie on your hip, pressing a kiss to her temple while your mind kept its ridiculous, monologue running..

Okay, brain, breathe. You’re a pediatric doctor. You’ve handled actual emergencies. You can handle being mistaken for a mom while wearing a blouse that cost more than your usual scrubs.

But look at him. Sleeves rolled just enough to show some ink. Standing there like he belongs in this picture. Like he wants people to think we’re together. Like he wants me here as more than just the nice neighbor.

This is dangerous. This is the kind of dangerous that makes me want to keep wearing blouses and showing up to toddler dance shows forever.

The reception continued with snacks and group photos. Several more parents stopped to compliment Ellie’s performance and casually referred to you as her mother. Each time, Jungkook simply smiled and thanked them, never correcting, his arm staying around you like it was the most normal place in the world.

You felt yourself leaning into him more as the afternoon went on. Ellie refused to be put down, content to stay in your arms while she nibbled on a cookie, occasionally offering you a piece with her sticky fingers.

When it was time for the official parent photo, the teacher waved the three of you over. Jungkook positioned himself behind you, one hand on your waist, the other steadying Ellie on your hip. The camera clicked.

You looked every bit the real parents — him in his charcoal shirt, you in your cream blouse, Ellie bright and happy between you.

On the drive home, Ellie fell asleep in her car seat, exhausted from all the excitement. Jungkook reached over and took your hand, lacing your fingers together.

“You looked beautiful today,” he said quietly. “Holding her like that. Standing there with us.”

You squeezed his hand, the fluffy warmth still swirling in your chest. “You looked pretty good yourself. All dressed up like a proper dad.”

He laughed softly, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Felt good. Having you there. Having people see us like that.”

You didn’t say anything else for a moment, just let the quiet settle. Your internal voice was still chattering happily in the background.

This man just let an entire room of parents think I’m Ellie’s mom and he didn’t blink. He wanted it. He’s holding my hand like he never wants to let go.

If someone told eighteen-year-old me that one day I’d be dressed up in a blouse, carrying a toddler who calls me by name, while her ridiculously attractive father looks at me like I’m the missing piece… I would have laughed until I cried.

But here we are.

Back at the building, you carried a sleepy Ellie up the stairs while Jungkook held the doors. She stirred just enough to mumble “Y/N pretty” before tucking her face into your neck again.

Jungkook watched the whole thing with that look that had grown even stronger since— like every time he saw you with her, something inside him clicked more firmly into place, he closed the bedroom door with a gentle click and turned to you. The golden light from the small lamp made everything feel softer, warmer. His eyes moved over you slowly — the cream blouse you’d worn for the daycare event, now slightly wrinkled from Ellie’s hands, the way your hair had loosened throughout the day. He stepped closer, hands coming up to frame your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” he whispered, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Not just tonight. Every time I saw you with her. Every time you stayed a little longer. Every time you looked at me like I still matter.”

You leaned into his touch, heart beating steady and heavy. “You do matter. You always did.”

He kissed you then, slow and deep, like he was savoring every second after years of being apart. His lips moved against yours with quiet certainty, tongue tracing the seam of your mouth until you opened for him. The kiss tasted like the punch from the reception and something sweeter underneath — like coming home after a long time away.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers working open the buttons of his charcoal shirt one by one. When the fabric parted you pushed it off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Your palms explored the warm skin beneath, tracing the lines of muscle he’d built over the years, the tattoos that told stories you were only beginning to learn. He shivered under your touch but didn’t hurry you.

Jungkook took his time undressing you too. He unbuttoned your blouse slowly, kissing every new inch of skin he revealed — your collarbone, the swell of your breasts above your bra, the soft skin of your stomach. When he reached the waistband of your jeans he knelt, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your hip as he slid the denim down your legs. Your bra and panties followed with the same patient care, until you stood completely bare in front of him.

He rose to his feet and looked at you for a long moment, eyes dark with want but full of something deeper. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. “Even more than I remembered.”

He guided you back onto the bed, laying you down gently against the pillows. His body covered yours, warm and solid, but he kept most of his weight on his forearms so he could look at your face. The kiss that followed was slower, more sensual — tongues sliding together, lips pulling and sucking softly. His hand roamed your body with reverence, cupping your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it tightened under his touch. You arched into him, a quiet moan slipping out.

Jungkook kissed down your neck, taking his time at the sensitive spot just below your ear that made your breath hitch. He moved lower, mouth closing around one nipple while his hand teased the other. The wet heat of his tongue, the gentle scrape of his teeth — it sent slow waves of pleasure through you, building steadily rather than rushing.

When he finally settled between your thighs, he looked up at you with dark, devoted eyes. “Let me taste you.”

He licked a long, slow stripe up your center, savoring you like he had all the time in the world. His tongue circled your clit with deliberate pressure, then flattened to lick broad strokes that had your hips rolling against his mouth. Two fingers slid inside you easily, curling gently to find that perfect spot while his lips wrapped around your clit and sucked softly.

You gasped his name, fingers threading through his hair. The pleasure built gradually, deep and rolling, until it crested in a long, shuddering orgasm that left you trembling beneath him. He stayed with you through every wave, licking you gently until you were oversensitive and breathing hard.

Jungkook kissed his way back up your body, letting you taste yourself on his tongue when he reached your mouth. “I missed this,” he whispered against your lips. “Missed feeling you like this. Missed making you feel good.”

You reached between you, wrapping your hand around his cock. He was hard and thick, pulsing in your palm as you stroked him slowly. He groaned low in his throat, hips pushing into your touch.

“Condom?” you asked softly.

He nodded, reaching into the nightstand. You watched him roll it on with steady hands, then pulled him back down. He settled between your thighs, the head of his cock nudging your entrance.

“Look at me,” he said gently.

Your eyes met his as he pushed in — slow, sure, inch by inch. The stretch was perfect, filling you completely until he was buried to the hilt. He stayed still for a long moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing the same air.

“God… you feel like home,” he whispered.

Then he started moving — deep, unhurried thrusts that rocked you both together. Every stroke was deliberate, sensual, his hips rolling in a slow rhythm that built the pleasure gradually. You wrapped your legs around him, hands sliding over his back, feeling the muscles shift under your palms with every thrust.

He kissed you through it all — soft, romantic kisses that turned dirtier as the heat grew. “You’re so tight,” he murmured against your mouth. “Taking me so well. Been dreaming about being inside you again… just like this.”

His pace stayed steady but grew a little firmer, the angle shifting until he was hitting that spot deep inside you with every thrust. One hand slipped between your bodies, fingers circling your clit in slow, perfect strokes.

You moaned softly, nails digging into his shoulders. “Jungkook… feels so good…”

“I know, baby,” he breathed, voice rough with restraint. “I’ve got you. Let it build. I want to feel you come around me.”

The orgasm rose slowly this time — a deep, rolling wave that started in your core and spread outward until your whole body was trembling. You came with a quiet, broken cry, clenching tight around him. Jungkook groaned your name, hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge, burying himself deep while he pulsed inside the condom.

He stayed inside you for a long moment afterward, kissing you softly — your lips, your cheeks, your closed eyelids. When he finally pulled out he took care of the condom quickly, then returned to pull you into his arms.

You curled against his chest, one leg draped over his, his hand stroking slow patterns along your spine. The room was quiet, warm, filled with the sound of your slowing breaths.

“I love this,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Being with you like this. Slow. Real. After all this time.”

You smiled against his skin, heart full and steady. “Me too.”

He held you closer, the devotion in every touch even stronger now. In the quiet of his bedroom, with Ellie sleeping peacefully down the hall, the two of you lay tangled together — skin warm, hearts closer than they had been in years.

The first light of morning filtered softly through the curtains when Ellie woke up.

You felt it before you heard anything — a small shift in the air, the faint sound of tiny feet padding down the hallway. Jungkook was still asleep beside you, one arm draped heavily over your waist, his breathing deep and even. Your bodies were tangled under the sheets, skin warm from the night before. The memory of slow kisses, deep thrusts, and whispered words made heat bloom low in your belly even now.

Then came the soft creak of the bedroom door.

Ellie stood in the doorway in her yellow sun pajamas, hair messy from sleep, bear clutched under one arm. She rubbed her eyes with her fist, blinking at the sight of you both in bed together.

For a second she just stared, processing. Then her face lit up with the biggest, sleepiest smile you had ever seen.

“Y/N,” she said happily, voice still raspy from sleep. She didn’t hesitate — she toddled straight to the bed and climbed up with surprising determination, using the edge of the mattress to pull herself onto it. Her small body wriggled between the two of you, bear squished against your chest as she settled in like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Jungkook stirred awake at the movement, eyes blinking open. When he registered Ellie curled up between you, one tiny hand fisting the front of your shirt (the same one from yesterday, now completely wrinkled and discarded on the floor last night — you were wearing one of his t-shirts now), a slow, warm smile spread across his face.

“Morning, baby,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. He reached over to brush her hair back, but his eyes stayed on you the whole time, full of that quiet devotion that had only grown stronger after last night.

Ellie snuggled closer to you, pressing her face into your neck. “Y/N stay. Warm.”

You laughed softly, wrapping an arm around her and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. The fluffy feeling from the daycare event returned tenfold, mixed with the intimate glow of the night you’d shared with Jungkook. “I’m here, sweetheart.”

Jungkook shifted closer, his hand finding yours under the blanket while Ellie wiggled happily between you. The three of you lay there for a long moment — warm, sleepy, tangled together in the soft morning light. His thumb stroked the back of your hand in slow circles, the same gentle rhythm he’d used on your skin last night when he was moving inside you, slow and deep and sure.

Ellie sighed contentedly, her small fingers still gripping your shirt. “Appa. Y/N. Bed.”

Jungkook chuckled quietly, leaning over Ellie to press a soft kiss to your lips — quick and sweet, but full of promise. “Yeah,” he whispered against your mouth. “This feels right.”

You felt your heart swell in that ridiculous, human way again.

Oh my God. I just spent the night with him— and now his daughter is cuddling between us like she planned this all along. She literally climbed into bed and claimed her spot. I’m wearing his t-shirt. He’s looking at me like last night meant everything. And I… I don’t want to leave this bed.

This is so domestic it should be illegal. I went from neighbor to… whatever this is… in what feels like five minutes and a thousand years at the same time.

Ellie lifted her head, looking between the two of you with those big, serious eyes. “Breakfast?”

Jungkook smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead before sitting up. “Yeah, let’s make breakfast. Pancakes?”

Ellie nodded enthusiastically and tried to climb over you to get to him, but ended up flopping back down with her head on your chest instead. She patted your shirt once, content. “Y/N help.”

You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of you. “Of course I’ll help.”

