#obssesion

And Jack couldn’t stop staring at you like he’d found the love of his life. His hazel eyes trailed along your body, and a deep blush painted across your face. You’d caught him staring across the ER, but instead of looking away, he kept eye contact while his hands moved across a tablet. In one blink, he was moving toward you like a man on a mission. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe under the weight of his gaze. 

In fewer than five steps, Jack closed in on you, and his hands lifted just to grip your hips and pull you into his orbit. Your breath hitched high in your throat at his closeness. Around you, the Pitt melted away, and all you could feel was Jack, Jack, Jack—

“Earth to Y/n!” 

A snap near your face had you leaning back away from your phone. Your eyes widened as you stared at your small friend group. Suddenly, the entire world around you came crashing down in overlapping voices and the distinct smell of mall food, an odd combination of Japanese, Pizza, and sub sandwiches. Your phone stayed open to the latest chapter of your favorite Jack Abbot fanfic, and now looking at your friends, you knew you’d been caught. You quickly shut off your phone and placed it face down on the sticky table. 

“Sorry,” you muttered. “What were you saying?” 

Your best friend, Sarah, rolled her eyes. “You’d know what we were saying if you weren’t nose first in your phone. What was it this time? One of those smutty fanfics you’re so into these days?” 

“It’s definitely one about that silver-haired doctor,” your other friend, Haley, chimed in. “What’s his name again? Jake?” 

“Jack,” you shot out before realizing your mistake. You’d come off too strong, and your friends ate it up like vultures. “I-I mean—” 

“You really need to get laid,” Sarah told you, voice dipping into a border-line condescending tone. “Your daddy issues are showing, babes.” 

“I don’t have daddy issues.” You rolled your eyes before taking a bite of your now-cooling food, slimy noodles sliding down your throat in one swallow. “And I don’t want to get laid. I’m perfectly content where I’m at; thank you very little.” 

Haley hummed. “You’re telling me that you’re happy reading hours and hours of fictional worlds while you could be out and about meeting new people. What if your future husband looks like this Jett?” 

“Jack,” you corrected—again. “And I don’t want a future husband unless he looks like Shawn Hatosy dressed in a SWAT uniform.” 

“You are so down bad for a fictional man. When was the last time you had an interest in someone who was actually . . . real?” 

You pursed your lips when no names came to mind. To get them off your back you could have mentioned the two-second crush you had on Luke Davis way back in ninth grade. But he had been eliminated from the list the moment you got back home and pulled out a Bucky Barnes fanfic where you found out you wouldn’t mind an older man calling you doll. And plus, ninth grade was almost fifteen years ago. Confessing that while currently being in grad school at the ripe age of 24 would have been more embarrassing than saying nothing at all. 

“A while,” you spat after settling on a response. “But the modern online dating field is not for me. Every time I try one of the apps, I either get insulted or an unsolicited 3-inch-dick pic like it’s supposed to impress me. Unless you two have a magical solution to find me the picture-perfect man, I’m perfectly okay spending my time reading fanfiction.” 

You went to spoon in another bite, but you noticed the way they glanced at each other. The corner of your lips tugged downward. “What? Why are you two looking at each other like that?” 

Sarah sucked in a breath. “We weren’t going to say anything but—” 

“But you look like you need it,” Haley finished the sentence before turning, hands already deep in her purse on the chair next to her. 

You tried to not be offended by her words, but an ugly feeling bloomed in your chest. You hated the way they judged you. Fanfiction had quickly become a paradise away from the ugly world you lived in. If a few chapters and one shots here and there helped your mental health stay regulated, you saw no harm in divulging into the world of fiction. It also helped that most of the fics you read were tagged with “x-reader;” the idea of getting to put your name mixed in with iconic characters kept you feeling alive. Authors let you live lives you could never do in the real world. How could you give up that kind of mental freedom? 

“Here,” Haley finally said as she pushed something towards you. 

You eyed the red and white packaging with the words One Wish Willow written in fun lettering along with two cartoon drawn people. Hesitantly, you grabbed it and brought it closer to read. 

“The guy at the store said they actually work,” Sarah explained. “You state a wish and break it, then tadaaaa your wish comes true.” 

Looking at it while spinning it in your hands, your nose crinkled. What Sarah just said sounded way too good to be true. 

“There’s no way,” you said, a bit awestruck. Your thumb ran across the words on the back of the package: Spark the middle and break in half. “I think you both got scammed.” You placed it back down on the table, but one look at the two of them gave you a sinking feeling in your stomach. “You two actually believe this shit?”   

“Look, Y/n, we just want to look out for you,” Sarah said slowly as if she were talking to a child. “And if it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work, but there’s no harm in trying. But we can’t sit here and let you go on like this. Before you know it, you’re going to be fifty, living alone, and still reading stories about fictional characters. I mean, look at yourself.” 

To your surprise, Haley nodded along. “Grad school is killing you. And you can’t say that you’ll find a man once you graduate. Because by then, you’re going to find another excuse.”

You eyed the thing as their words sank thorns into your soul, and for some odd reason, you felt compelled to pick it back up again. You don’t know if it was the idea that any wish you made would come true or the desire to prove them both wrong, but instead of leaving it there for them to take back, you grabbed it and pushed it deep in your purse. 

“Whatever. But when it doesn’t work, I’m totally rubbing it in both your faces,” you said. 

Finally, you shoved the last bite of your food into your mouth, but your mind was racing with the possibilities of what you could use the one wish willow for. Sure, Sarah and Haley wanted you to use it to get a boyfriend, but honestly, that seemed boring. The world, hypothetically, could be at your fingertips. What was stopping you from using it to become a millionaire, change everything you hated about yourself, stop world hunger. 

The possibilities seemed to endlessly swim around your brain while you drove back home from the mall, the sky already dimming the closer you got to your destination. You sighed in relief once you pulled into your driveway and leaned your head against the steering wheel, eyes flitting towards your bag. Your fingers itched to pull the One Wish Willow out, and you, against everything, obeyed them. You picked at the heavy paper packaging, and the branch slid out right into your palm. 

It was dark and hole-filled, and it barely weighed anything. You guessed that was necessary for easy breakage when you used it. You read over the instructions one more time before taking each end, holding it a few inches from your face. 

Outside, the night was quiet. There were no joggers, no late-night walkers, no one to witness what you were about to do. You inhaled sharply and lowered the branch. 

“This is stupid,” you mumbled to yourself. 

You almost put the branch back in the packaging, but your phone screen lighting up stopped you. You glanced over and caught the notification. A quick read told you that another author had updated a Jack Abbot series. Your heart panged. 

Were you truly going to be alone forever, stuck reading fanfiction well into your fifties while pretending you lived in a different universe?  

Before you could second guess yourself again, you took a hold of the branch. 

“I wish Jack Abbot was real and would love me and do anything for me like he does in fanfiction.”

The branch snapped in two. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, and your body tensed as you waited for something like a huge explosion to happen and for Jack to appear like some mythical genie. But when everything stayed quiet, you slowly opened your eyes. Frustrated tears welled in your lash line, and you threw the two pieces of the branch somewhere deep in your car. You jerked the door open and all but slammed it closed. Each step you took to your house reverberated into the concrete walkway. The automatic lights turned on while you unlocked the door with shaking hands, and the key missed twice before finally going