The three of you eventually made it to the kitchen — Ellie on Jungkook’s hip at first, then demanding to be carried by you while he started mixing the batter. She “helped” by handing you the spoon with both hands, her bear sitting on the counter watching everything with solemn dignity.

Jungkook kept stealing glances at you the whole time — soft, heated looks that reminded you exactly how his hands had felt on your body last night, how his voice had sounded when he groaned your name. Every time your eyes met, the corner of his mouth would lift in that private smile meant only for you.

Breakfast was messy and perfect. Ellie sat in your lap at the table, eating tiny pieces of pancake you cut for her while occasionally feeding some to her bear. Jungkook’s foot nudged yours under the table, a silent reminder of the night you’d shared.

When Ellie finished and started getting sleepy again (toddler crashes after big days were real), Jungkook took her to the living room for some quiet cartoons. You followed, and the three of you ended up on the couch — Ellie curled in your lap, Jungkook’s arm around both of you.

He leaned in close while Ellie was distracted by the screen, lips brushing your ear. “Last night was… everything,” he whispered. “Slow. Real. You and me, finally getting it right.”

You turned your head just enough to kiss him softly, careful not to disturb Ellie. “It was perfect.”

The morning continued like that — calm, warm, domestic in the best way. No rush to define anything. Just the three of you existing together, the memory of slow, sensual lovemaking from the night before lingering in every shared glance and gentle touch.

You stepped out of the hospital doors feeling that familiar post-work haze — the kind where your body wanted a long bath and your mind wanted to replay every small moment from last night and this morning. Jungkook had texted earlier that he would pick you up in his car so you didn’t have to take the bus. Ellie was with his mom for a few hours, giving the two of you a rare pocket of just-adult time.

You smiled at the thought as you walked toward the usual pickup spot near the side entrance. The cream blouse from yesterday was back in your bag; today you were in simple scrubs again, hair pulled up, but the memory of his hands on your skin still lingered like a secret.

Then you saw him.

Not Jungkook.

Yeonjun.

He was leaning against a car a few spaces away, hands in his pockets, looking exactly the same as the last time you’d seen him — warm eyes, easy smile, the kind of steady presence that had once felt safe. He straightened when he spotted you, lifting a hand in a small wave.

“Y/N,” he called, voice gentle. “Hey. I was hoping I’d catch you before you left.”

You stopped a few feet away, surprised but not upset. “Yeonjun… what are you doing here?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, the same nervous habit from years ago. “I’ve been back in Seoul for a couple of weeks. Work brought me here. I heard from a mutual friend that you moved into a new place, started at this hospital. I just… wanted to see how you’re doing. Maybe grab coffee? Talk?”

The words were soft, no pressure on the surface, but you could hear the undercurrent. The same one he’d had when he texted last month. He wasn’t aggressive. He never had been. That was the problem — he was kind. The breakup two years ago had been quiet, mutual, born from clashing schedules and two people who cared but couldn’t make the timing work. No fights. No betrayal. Just life pulling in opposite directions.

You opened your mouth to answer, but your brain was already spinning its own quiet monologue.

Oh… this is awkward in the softest way possible. He looks good. Still the same gentle guy who used to bring me soup when I pulled double shifts. But my chest doesn’t do that little flip anymore. It feels… nostalgic. Like looking at a photo from a chapter I already finished reading.

Last night I was in Jungkook’s bed, his voice in my ear calling me beautiful while he moved inside me like we had all the time in the world. This morning his daughter climbed between us and called my name like it belonged to her. And now here’s Yeonjun, standing here like he’s offering me a door back to something simpler.

God, why does life do this? Throw the past right in front of the present when everything finally feels like it’s clicking?

Before you could find the right words, a familiar black car pulled up to the curb. Jungkook.

He parked smoothly, engine still humming, and stepped out. The moment his eyes landed on Yeonjun standing there with you, something shifted in his expression — a flicker of recognition, then quiet tension. He knew exactly who this was. Old mutual friends had kept him updated over the years; he’d heard the story of the gentle breakup, the busy schedules, the fact that Yeonjun had never been the villain.

Jungkook walked over anyway, calm on the outside, but you could see the way his jaw tightened just a fraction.

“Hey,” he said, voice even as he reached you. His hand found the small of your back naturally, warm and steady. “Ready to go?”

Yeonjun’s eyes moved between the two of you, taking in the easy touch, the way Jungkook positioned himself beside you like it was the most natural place in the world. He smiled, small and genuine. “Jungkook, right? It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” Jungkook answered, polite but short. “It has.”

You felt the air thicken for a second, just heavy with history and the unspoken. Yeonjun glanced at you one more time. “If you ever want that coffee… no pressure. I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

He gave a small nod to both of you and walked back to his car.

The drive home was quiet at first. Ellie wasn’t in the backseat today, so it was just the two of you. Jungkook’s hands stayed steady on the wheel, but you could feel the thoughts turning in his head.

You reached over and rested your hand on his thigh. “He was just saying hi. It’s nothing.”

“I know,” he said softly. Then, after a long breath, he kept talking — more to himself than to you, voice low and truthful, like he needed to get the words out while they were still honest.

“I don’t blame him for wanting you back. I really don’t. He’s actually a nice guy… always was. From what I heard through friends back then, you two ended things clean. Just life and schedules getting in the way. He probably looks at you now and sees the same girl he fell for — smart, kind, the one who makes everything feel steady. And he’s right. You are a keeper. The kind of person someone would be stupid to let slip away twice.”

He glanced at you for a second, eyes soft but serious, before looking back at the road.

“But I’m sorry, brother… I know she’s a keeper. I let her go once — back when we were young and didn’t know how to fight for the soft things. I watched her walk away because I thought we’d both be fine on our own. I won’t make that same mistake again. Not now. Not when I’ve seen what it looks like to have her in my bed, whispering my name like it still fits. Not when I’ve watched her hold my daughter like she was always meant to be there. Not when Ellie climbs into bed between us and says Y/N’s name like it’s already hers.”

He let out a quiet, almost self-deprecating laugh, shaking his head.

“I’m not mad at him. I get it. I’d fight for you too if I were in his shoes. But you are here now. With me. With us. And I’m not letting go this time. Not for anything.”

The car filled with a comfortable quiet after that. You squeezed his thigh gently, heart full in a way that felt both new and deeply rooted.

You didn’t need to say anything right away. The words he’d spoken hung between you like a promise

When he parked in front of the building, he turned to you, leaning across the console to kiss you slow and sure, the same unhurried way he had last night.

“Home?” he asked against your lips.

You smiled, fingers brushing his jaw. “Home.”

And as you walked inside together, the past fading behind you like the afternoon light, you felt it settle even deeper — this life that was quietly, steadily becoming yours.

Ellie had come home from her grandmother’s full of stories and sleepy hugs, eaten her dinner, and gone down without a fight. Jungkook had tucked her in while you cleaned the kitchen, the two of you moving around each other with the easy familiarity that had grown so quickly. After she was asleep he pulled you into his room, kissed you slow and deep like he was still tasting the morning, and fell asleep with his arm around your waist and his face tucked against your neck.

You couldn’t sleep.

Not because anything felt wrong — the opposite. Everything felt so right that your mind wouldn’t stop turning.

You lay there in the dark, staring at the faint glow of the cloud night-light that spilled in from the hallway, and let yourself think about Yeonjun for the first time since the hospital parking lot.

What if I had said yes to coffee?

The question floated up quietly, not with longing, but with honest curiosity.

You tried to picture it — going back to the version of life you had with him two years ago. The comfortable routines. The gentle good mornings. The way he always planned dates around things he thought you’d like: nice cafés with perfect lattes, quiet dinners where the conversation never got too heavy. He was steady. Kind. The kind of man who remembered your favorite playlists and never raised his voice.

But the more you let the pictures form, the more they felt… off.

He always asked to take me for coffee. Every single time. “Let’s get coffee and talk,” like that was the answer to everything. I don’t even like coffee. I told him that once and he laughed and said he’d get me tea instead, but he never stopped suggesting coffee first. Like it was the default setting for us.

You turned your head slightly, looking at Jungkook’s sleeping face — the strong line of his jaw, the way his lashes rested against his cheeks, the small scar on his eyebrow you’d traced with your fingertip last night while he moved inside you slow and sure.

With Yeonjun everything was… easy. Too easy. The kind of easy that feels like friendship wearing love’s clothes. We never fought, never burned, never stayed up talking until the sun came up because we couldn’t stop. It was comfortable. Safe. But safe in the way a favorite sweater is safe — warm, familiar, but you don’t miss it when it’s in the drawer.

He was different from Jungkook in every way that matters. Jungkook sees me. Really sees me. The way I hum when I’m tired, the way I cut fruit into tiny pieces without thinking, the way I need slow mornings and extra lemon in my tea and someone who understands why I sometimes skip dinner just to paint or sleep. Yeonjun never noticed those things. He tried, but it never quite landed. Like we were speaking two different quiet languages.

You exhaled softly, careful not to wake the man beside you.

I don’t even know how we dated, looking back. It just… happened. Schedules lined up for a while, we liked the same movies, the sex was fine. But it never felt like this. Never felt like my whole chest lights up when he walks into a room. Never felt like I’m choosing him every single day, even when life gets heavy. Never felt like a toddler climbing into bed between us and saying my name like it belongs to her.

The comparison settled in your bones, clear and calm.

Yeonjun is a good person. A friend. Someone I genuinely hope finds someone who loves coffee and gentle routines the way he does. But he’s not for me. Not anymore. Maybe he never really was. It was easy in the way friendship is easy — no sparks, no ache, no fear of losing something because you never risked enough to have it.

You turned onto your side, facing Jungkook fully. In the low light his tattoos looked softer, his shoulders broader, the arm around you heavy with sleep and devotion.

This… this is the kind of easy that scares me because it matters. Slow mornings. Ellie reaching for me first. Him letting the whole world think I’m her mom and not correcting them. Slow, deep nights where he takes his time like he’s learning me all over again after years apart. This is the kind of easy that feels like love, not like settling.

You pressed a soft kiss to his chest, right over his heart, and felt him stir just enough to pull you closer in his sleep.

Sorry, Yeonjun. You’re a nice guy. But I’m not going back to easy-that-doesn’t-feel-like-love.

Unable to break through the crowd for a parting hug and not lose your boyfriend, you sent a goodbye text to Rai. You barely focused on the screen as your body relaxed, soothed just by Bruce’s presence in the room.

When your skin met his, you relaxed into his touch and tucked into his shoulder. Warm and familiar, it spurred a new level of excitement to be heading back to Wayne Tower together—in the full sense of the word.

Bruce led the way to his car without a peep, focusing the entirety of his energy on getting you to the passenger safely. As you buckled you dodged blaring camera flashes and angled your face down so they couldn't catch your conversation. “Why didn't you stick around to talk to March?”

“Too many eyes,” he replied, not bothering to shift himself from the paparazzi. Staring a bit too long at his lips, you had to look away before your mind went blank.

“Ah, your 'not endorsing' thing.” You flopped back into the leather seat. “Might have to talk to you about that after tonight.”

The main road glittered with fresh rain and the bustle looked as it always had. You complimented March as you settled into the post-meeting routine—told Bruce how good the candidate was, how much people liked him. 

“Big turnout.”

His voice was quiet, expression flat; his knuckles wrapped around the steering wheel in a way that was worried, antsy, anxious. You went toward it.

“How'd your meeting with Crane go?”

“Fine.”

Fine wasn't all that comforting; Bruce was shaken about the paparazzi, surely, but he didn't seem in the mood for reassurance. He looked resolute in his distraught.

You put your hand on his thigh and he clenched the wheel. “Are you good?”

He drew a deep, slow breath and nodded. It wasn't convincing. To get you both out of your heads, you turned attention toward the night’s plans. 

“I have a few movies picked out this time, which feels like a miracle.” You went to your notes app to find the list, beginning to pepper off names until he gently interrupted. 

“Sorry, but,” his hand strangled the wheel again. “I don't think I can do our date tonight.”

“Why not?” You cocked your head at him, intrigued. Was it the paps? Had the meeting not gone well? 

“Just work stuff.”

His voice was tempered, quiet; you rested your hands in your lap as you talked yourself down. 

It has nothing to do with his mental health, it has nothing to do with us. It's just Batman shit.

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Maybe.”

Wayne Tower was in view before you knew it.

While you were extremely aware of his shift in mood and what that might mean, you didn't allow yourself to spiral. You waited until his car pulled into the garage and you were both in the elevator—which you made sure had no cameras—to ask about it. After denying issues with his medication, side effects, or if he needed to talk, the elevator stopped at his floor.

“I'm alright for now.”

“For now?” you pressed, nudging closer to him and wrapping your arm into his elbow. He nodded, and it was just convincing enough when paired with his response. 

“Being away made things pile up.”

It made sense; “It's not like you're Batman or anything.”

Bruce laughed under his breath but you weren't sold. 

As you walked into the foyer, your gaze landed on the pops of color on each table. Florals in various shades of white, pink and red brought a stunning burst of liveliness to the place. You ducked into the kitchen to find a purple and pink bouquet on the table and red roses by the sink.

You leaned on the entryway wood and stared at him. “Is there a bouquet in every room?”

A whisper of a grin wore his lips. “Mhm.”

“This is gorgeous, oh my god.”

You'd only gone up a few stairs before he called after you. 

“I have to go work.”

Pouting for good measure, you spun and gestured for him to come up. “You sure you can't give me a tour?”

His shoulders hunched and he put his hand in his pockets, but he obliged. The wool of his overcoat flowed behind him just enough to hit your ankles when you stepped a stair too close. He gestured toward his room which he introduced as ‘the bedroom’, sweetly reminding that you weren't tethered to it and could inhabit any room you liked. 

“Bruce,” you cozied up, wrapping your arms around his waist. “You're not pressuring me to room with you. I can't wait.” When you stepped into the bedroom and gushed over the decor he added for you, he stayed in the hall. Continuing the tour, you passed the room you used to use where most of your stuff resided, and he said so low you almost couldn't make it out: “You can put your stuff in the other room if you'd like.”

The theater room was the star of the show; once barren, it was cozy and lush, with plush blankets, throw pillows, and vibrant snacks illuminated by backlit LEDs. 

“You put all this together?”

“I did.”

His voice weakened with each passing word. Your excitement hushed. “Baby,”

His jaw flexed. “I've really got to work.”

You stepped into the hallway. “Are you upset about missing the date?”

He stared at you with such a despondent look you were frozen. After an undetermined length of time—god, it all disappeared with him—he agreed. “Yeah.”

Though everything in you wanted to pry, you’d kept him away from his duties longer than ever. If it was urgent, it was urgent; this was the life you’d signed up for. “Okay. I’ll break in the TV for us.”

You slugged him in the arm, hoping to get a little rise out of him. When he didn’t bite, you launched into a hug that was carefully reciprocated, his arms slowly and lightly wrapping around you in full. 

“Go for it.” His voice was soft by your ear and your heart fluttered. You squeezed him tighter. “Have fun.”

“I will,” you assured, brushing some lint off his shoulder. You nuzzled his chin. “Don't work too late.”

His grin pulled wider as he took you in. Drinking up his admiration, you followed how his eyes roamed all parts of your face like he’d been in a desert for years. That tenderness had been sorely missed, even after just one night.

“Got to go. I’ll let you know when I’m finished.”

“Well, if you’ve got to…” 

He gave you one last squeeze and headed for the basement. The decor snagged your attention again and you lost yourself briefly in repose. Colors coordinating, everything so practical and immersive, down to the snacks. It was as if he’d gone to a movie theater yesterday. 

Realizing you forgot to say it, you jogged out to the railing and shouted, “Love you!” but he was already gone.

Jogging down to your old room, you went through the piles of neatly folded clothes atop the dresser. Alfred, kind and compassionate as he was, had left all of your intimates untouched. It didn’t take long to take some outfits down to Bruce’s room, despite the burn in your thighs from your feet slamming down marble steps. 

A final pile plunked on the edge of Bruce’s bed made a paper in the bed’s center flutter in the whoosh of air. You picked it up, sitting on the edge of his mattress to read. 

Hi, love. If I haven’t already told you, the dresser is yours and half of the closet. Feel free to reorganize things to your liking; I want you to feel comfortable. I bought a candle that reminds me of the field near your house. Hopefully it inspires a bit of home. I love you. - Bruce 

You tucked the letter in your—your?!—bedside table and uncapped the candle on your side. Your heart threatened to expand past your ribcage when you smelled its woody, ambery pine. It was probably good he wasn’t here tonight; otherwise you wouldn’t get any shuteye. Not when he was this sweet, this perfect, when the excitement percolated that this was where you lived now.

And so it was for the next hour. Hanging up and folding clothes, tucking them into drawers, grabbing toiletries and infiltrating his bathroom. He used a cheap brand of shaving cream and very harsh body wash, but you thought that might've had a purpose. Difficult to imagine a frilly soap removing the dirt and grime off a vigilante.

A rush of endorphins hit your system when you caught a whiff of it; despite how it would likely destroy your skin barrier with its three-in-one formula, you turned on the water and hopped in. The room felt more like a luxury sauna than a typical bathroom, with a water pressure that rivaled anywhere in the world, not just Gotham. Through the fogged glass exposed a claw tub tucked into the corner, something you’d overlooked for the shiny sink and gleaming mirror. This bathroom was practically the size of your old studio. 

Bergamot and a scent you could only describe as ‘musky fresh’ raged sulfates across your skin. You stayed in there so long that you worried your entire body might prune. Hunting for towels was an entire ordeal until you lifted the lid of a weird trash can and pulled out a freshly warmed one. Fuck, he was rich. 

And when you wrapped it around you and it felt like a horde of rabbits, when you applied your drugstore skincare in a gargantuan, pristine mirror over a gorgeous sink and immaculate countertop, felt the cool marble beneath your—

In the mirror you noted a light switch on the back wall that said ‘heating’. Within seconds of flicking it ON, the ground warmed. 

He was fucking filthy rich. 

Something hard jammed into your shoulder when you plopped into his bed to rest. In the center of the mattress, likely beneath the card and so dark you couldn’t see it against his sheets sat a debit card with instructions sticky-noted on the back. 

Address shipping to ‘Pennyworth’.

Bruce’s signature on the stripe was beautiful. You traced your fingers over it and the embossed metal lettering. Envisioned him laying beside you, hands intertwined, staring at the ceiling as you planned the next few months of your lives.

After a minute, however, it became increasingly difficult to ignore the fairytale of having an unlimited debit card. 

Target, Nordstrom. Then West Elm, just because you could. Housewares, clothes, birthday gifts. By the time you realized the damage, you must’ve clicked ADD TO CART a hundred times, inputting Pennyworth a dozen. 

To break the loop, you moseyed down to the kitchen to get a bite. The cupboards were nearly overflowing, the fridge and freezer perfectly stashed with multiples of your favorite foods. By a quick look as you gathered an orange and some Phish Food, he’d bought every single thing you’d ever said you liked, as well as replicated the cupboard at your house. If he were anyone else, his elephantine memory might unnerve you.

Tucked into the counter flush to the fridge was a new bottle of wine, an exact match of the one he’d said he owed you for back at your apartment. Did anything slip past him? 

You got comfortable in the theater room. Bruce had already hooked his card up to every on-demand video service, so you switched on a movie that had just left theaters and dug into your pint like it’d run away. It wasn’t as lonely as you thought it would be up here, but still—at various points throughout the film, you tussled with whether to text Bruce. 

Would it interrupt his focus? Would it take away time from people who needed him right then? 

You turned your phone on silent, resolved not to disturb him. You could handle these nights alone, even enjoy them. Come breakfast you could talk about the spoils of the evening. 

One damn thing was for sure: you weren't cracking the first night. 

The dregs of the pint were smeared and half-dried up your forearm when you woke up. Thankful it hadn't poured on the couch, you rushed to the bathroom to clean up and basked in the subtle aroma of his hand soap. Using his things made you feel closer to him. 

His bed looked inviting and the exhaustion from the nap still lingered; without Bruce as reason to push through your fatigue, you fell into his bed. A rush of his scent wrapped you as you snuggled under the covers. You checked your phone for the time and got drawn into Scypher. 

Despite being private, your notifications were blown up. People tagged you in various thinkpieces that were a level of viral that made your head spin. Two conversations appeared prominent: one about you and Bruce’s autograph stint, the other of you and him at the bar. The latter drew you like a moth to flame. 

Surprising given the lack of full light at the dive and the social's compression, the video was in stunning quality. Whoever recorded left whispered commentary throughout. “They've been like this all night” “It's literally him, I don't know if you can see” “Why would he be here? I'm literally in shock” “He hasn't stopped holding her hand since I got here” and “I swear to god I'm not joking. I'm not hallucinating, right?”

You pulled the covers to your chin, the luxe fabric gliding on your skin like water, and pressed play.

They’d caught two minutes of dancing—at least that was the only part they posted. Watching him twirl you out and into his chest brought that weightless feeling right back. Crinkly eyes, chatting and laughing, he looked every bit as happy as you’d felt. You downloaded it as you made the mistake of perusing the comments. 

I didn't buy them at first but this is legitimately the first time I've seen that man smile

It had more likes than you cared to think about. 

Indulging your curiosity, you clicked on the top reply. 

Isn't it well known by now that he's a junkie? He's high off his ass.

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Idk man, he might just be having fun

Since you were private, you gave OP’s reply a like. 

The rest weren’t too terrible, but enough to stick like chewed gum to an otherwise perfect night. All at once the memory blended out of secrecy, letting its bloody pulse until it threatened to become a concept. 

You tore yourself off the posts after scrolling through hundreds of comments on various threads mocking you for giving out your autograph, asking if you came from money, speculating on the interview, if this was PR… 

Clinging to the home page refresh like a life preserver. Thoughts swirling in his pitch-black bedroom of feeling like a specimen that just got poked, on the verge of making your page public and putting them on blast. They didn’t know him, they didn’t know you. Acting high and mighty, leeching off of other’s intimacy to feel anything in their own lives. 

A mutual aid request popped up on your timeline. Someone you’d followed years back from a freshman year science course. 

$1753 left for medical bills before TOMORROW. Please please repost, thank you so much!!! Anything helps!!

You gave it a like and hovered above the repost button on impulse, then paused. 

Sent.

The algorithm must’ve processed that you clicked the link because five more popped up after it. 

Seventy five bucks. Sent. 

A hundred and one. Sent. 

Four-hundred. Sent.

Two thousand one hundred fifty. Sent.

Forty-six. Sent.

Sending one made you desperate to send another. You clicked around GoFundMes until your eyes went bleary and your wrist ached, until you memorized the numbers on his debit, until your phone dimmed from low power and your head hit the pillow.

You spent breakfast alone. 

Alfred juiced some fruit while you made pancakes, longing to do something with your empty hands. He talked politely about how you were settling in and if there was anything he could do to make the transition easier. It was considerate, enjoyable. He assured you that Bruce had come up an hour earlier to grab some food. It was meant to help but only made you miss him.  

“Is this… normal?” You took the last sip of orange juice. “Him working into the next morning?”

The old man gave you a sympathetic grin. “Absolutely, Miss. Nothing to fret over. I suggest you find something to keep busy in the meantime.”

With that, he insisted on taking your plate and doing the dishes himself.  

A self-guided tour of the place was imminent; there were floors you’d never even seen all the way at the top. You peeked into rooms that didn’t have locks; so far as the tower showed, the only locked one was his parent’s room. Everything looked the same to the first few levels. Gothic, a little dusty and dated. No Beast hiding in some upper floor dwelling, no dirty secrets. 

Sleepy from the week’s happenings, you found a chaise on the uppermost floor nestled by a silver rimmed window. You skated down to the library and plucked out a novel to properly utilize the reading nook. It was difficult to find something fun in a sea of nonfiction, and more than a few of those informative titles drew your eye, but you needed to escape. Your head swam with numbers and debts that slowly disappeared under the glow of Gotham fog and pages of serif font.

When you tired of the current novel, you had a kitchen full of snacks and a room full of books to peruse. Tracing fingers along century-aged spines too stubborn for a duster. Inspected the intricate spirals carved into the wood. Crunched into an apple. 

It was easy to fill your Sunday. The wood began to warm by late evening, your simple presence bringing some temperature to the tower, turning the air less stale. Dinner was alright; Alfred once again invited you not to worry, he’d brought a plate down to him before calling you, and to focus on making the place more your own. You translated what he meant: Get used to it, Bruce is like this.

Monday morning rolled around to another breakfast for two. A few of your packages had arrived seemingly with the morning paper, large boxes scattered around the foyer. While Alfred plated, you carried them up to Bruce’s room. 

He held out a plate of eggs benedict; you only knew what it was when you asked. Just as you were about to sink into your chair he questioned, “Has Bruce spent any time with you since landing, Miss?”

You shook your head as you dug into his signature orange juice. Alfred set aside a third plate and walked a pair of keys to you. A minute later you were holding a large silver tray with two plates, steeling yourself to the raucous of the elevator. Your fingers tingled as the doors opened. 

“Alfred, I'm busy. I already told you.”

He sounded exhausted. Had he slept?

You stepped into the basement and cleared your throat. Bruce startled and switched off his monitors before spinning around. 

“What are you doing down here?”

“Bringing you breakfast, Mr. Nocturnal.” He met you halfway and took the tray off your hands. As much as you wanted to stare at him, touching him was more important; nestling into a side hug made your eyes fall, thoughts glossy. “Wanna eat together?” 

You looked up at him with sparkly, bright eyes. Up close like this, his fatigue was a love letter—of service to Gotham, of loving his community. The bags under his eyes, the heaviness in his arm around yours, all for the city.

“Not today.”

Whatever he was looking into was consuming him. You traced his cheekbone with the tips of your fingers. “Not even ten minutes?”

He looked positively yearnful, if that was even an expression. Those blue eyes dark in the cave’s low lighting almost looked brown and stubble erupted over his jaw. In fact, he looked so worn that you shook your head and told him not to worry about it. You took your plate back and left his.

“Hey.” You rubbed his arm in an attempt to soothe and he bristled. “Don't worry about me. So long as we get our sunrise date tomorrow.”

It was half a tease, knowing that it could be pushed if this was emergent, but when he didn't smile at you, your heart clenched.

It could be anything. Something with his parents, with him. A tragedy in the city or one about to unfold. Worrying about you. Shoving down insistent questions was a fireball in the back of your throat but you wouldn’t be needy. He already felt guilty enough.

“It's fine if we can't do it, but can you just give me a heads up?”

His brows knit together and you rushed out an addendum to patch his wounds. 

“Just because I’d rather not leave your bed so early if not.” Your laugh was stiff. “Don’t know how you ever leave it, it’s like a cloud.” 

Maybe he eased, it was hard to tell. 

“I can't do it.” he spoke without apology and the plate went heavy in your hand, its ceramic chilled. You must’ve not hid your disappointment well, because when you turned around he shot out an olive branch. 

“I'm sorry for not warning you.”

You nodded without looking back; he didn’t need to witness it sink in that you might spend most of this relationship alone. “You're really busy.”

“Friday.” His voice echoed. Glancing over your shoulder showed he’d taken a step closer. “I have to figure this out by Friday. We can have dinner then.”

“Friday night we can have a date?”

He nodded, earnest as ever, and you couldn’t swallow it anymore.

“Can you at least tell me what it is?”

Had he even blinked once? 

“It's better for this to be worked on alone. I need to focus.”

Naively, you’d thought this ache of inferiority would leave now that you were together. Past snarky comments at your suggestions while detectiving flooded in. 

“Okay. Date night on Friday then. What time?”

His pause felt weighty. “Six.”

You nodded. “Perfect. I’ll uh, have stuff ready by then.”

“How are you feeling?” 

His concern was music to your ears. What alarmed you was how fragile he looked at a short distance. 

“I’m alright. How much sleep are you getting?” You stepped back into the basement and he shook his head. A lot of nonverbals this morning. 

“Enough to keep working.” He stuttered after he paused. “Don't worry.”

“It doesn't look like you're getting any sleep. If this is about me saying you should do more for the city,”

“It’s not about that.” He bit his lower lip and fluttered his lashes. His voice went soft. “I know we planned fun things but this is crucial.” His eyes shimmered. “I have to figure it out. It could change everything.”

You felt tears press forward; your voice frayed under the weight of the world on his shoulders. “How am I not supposed to worry when you say things like that?”

He didn't have an answer. “It'll be more manageable if I'm left alone until Friday.”

“Okay.”

“If you need anything, ask Alfred. He'll be happy to help.”

The donating. “You have money set aside for philanthropy, right? Can I use that card you lent me for it?”

He nodded. You wished he’d use his words more, longing to hear his voice. 

Overwhelmed, you brushed at your eyes with your free hand and pressed the UP button after sidling in. One foot in front of the other until you could slam down the food and nap this vertigo away. 

The elevator doors began to shutter. He called out. “Thanks for the food.”

You stared at the floor of the elevator as it rose, wringing your hands together under the plate. You brushed shoulders with Alfred as you hurried to the counter to set down the plate, ate a few bites, then dug out plastic wrap to put it away. Ran up to his room. Threw yourself in bed and let the emotion crash you to sleep.

In a supposed effort to make you feel worse about yourself, you, of course, had only slept two hours until your body fitfully rose. Another shower you now justified because of ‘crusties’, another time smelling his body wash like your lover was lost at sea. And after, while it wasn’t your first choice for distraction, the ever-mounting threat of torrential loneliness pushed you to email Dr. Vry. 

How did you professionally say: I am now dating my interview subject and he is very high profile. What does this mean for credibility and how much of a stain do you think I am on The Gazette’s good name?

Fingernails chipping against the smooth wooden desk while you waited, the chair inexplicably comfortable for its form factor, staring at the screen of your new laptop bought on impulse the night before. Every thought about money and privilege was shoved to the back of your skull as fast as it came. 

Decluttering your inbox of job offers made you sicker—it seemed you’d been pidgeonholed into little more than a gossip writer, a seat warmer, a cool glass of champagne at handoff to make people feel special. You’d done it to your fucking self at the end of the day, it was why you were in this tower instead of rotting in a cold studio. In what world could you complain? 

When she did get back to you four hundred email deletes later, Dr. Vry expressed it was up to you. It wasn’t required to remain employed, though she followed that up with ridiculous levels of gratitude for what you’d brought to the department. She signed it saying she understood if there were sunnier horizons on your path now.

Your stomach twisted. She hadn’t made this any clearer. All you knew was the longer you looked at that email, the more nauseous you felt. If you resigned, you had zero confidence that anyone would take you seriously on your own. An interview with March, sure, but what if that did nothing? 

The Gazette had rigor, reputation. If you went solo, you were certain the only open doors would come from the boyfriend, Mr. Wayne. At least if you stayed with an official publication, there’d be a name other than yours at the bottom.

You pulled up March's campaign website and found his email. 

To: [email protected]

Subject: Meeting Request

Good afternoon Mr. March,

I am emailing about our interview discussion this past weekend. At this time, my employment is not finalized. It is my understanding that if I continue my employment with The Gazette, it does not meet your criteria for an interview. 

However, I am curious if we could meet to discuss issues surrounding free press over an informal meeting—off the record. Please let me know a time and place to meet if you are interested. 

Regards,

He responded almost immediately. 

From: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Meeting Request

Always available for the residents of Gotham. Does Willow off Fourth Ave. work tomorrow at three?

No sign-off, so casual it was refreshing. Maps revealed a nice café in midtown, and intrusive thoughts of scandals swirled. It was imperative to meet at a government space or speculation would run wild; you couldn’t risk his campaign getting negative press. 

To: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Meeting Request

Would you be able to reserve a meeting room at City Hall? Paparazzi are fairly active recently.

From: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Meeting Request

I am only able to discuss such matters on neutral ground. If a casual meeting space does not work for you, unfortunately I cannot meet your request. Feel free to reach out if you are able to accommodate.

Regretfully,

Lincoln March

Dammit.

Why wasn't City Hall neutral ground?

You took a lap around the tower to clear your mind. You didn't know the man well enough to make a call, didn't have any info to go off of outside of his campaigns, he wouldn't speak to you unless you were willing to cause a major upset with the public that would likely backfire on him in some capacity—probably you, too.

At some point in your pacing, after passing the twirling, abandoned library, after feeling the echo in every footstep, the tower inflated. How many times had you walked past this building during undergrad? How many passing thoughts occurred about how terrible it was for people to live like that? 

Like this? 

Mar wasn't responding and Rai was working. With three billion hours to kill before having dinner with Bruce and the thoughts closing in, you told Alfred you were going out. Despite your insistence on not troubling him, he ensured that you had a chauffeur and bodyguard now. 

It was a relief to have someone with you in the department stores; sometimes when you switched aisles, you felt the cold metal of the gun against your temple again and moved closer to Alfred for a semblance of comfort.

The public was fairly decent to you. A few people had their phones out and suspiciously focused on your person as you moved but they were easy to tune out. 

Miscellaneous hygiene items, clothes, entirely clearing out the menstrual product section, all the blankets. What else did shelters need? What else did they need help with?

Housing, you thought as you put some baby clothes and formula in the cart. They’re in a shelter because they need to be housed. Here I am putting clothes in the cart just for them to keep warm without a goddamn house.

It was logical that you couldn’t walk into shelters and place every person in an apartment—not yet anyway. Was there a better way to consolidate philanthropy money? A fund that could sustain itself, donations to a certain cause, a system you could develop for a hierarchy of who needed something first? How could you even decide that? Was that even ethical? Did someone who didn’t want kids or couldn’t have kids deserve housing after people with kids? But kids were helpless comparatively, at a critical stage of development, surely that would constitute—

“Miss? Should I gather a fresh cart?”

Absently, you nodded, and Alfred took off. You needed Bruce to bounce these thoughts off of. It was his money after all, even if he didn’t do shit to earn it. 

You rubbed your temple, a headache coming on. 

As you passed more people who definitely weren’t taking photos of you, that ‘scandal’ volume turned up. Would people think you had an ulterior motive? That you were trying to clean up the Wayne image? That you were trying to make a good name for yourself after ‘the scandal’? Would the shelter workers think that? Would people feel insulted taking donations from someone like you?

It made you fucking sick to think of your relationship as a TMZ headline. That you were giving any weight to those losers. 

Alfred arrived with the second cart and you directed him toward the food aisles. You filled it with the good shit people would actually like, the expensive items you couldn’t have regularly afforded. Ice cream, cakes, fancy soups, all the things no one wanted to throw out. 

Checking out was alright. Getting to the car was okay. Pulling up to the first shelter and doing a quick, rushed handoff felt… strange. You were shaking in the back of the car by the time you finished dropping off the third round of items, sweaty and tired from carrying all the boxes. Something nagged at you.

You cut the first day short and didn't end up shopping a second carful. Alfred made conversation on the route back about how he wished Bruce would be more proactive about using his money for public good, but he was grateful someone was stepping up. 

“You’d have much more to work with if Bruce tended to finances,” Alfred shared as he pulled into the garage. You quickly googled his net worth and your mouth went dry. He confirmed it was accurate, then sighed.

Still a billionaire by a mile. Their concept of money was peculiar.

Walking to the elevator with Alfred dehazed the experience of the private garage. Immaculate metal siding, clean kempt concrete, bright even lighting. Before, all you’d noticed was Bruce.

Was he really that encompassing from the beginning? 

The tower was gigantic. The elevator ride smooth and efficient, spacious. The foyer dated and gothic but nonetheless grand. 

It took twenty-one strides to walk from the entrance to the first stairstep. That was the length of your entire house. You looked to the right where he’d been bleeding back in Spring; if something happened to you, Bruce would make sure you got the best doctors on the planet. 

Deep breaths as you reached the top of the stairs—clean air. No musty scent from molded floorboards and walls. Secured windows without drafts. 

If you wanted, you could never leave this tower again. Get every new movie delivered to you in advance. Freshly prepared meals from a professional chef. All your affairs put in order, clothes washed and pressed, messes cleaned; you’d never have to lift a finger. 

The safety it provided was so wonderful as to have an edge, a bite, a cut. It wasn’t fair to hoard all the dense soil, to bloom in an otherwise untended garden. A bumble bee didn’t stay in its nest.

So you’d sleep past sunrise, your alarm went off later the next morning. Tuesday’s breakfast left a pang in your stomach as Bruce continued to sequester himself in the cave. You struggled not to show frustration when the paparazzi followed your car, pressed cameras around you while shopping. Smile. Wave. Eventually you just ignored them.

Who you couldn’t ignore were the public; a few people wandered up to you in various stores to take photos and ask about Bruce. How is he doing? was their question, usually including some version of What’s it like to date him? By the seventh person you rehearsed a standard answer: He’s great, it’s great. And we’re doing very well, thank you for asking.

Getting out of the big box stores brought one relief and another wound. Every time you did a donation handoff it felt like striking someone across the face. The imbalance was so great that it felt pitiful; you knew all the blankets and cakes in the world couldn’t make up for the penthouse you drove back to. Until your arms ached and your legs went sore from walking, you chased from center to center until they closed for the evening.  

The night brought no sleep. 

Alfred questioned why you were up so early the following day. You couldn’t tell him how your chest ached when you woke up from your nap to find an empty bed; you couldn’t express how even his company filled you with dread. When people questioned who the man with you was, the term butler singed your tongue. 

“He’s eaten, right?” 

“Yes, Miss.” His voice was stern across the table. “Though ensuring he eats is Bruce’s concern, not yours.” 

You didn’t ask again. 

Mar had at least responded that day, though late. Some brief exchanges about being moved into the tower, about her going on weeknight dates with Gianna, about needing to set up a date with you next week. You typed out a self-deprecating joke about those being the only dates you’d get, then deleted. It’d be a whole conversation about why Bruce wasn’t romancing you that you couldn’t speak to.

This cloud followed until Bruce’s shower shot icy water into the square of your back that night. Ambery body wash was sudsy in your hands, with iridescent bubbles you were suddenly far too tired to lather onto your skin. 

Doing what you could, you finished washing and dragged yourself back to his bed. His cologne had already been faint on the sheets and it was nonexistent now. You’d forgotten how hard it was to be alone and how pathetic it felt to struggle to keep your mind busy for even a few days. It hadn’t even been a fucking week back in Gotham. 

Your body kept you up most of the night for the third day in a row. Resolve had worn and the tight sieve opened to an overflowing bucket. The perception of you was now entirely out of your control; your ex friends—and exes, could look you up whenever they wanted, find wherever you were, join in on the hate at any moment. It was a matter of time before someone posted your address, names of family members, the car your dad drove. It hadn’t felt that bad when Bruce was around you.

The bed was worn in on the side closest to the door. You slipped to that side in the middle of the night and contoured to his shape. A headache woke you the next morning and you threw on the closest outfit to make do.

You seized the rare morning Alfred wasn’t in the kitchen and poured a bowl of cereal. Normalcy. A crumb of it. Please. 

And it helped, so much so that you went through half a box of frosted mini-wheats. 

Movement on the stairs made you rush to the main elevator and press DOWN, scrambling together a plan to meet Rai as you loaded up a rideshare app. Rai’s was the only grounding rod you could think of. 

The paparazzi followed your car but you didn't give a shit anymore. Didn’t give a shit pushing through them once they stopped at the curb. Plastered on a smile and rushed through the door to a bell ring and introduction that made your heart melt. 

A glance around showed the place was empty, typical for right before lunch. Back when you were a student, this was your only available time between classes to rush over and fill yourself at the deli. Your stomach hurt.

“Thank god. Hi, Rai.”

“Hey girl. Should I ask for your autograph?” Good natured as always, his curls bounced as he laughed. 

“That's actually the reason I'm here.” You ran your hands through your hair and tucked into the office behind the counter, keeping the door wide enough to talk to him but out of camera sight. 

“Stressing, huh?”

“Things just feel weird.” So exhausted, you almost remembered too late that you were in public; you tried to speak in generalities. “I haven't been very busy this week, and I’m trying to adjust to moving into his place and I feel… off. I don’t know, it feels like so much.”

“Squirrel.”

“Huh?”

He cast you a look like you'd gone mad. It made you acutely aware that you were an exceptionally awful friend who’d forgotten the code. 

“Okay, no. I'm not squirreling right now.”

“You got back on Saturday, man. Squirrel.”

“I just feel like I'm doing nothing and I don't know how not to feel like I'm in a fishbowl. A fishbowl with billions of fucking dollars that aren't even mine, it's not even mine!” You threw your hands up, frustrated.

Rai wiped his hands on a small rag and stepped into the office. “If it's not yours, it's not yours to worry about.”

“But I can do something. Anything, really. What do rich people do aside from rich people shit or helping people?”

“So he signed you over to the Wayne fortune, huh?”

“No.” You understood his point but felt too anxious to take it. “I don't know. I can't stop this comparison… the whole drive here I was looking out at the sidewalk at people who used to be me, and I just know if someone like me walked up to me back then and gave me money my life would be changed forever. Even just ten thousand dollars would’ve set me up. Bruce wouldn't even see that gone."

“You're still the person on the sidewalk. That money isn't yours.”

“I know but I have access to it. And people kill themselves from money problems, I could stop people from—”

“So you're playing god?”

“I don't think it's that simple, Rai. I need to do something while I wait for Bruce.”

“Wait for what?”

“I have some things I have to process with him before I can do much of anything.”

A customer came to buy a single bottle of Snapple apple. Would Bruce like that?

Rai made quick work ringing them up and came right around. “Can someone else help you process? Why's he so busy?”

“He just is. And he has very specific knowledge that I need, stuff that's critical to know before making a decision, and in order to do anything with my job I need to know that information, and so I'm stuck either wandering the tower or trying to talk to Mar but you know how she is, she's probably out with friends, I don't even know how she goes out every day,” you took a shallow, rapid breath, just enough to continue. “But some people are just made for this, you know? I'm not. I don't feel equipped to do anything, and I'm just running around town like some kind of fucking fairy trying to fix everything and I can't do that, I know that logically I can't do that,”

“Y/n.”

“But still I'm just doing random shit because I want to help, I do, I don't want people to suffer. I want to do something with my time that's productive. It feels disgusting to sit around and just wait. What am I supposed to do? Go to a movie? A bar? A restaurant? A couple months ago I could barely afford food and now I'm here? Sitting on my ass?”

“You're tired. Accomplish a nap.” 

“You do a lot of donating, I thought you'd understand.”

“I do a lot because I took it slow. I didn't burn out.” He crossed his arms, wrinkling the blue shirt he wore every Wednesday. You forgot about that. “I'm not confident anything would be enough though. For you.”

If he'd delivered that any less relaxed, you might've thought he was being rude. “What do you mean?”

“We used to tear those fools apart. Thought they were a joke. Good for nothing richies turning this city to shit.”

Your heart sank. He walked out to the fridges on the floor, grabbed a water, and handed it to you. The chill of the plastic made you sit a little taller. The liquid degunked your throat from the smog. 

“When you say that, it’s like you're describing me.”

“Exactly. You can't think like that.”

“How am I supposed to think? I don't want to be one of them.” You strangled the water bottle to abate quivering hands. “If I weren't me I'd hate me.”

I don't want to feel guilty for loving Bruce, either.

“You know where your heart is. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks.”

“But it does. I can't be complicit.”

“I can see the bags under your eyes. Let's talk more after you get some shuteye.”

This urgency wouldn't leave your body. You laid back in his loungy office chair, propped your feet up on the desk, and pulled your hood over your head. Suddenly you understood Bruce a lot more.

Waking up in Rai's office was more than jarring; you fell off the chair and slammed your knees into the concrete flooring. Swore a spider got scared out from under the desk and ran toward the wall. 

“Good timing.” Rai walked in with a duffel bag. “Deli just closed and every fridge is full. Unless your boyfriend is starving you, you can help that squirreling and drop off the extras at the women's shelter. Should be on the way back.”

You must've taken too long to log any type of reaction, still blinking sleep out of your eyes, because he dropped it with a loud sigh. “Or this is payback for that food I spot you a while ago.”

Oh shit. “Sorry, Rai,”

He wagged his finger at you and shook his head. “A year ago you would've joked back.” 

“I don't know. I still feel weird about being here, together with him, publicly. I didn't think I would.”

He clicked the door behind him and lowered his voice, sitting on the edge of one of his desks. “Weren't you two public before that trip?”

“Yes, but…” you quieted too in case some pap had an ultra-mega microphone. “It was… fake. Fake dating. It's a long story. But now it's real and there's videos of us near my hometown…”

While at the bar, a million cameras could’ve surfaced and you would’ve just smiled at them capturing your love. What had you told Bruce then? Let them? He was allowed to live? Why didn’t it feel like that now?

Something lovely about Rai was he didn't pry. “Gotham has teeth. Makes sense you're feeling it; you're the most popular topic the past few days.”

“I don't want to be a topic.”

“It's not fair, but it's not going to change.” His face was set in a sympathetic smile. “You just have to think about if he's worth it.”

“He is.” It fell out of you before conscious thought, but the thought matched it when it caught up. Losing the one person to ever reveal the color of euphoria was an obscene thought. 

Rai accepted this answer. “Then you’ll get used to it, don't worry.”

“What if I don't want to get used to it?”

He drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk as he stood up. “You decided to date Bruce Wayne. If low-profile is something you want, it's not with him. He's practically royalty, even trying to hide in the middle of nowhere.”

You fidgeted. Hard to hear, but honest. “I'm just glad you and Mar aren't treating me differently. It’s grounding.” 

“I'm not treating you differently because you haven't changed,” he reminded, grabbing a cardboard box to break down. “I'd be worried if you weren't stressed.”

“Because I need to be?”

“No,” Rai chided. “Because it shows you still care. And I'm sure you'll continue to.”

His sureness about your backbone was relieving, and you stepped onto that steady platform to get a breath of air. “You're right, I'm squirreling.”

“Yep.”

As you stood and brushed yourself off he put a hand on your shoulder. 

“But if it's ever too much and you need a safe place, come here.”

He held out a pair of keys that looked unused. “I don't want to take your spares.”

“I made them for you. Saw the chaos on the web.” He plopped them on the table and nodded for you to take them. “I want you to have a place to go, day or night. No problem. And that—” he pointed toward the minifridge under the desk where you thought the spider might've hidden behind, “is kept stocked with deli leftovers. Feel free.”

There was that reason you didn't hate Gotham: Rai's goodness. It radiated out of him like sunshine. 

You hugged him goodbye and grabbed the duffel, forcing yourself not to tear up so the cameras wouldn't catch it. 

You pushed through the crowd with your bag and tried to ignore the flashes of their cameras, their shouting, how the strangers in front of you dodged out your path like a flamethrower. Lowering your gaze, you focused on the cracks in the sidewalk.

This was still your city. Kinda. At least a city you'd be in for a while. A place that knew your loneliness like its own pulse; that knew the sweet electricity of wandering with Bruce; the solace you sought when the west got too dark. 

The swing in your step echoed what would come next. City Hall meetings each Thursday, rallies on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Screens that dried your eyes out and fingers tight from typing and researching. Finding that downtime with Bruce to tattoo more memories. 

As the street pressed on and the signals remained defective as ever, the line blurred. Being outside of tower walls and actually sitting in the city, tracing the cobbled steps you took before you ever knew him, brought you out of the clouds. You kicked a piece of broken glass off the curbside ramp.

The messiness of the city made you relax, unlike it ever had. You unhunched your shoulders and analyzed the overcast streets. The car lights, the drizzle of rain hitting your bare skin. Glistening dark puddles, the thunk of tires hitting potholes. Some man on his phone ranted about a game, another woman texted while repeatedly pulling a purse up her shoulder. Flashes of light to your right and left, cameras saying your name.

WALK.

A feeling of sonder struck you as you bumped shoulders with a pedestrian and the spotlight effect hushed. She readjusted her purse as she walked past, the man changed subjects on the phone, the signal got dimmer. The world went on without you; you didn’t keep it spinning. 

The sign for the women's shelter was very hidden, which you understood, and immediately felt awful about ducking into it with a gaggle of cameras outside. The volunteers asked if you were sent by Rai, recognizing the hot deli food, and you spent the final few minutes gushing about how wonderful he was to the community as you tracked your Uber’s arrival. 

It was easier feeling less alien when you weren’t driven by Alfred. It was possible to pretend nothing had changed and you were on your way back to your studio to eat some cold pasta. You rested your head on the chilly window and noticed how strange it was to romanticize a place you’d been so desperate to escape.

The ride up the elevator took eons this go-around. When you got to the kitchen to grab a snack, Alfred startled. You didn't think you'd seen him do that before. 

“Didn't know you were out.”

“I just went to visit a friend for a bit.” You swung open the fridge and then stalled, peeking over. “Do I need to notify you when I leave…?”

“It always helps if someone knows where you are, but no. You are not required.”

Dropping the miss, that was interesting. What did his schedule entail on Thursdays? Did he have a long talk with Bruce about you two missing a meeting tonight?  

“What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

“Well,” you grabbed a carrot and hummus platter. “I haven't thought that far ahead.”

“Good. You can help me in my study.”

“Oh, I—”

“Should only take an hour.” He pulled out his phone and typed something. “Let’s get this sorted through.”

Alfred was deceptively fast, good god, and you tripped trying to hurry up the stairs after him.

A plethora of jewelry sat out on his desk. Before you could ask, he answered. 

“From the Wayne archives. Mrs. Wayne never had the opportunity to wear most of them, but I try to keep the pieces nice and clean in her memory.” 

Christ, these looked about a billion dollars each. The diamonds sparkled like water; you'd never seen jewelry this reflective, this expensive, and when Alfred placed a necklace in your hand, that heavy. You quickly handed it back.

One of them stood out to you: a beautiful gold wedding ring. Alfred must've seen you stare at it because he picked it up with a gloved finger. 

“Mrs. Wayne was very modest, but she liked a bit of flair.”

He spun it to show the centered oval cut diamond on a mostly plain band, with two simple stud diamonds embedded into the band, evenly spaced on either side. 

“It's beautiful.”

Alfred nodded, used some sort of technique to shine it, then tucked it away. It seemed to match her; from photographs, she looked dainty. Were you the most boisterous person to walk these halls? 

He handed you a bracelet and a cloth. You reached out to grab it before you realized what he meant, then shied away. “I feel like I'm not qualified to touch them, Alfred.”

“Oh, you certainly are. Bruce gave the OK this morning.”

“I have no idea how to clean jewelry like this,”

“I'll show you.”

And boy did he—for the next hour you learned enough skills to snag a beginner position at a local jeweler. The ultrasonic machine was magic despite there being little to no visible dirt on any of the luxury pieces, and by the time you were finished, you began to squirrel again. You unboxed some of your purchases and placed them about Bruce’s room the rest of the afternoon to distract.

Thursday evening came with utmost relief. Digging around in the fridge, you placed the ingredients for tomorrow’s dinner in one section to make your job easier. Tacos weren’t especially romantic, but they were fun to make together and a nice bridge from coast to coast.  

On the uppermost floor you revisited the chaise; moonlight threaded between the fibers of the aged curtains and made quite the nook. Wedged between the wall and the cushion sat a book you hadn’t noticed before. 

Pushing the furniture away from the wall you pulled out A Study in Scarlet, a Penguin classics edition. A thick layer of dust had accumulated on its face. You settled in after wiping it off on the chaise’s edge and a bookmark nearly slipped out; you turned to its page. 

“That was it,” said Lestrade, in an awestruck voice, and we were all silent for a while.  There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about the deeds of this unknown assassin, that it imparted a fresh ghastliness to his crimes. My nerves, which were steady enough on the field of battle, tingled as I thought of it.

Getting cozy, you turned back to the beginning. It was a 2001 copy; he couldn’t have spent much time with it before his parents died, if he hadn’t read it later. 

Bruce must’ve liked it up here. A nice hideaway, just isolated enough to be in one’s own imagination. What had you been doing while he sat here and read mysteries? Did he return here when he was older, or had he abandoned it once the tower went silent?

You made it all the way to Holmes testing the pills on an unknowing canine before drifting off.

“Don't let me wake you, sweetheart.”

An elderly woman wearing a black dress with a lacy white collar smiled at you while she dusted. Her hair was in a kempt gray-white bob.

"Oh, hi," you swung your legs over the edge of the daybed. Smiled at her. Wondered what the hell time it was, wondered why you were so hungry. A book banged to the ground and you scrambled to recover it. “You're—” what the hell was her name?!

“Dory, ma'am. I'm Mr. Wayne's housekeeper. You're Ms. Y/l/n, correct?”

You nodded, rubbing your eyes to rouse yourself. “Yes. Y/n, actually. If you don't mind.”

“Of course not, dear. Mr. Pennyworth told me all about you and Mr. Wayne.”

She thought for a moment and turned to you, away from the bookcase. 

“If you could give me your schedule so I can have clothes pressed for you, that would be most convenient.”

She then asked if she might know which room you were staying in—“Bruce's”—and which items you'd like pressed for each event. You told her most of them hadn't arrived yet, but they would in the coming days. You agreed to leave the clothes you'd like pressed and returned in a wicker basket outside of his door. 

It was such a strange conversation—you'd seen similar ones the rare times you'd babysat for the kids of your parent's friends, how they'd have a maid swing by and fulfill household tasks. Dory was amicable, but that didn’t make it less bizarre.

You absently spun your bracelet around your wrist as you walked down the stairs to grab your phone. It snagged on your belt loop and you paused, making sure it didn't break and spill out over the marble, your heart racing. 

Was it better to preserve the bracelet or wear it out?

The glow of your phone on the nightstand revealed you’d slept for twelve hours. Starved, you sought the kitchen for another round of cereal.

Roses and peonies kept a gorgeous atmosphere, but you couldn’t give them all the credit for your bright spirit. Every thought was lifted by the wind of date-night excitement. 

Getting things in order was shockingly fun. First: quick stops at a few places downtown for gifts. Second: setting aside a dress and heels from the new arrivals. 

You laid out an outfit for him too, knowing he'd probably come up from the cave covered in car grease and sweat and deserved a shower. Prideful as you were for making it to Friday without completely losing your mind, that impatience lingered.

This tension followed to early evening, when the room was adequately rearranged and your toiletries populated his bathroom. Your attention kept turning to his clothes laid out on his dresser, his uncapped cologne wafting just enough of his scent to tease. 

The plush rug under his bed soothed your tired feet, serenading you towards scuttling under the covers. His comforter was heavy and thick, inviting just enough pressure for your eyes to flutter shut and lewd thoughts to tempt you.

The door was open a crack so you couldn't exactly do all that you wanted. You let your body relax, resting into his smell, your skin hot with the memory of his touch. Between layers of his bedsheets you slid your hand between your thighs, began to picture all he might do tonight, how much you’d missed each other and all the ways it could be expressed. Slowly. 

The first time in his bed needed to be slow. 

You turned your head into the pillow and stifled a moan. His whispers vibrated in your ear like he was here, as he instructed you to touch yourself and you pretended to hate following orders, as he teased about your goosebumps giving you away, that you got off to this, running his fingers down your sensitive throat down to your belly where he'd grip your hips, ask you to spell out what you wanted, to use your words; oh, you needed him to call the shots tonight, in his room, his mattress, please...

A knock made you jump. Dory's weathered, warm voice rang from just beyond the doorway. “Miss Y/n, I pressed some of you and Mr. Wayne's clothing. I'll leave it folded at the door. Would you like any help before I leave for the day?" 

“Uh,” you sat up and pressed the heel of your palm to your forehead, your heart rate stuttering. “I don’t think so, no. Thank you though—Dory! Have a good night!”

It was half past five. You hustled to get ready, slamming in earrings and speeding on makeup after slipping into your dress and heels. 

All light had already left and the moon wasn't high enough to shine into the kitchen yet. You switched a couple overhead lights on and got to making the tortillas, stressing at the clock waiting for the dough to rise as time bled into six. At which point, you heard every shift of the tower and turned toward each sound with mounting intrigue. 

You finished making the tortillas around six thirty. By six forty you had your phone out on the table, writing a quick text before going back to the meat on the stove.

Hey babe, everything's ready! If it's going to be much longer, let me kn

The elevator clunked open and you dashed out of your seat. His hair hung limp, his clothes wore baggy on his frame. His shirt had a ripped collar and holes scattered throughout the chest. Hugging him was a crisp pool in the desert. 

Giddy, you stepped back to look at him. Those same gorgeous blue eyes, his textured skin with its little lines. It was worth it. It would always be worth it.

“Bruce, oh my god I’m happy to see you.” Your smile bit into your cheeks. As you scanned his face and came back to Earth, his expression looked… upset. In his clenched right hand was a tan folder, but otherwise he had nothing else on him. 

“What's that for?” you asked, walking to the table to push the candle in a foot. His overshirt was far too flowy. 

“A case.”

He sounded like sandpaper. You were too excited to slow down. 

“I have an outfit laid out for you upstairs, only if you'd like to change. Don't have to, but might want to get cleaned up if it's more comfortable?”

Bruce shook his head. “I'm alright.”

Transitioning from the cave to date night couldn’t be easy, especially after a week. Gifts might help with that. Bring him into the space, ground him to it. “I got you some things.”

You grabbed the box from his tablesetting and held it out for him to take. His morose didn’t shift, but he did look down at it. 

“I know the public knows that we're together,” you started, pulling apart the velvet ribbon to unpack it. Lifting the lid revealed a thin silver bracelet. “But they don't know the real us, you know? This way we can have something similar but not give too much away to them.”

He absently held out his wrist, almost dazed. You undid the homemade one and gently placed it in the designer box. He stammered when he spoke. “What about those ones?”

“I figured we could keep the other bracelets here, wear them on our private dates. Wear them around the house—Tower.” you corrected, feeling heat spread across your face as you clicked it onto his wrist. “It's just to keep them safe, you know? I'm not overthinking things, I'm…” You took a deep breath.

A second bracelet materialized from the box and you held out your wrist, grinning. 

“My turn, babe.”

His expression flickered at the pet name. Good. He was getting acclimated. 

“The paparazzi, the public, I'm starting to deal with it better, actually.” Butterflies flew when he righted the bracelet and ensured it hung well on your wrist. You continued, smiling as his fingers grazed your skin. “It'll take more time to feel it out, but it doesn't have to make me spiral.” 

He didn't linger past that, immediately moving his hands to his sides. Something was off, he was stilted. 

You looked into his eyes against the rising tide of anxiety. For him to act like this off the heels of what was, for all intents and purposes, a honeymoon, was unsettling. Shouldn’t he have more joy at reconnecting? 

You turned back to the stove when you smelled something burning. Perhaps explaining more to him would help? “I just want some things to still be ours. I figured you could understand that better than anyone.”

You moved the meat off the heat and made an appreciative comment about the rosé and how he remembered so much. He didn’t move from across the kitchen. 

“I made tacos. I thought we could put the fixings on them together—oh my god, I almost forgot.” You licked your finger that had some seasoning on it and spun around, hurrying to the hallway and arriving with a bouquet of midnight calla lilies. 

“Since you were so generous with your flower-giving, I figured it was only fair to get some for you. And not only fair,” you stumbled through the gift, hyperaware of and equally confused why you were fumbling. Your body held the same nerves as public speaking.

“You know, just… yeah. I want to give them to you. I don't know. I'm feeling kinda like, flustered? After our time apart?”

Bruce’s face kept flat but he took the flowers. He took the flowers. 

You rushed to get out the tortillas. “I forgot to ask, are you okay with corn? I made some flour tortillas just in case, I don't know which you prefer.”

His response was walking toward the kitchen island and gingerly placing the flowers. You swallowed and shifted the subject. 

“Later I'll need your help figuring out what to do about the Gazette situation.”

This one made him reply.

“Did something happen with Vry?”

His voice sounded drier now that he had to project it. This was easier, he was talking.

“No, no. I've just been wondering if I should go independent.” Since he didn't answer, you just chose corn. The oil sizzled when you placed one on the pan. “At the rally, March didn't want to meet with me unless I was solo. And with Dr. Vry already firing me once, I mean, I guess that was before she knew we were dating, before we were,”

He waited until you finished building a taco before responding. 

“I never asked: why did you leave Gotham after Vry fired you last month?”

“Because she fired me… I told you.” You added another tortilla to the oil. Thank god the conversation was getting more casual.

“I know that. But leaving immediately?”

“Yeah.” You took a swig of water, careful not to smudge your lipgloss as best you could. He sounded strained.

“My mom was leaving on a cruise and I didn't want Debbie to have to take care of Walter. She can be so loud, and Gotham was honestly really depressing me,”

“What were you thinking about?”

He hurried that question out, barely waiting for you to finish. 

“I don't know, I really just want to get eating.” You flipped a second taco. “This was a convo for later, remember? We have a date to get to.”

“Did you come back the day of my attempt?”

That was what felt so weird: he sounded like fucking Batman. 

“I came back a few days before. Wanted to research for the interview.”

“Is that all you did the days before? Research?”

“I think so.” A third taco, en route.

“Think so?”

His tone gave you pause. 

“Why?” You added more meat to the tortilla, wishing you hadn't waited for him to arrive so things weren’t so rushed. “Did something come back about your attempt?"

He continued like you hadn't spoken. You couldn't look at him because the oil started to pop. “Did you go anywhere before that Thursday? On Wednesday? Before the meeting? Tuesday?”

“I met with Dr. Vry to grab supplies right before the meeting, but that's it. I wanted to have the best questions so I took my time.”

“Why did you want the best questions?”

“It was your first interview. I knew every eye in the world would be on it.”

“And what did that feel like?”

“What did what—”

“What did it feel like knowing it would be popular?”

You shrugged. “Scary. Good.”

“Why?”

You decided he must've seen stuff in the press; he’d seen the viral posts and came up to have a hard conversation when it didn’t need to be one. His anxiety about you getting hurt was endearing, but he couldn’t keep you in a box. You’d already reassured him to hell and back. 

“I promise, I'm fine with the press. And one day it'll feel super normal, I'm sure. Or a version of it.”

You turned the heat down and soothed a corner of your finger that got hit by rogue EVOO.

“You did nothing but research those days before my attempt?”

You peeked over your shoulder and he stared into you with a squeezed brow. Wanting to bend the mood back, you half-laughed. “Absolutely nothing. Life was riveting. And I got back on Monday I think.”

“You think?”

“Bruce.” You spun around and gave him a look. His stare didn’t shift. “I don't know. I'm pretty sure I didn’t go anywhere, yes. As for what I did, I just stayed in my apartment. Cleaned stuff up.”

“You said you researched.”

“I didn't spend every waking moment at my computer, I also thought I was leaving later that week, so. I cleaned some. But that's it.”

He paused. You worked to assemble a few more tacos.

“Did you do anything the days after, then? The two days after?”

“No. Not outside of the stuff with you.” you replied. “Trying to keep you alive.”

“You didn't go anywhere but to Wayne Tower and back?”

“No… Actually, I might've gone to Rai's. Maybe. I don't know. It's fuzzy.” You snuck a bite of the cooked meat and added a touch more salt. 

“Why is it fuzzy?”

“Why wouldn't it be? I was terrified you were gonna die.”

At this point he had properly frustrated you. This wasn't how you wanted to start date night.

“Did you go anywhere else? Anywhere southwest?” He continued his questions without apology and no sign of stopping.

If he was ruminating on that night, you wouldn’t let it carry on. Retracing his steps, stressing, it wouldn’t do him good. Was that why he looked so haggard? Had this been the thing on his mind all week? He kept looking at the clock like he couldn’t wait to get back down there. 

“No, I didn’t. And you look wiped out. We should eat.”

“What'd you do after I left your apartment that night? After the interview?”

“Right before your attempt?” You wondered how much longer to humor him for. 

“Yes. After I left, what did you do?”

“Bruce, you said you didn't want to relive it. You haven't eaten a proper meal in days for all I know—”

“When I left your apartment after doing the written interview what did you do the rest of the night? The whole night until morning?”

You slowed. Was it something with Oz? 

His stare was unrelenting. He hadn't looked at you like that since—

“The night of my attempt. After I left. What did you do until morning?”

An uncomfortable pang banged around your stomach. This wasn't the warmth you'd wanted, this wasn’t how the evening was supposed to go. “I stayed home. I wrote the interview out, it took all night. I barely slept before I had to wake up and turn it in.”

“After I left, you never stepped outside of your apartment until the next morning when you went directly to GU campus?”

“After you left, I never stepped outside of my apartment until the next morning when I went directly to GU campus, yes.” It was challenging not to snap at him. “Can we eat now?”

He didn't ask anything after that and you didn't bother to check how he reacted. You still had a handful of tortillas and a bit more meat, the only one seemingly invested in this ‘date’.

“Originally my plan was for us to cook these together but you didn't end up coming up until forty minutes into our date. That's pretty late, dude.”

Why did you sound so… peeved? Suddenly your skin lit up like ants. You shoved the meat into a taco shell and felt hot tears sting your lashline. 

“Y/n, I know.”

You wiped your eyes. It stung for him to be late, fuck. It stung for him to grill you when all you wanted was to connect, to be let in. “You know, but do you care?”

Bruce scoffed behind you; you had a physical reaction to the sound. “Of course I care about that.”

“Well if your way of showing it is getting all quiet and stiff, I don't fucking appreciate it.”

“How am I supposed to act?”

“That sounds really defensive, Bruce.”

“Why don't you care that I know?”

“We both know, the clock's right there.”

“Alfred told you?”

“No, he didn’t.” A tortilla split in the pan, sending sizzles of oil up to your hand. You cursed and grabbed a spatula. “So you knew earlier and didn't tell me? I could’ve waited on these bullshit tacos.”

He was doing it again, folding into himself and disregarding everything else. Your heel clacked against the porcelain tiles as you tried to burn off the anxiety.

“I knew if I came up earlier, I might stop looking.” His sigh was shaky. “I couldn’t see you until I knew. Not until I was sure. I needed to know if… if there was a way it wasn’t… any other reason to explain it.” He trailed off, exasperated. “I just couldn’t believe it.”

His voice had a hue it'd never had before—Jersey. It slipped into the edges and curves of his words. You softened; Bruce was always concerned with being the perfect boyfriend, these were the first days of something so scary to him. He didn’t need to wrack himself with guilt. 

“Bruce, it’s not that big of a deal. Let's just eat and—”

From the corner of your vision his devastation shifted to a glare, his tone incredulous. “Not that big of a deal?”

“I just snapped and I didn't mean to, I'm sorry. We're both upset right now so let's just put it behind us. Start fresh, alright?”

“Why are you so casual about this?”

Being late to a date wasn’t a cardinal sin. If you looked at it another way, the fact this felt high stakes was good: it meant you both cared. 

“What happened happened. We haven't interacted in a while; all we need is some time together to smooth it over. You still love me, I still love you.”

You took a second to breathe.

“When I said I love you, I didn't know you tried to kill me.”

A hunk of taco meat fell onto the stovetop as his statement fizzed through you. You whirled around.

“What?”

“It's all here.” Bruce took the manila folder and plopped it on the table. 

When you gave him a wary look, he didn't falter. If the mood were any less dour, you might’ve thought he was playing a sick joke. 

Bewildered, you approached the folder and flipped it open. Your name was centered and bolded; italicized underneath were the words Active / Susp. of: Aggravated Assault, Conveying False Information, Trespassing, Attempted Murder: 2nd Degree. 

“I don't understand.”

“What don't you understand?”

You turned the page to a dense list of items precisely labeled as: Evidence.

Suspect matches latent prints and hair sample found at scene. Victim wounds do not corroborate self-injury.

The remainder of the first page was purely clinical, detailing sample testing and demographics with a byline for each potential sentence. He was miserably silent, leaving only the sound of your heart thumping. 

“Bruce, I didn't—I didn't do this.” Your hands shook as you clumsily thumbed through dozens of interactions with him over the past few months. “Killing you? It doesn't—no, this isn't—I don't get it. What do you mean? Like, I tried to fucking murder you—? No. No.”

“Explain it to me then. How were your prints there? Why did you wait a month after that night to bring me back to Gotham? Why’d you extend our trip after calling Crane?”

It was hard to see the words as your vision clouded. When you turned to a page labeled Index, printed screenshots of your call log and internet history were highlighted with the same timestamps as everything else. You couldn't swallow any of it, the words blurring and leaving.

You gripped the back of a chair to steady yourself. The noiseless tower sent a shiver up your spine, your knuckles working the glazed wood. 

“Do you really think I pushed you?”

Your voice rang hollower than anything had in the tower. 

“Knowing damn well your apartment complex only keeps footage for thirty days. That the second you got off the phone with him you searched prison sentences, Blackgate—what did your friend say? Did she promise to keep it a secret?”

“Bruce, I didn’t think—I didn’t think about—nothing. None of that is related, I didn’t do this.” Your head spun, unable to form a coherent thought. 

“How did that come out again? When you ‘confessed’ to the ‘lie’? How did you say it? You panicked when it slipped.”

“I don’t remember.” You couldn’t breathe. “I don’t know anything right now.”

Bruce gave you a long, weighted stare. The stillness ate you alive by the time he turned around.

“Meet me in the garage.”

You dashed after him and wedged yourself in front of the elevator. Air fell out of you in buckets. “Bruce.”

He winced. You tried to look in his eyes but he wouldn't make contact, his face twitching on the verge of tears. When he wouldn't respond you grabbed his arm and he flinched away. 

Adrenaline coated every thought.

“Let's—let's talk about it, okay? I’ll calm down, let’s just take a minute so I can breathe. We can figure out how it happened. They found my prints on some pole at the scene? Some doorknob? My hair there? How often are those false matches? And the timing, the calls, the lie, and the stuff with Aaron, and my searches, um,” you mentally reviewed the murky memory of flipping through the pages. “All those conversations you listed, they, they're not that, not like that at all, you know, um,"

Goddammit, you still couldn't think!

A last hail-mary, a final desperate attempt to squeeze some air into collapsing lungs. You knew that fucking look of his, except its lines were even deeper and more resigned than out on your back porch. 

“Everything in there has a context. It's an awful misunderstanding.”

“Is it now?”

“Yes, I promise. Can we just sit down?”

That word, ‘promise’—he shuddered when you said it.

You attempted to touch his wrist but he stepped away. Was anything even real right now? 

“We've got to go.”

He looked cold. Distant. Like the version of Bruce telling you to scram from that alleyway and never come back. 

Except that felt better. That felt so much better than this. 

“We need to get on the same page. Obviously something convinced you—”

“And what would getting on the same page mean?”

Your hands felt emptier than they ever had now that he'd rejected them. It filled you with intolerable feelings that started to bleed out. “That I obviously didn't do it. That it's ridiculous to think—”

“Ridiculous?”

“Fucking ridiculous, yeah! I don't know why you'd believe some shit like that—”

“Trying to convince me I'm wrong again?”

His voice was thin as it had been at The Moore.

Fuck. He was right there, touchable, yours, but he wouldn't allow it. You reached for Bruce again, gently, and he avoided it.

“No, I'm so jumbled right now, I just don't understand why that would make sense to you, that's all, so obviously we need to talk about it and get on the same—”

“It's all in that case file you want to dismiss.”

“Those are—no, we need to sit and talk it over because those are—”

His step back became a hard step forward. “You need to start being honest with me.”

“I am being honest! If we could talk—”

“At this point it's not a question of if, but why—”

“Why would I do something like—”

“I can think of a dozen reasons—”

“Like what? I love you, I would never—”

He counted on his fingers at rapid speed. “Fame; security; sympathy; money; revenge—”

“Who do you think I am—”

“I don't know!”

It was impossible for that one not to leave a mark; you gritted your teeth and hurled back, “You know me. If you don't know me, then no one—”

“Why did you do it?”

“I didn't do—”

“I don't know who you think you're fooling right now,”

You could excuse yourself and allow you both to cool down; being this dysregulated was no state to argue in. But at this point you didn't know if you were stretching out the argument just so he'd come closer, not knowing what might happen if either of you left this room. 

Still, you needed to diffuse this before he ran. Maybe something more was going on with him; maybe you needed to state it all directly.

“I'm not fooling anyone. I love you and I would absolutely never—”

“Did you think you got away with it? Or did you think I'd forgive you if you made me love you first?”

The wind knocked out of you. “None of that,”

He glanced at the clock and opened his mouth; you interrupted despite the nausea ravaging, feeling him slipping through your fingers. 

“Can you let me talk?!”

He pushed past you. “We're almost late.”

“What are you talking about? Come on—”

You yanked at the tail of his shirt and he easily stepped out of your sweaty grasp. 

“Are you serious? Just dropping this on me—I can’t think.” You braced your hands on your thighs and bent forward, breathing through a straw. You righted too quickly and a sharp gasp came out with your exhale. “I just need fucking five minutes, please.” 

“Can you say anything other than you didn’t do it? Anything about your evidence at the scene?”

You blinked to clear your vision. Bruce looked pleading, brows knit, begging. Your hands slapped to your sides, your very blood drained out of you.

“I didn’t leave my apartment. I didn’t do it.”

His eye contact was staggering; if you’d been in your body it would’ve taken you out of it. Your truth glanced off of him.

Bruce grabbed the folder, turned off the stove, and headed for the rickety elevator. “We’ve got to go.”

“Where are we going?” The only reason your feet followed was a desperate desire not to lose contact. He walked so fast he made a breeze.

“Cases like these require evaluation.” The door opened without him breaking stride. “I’m taking you to Arkham.”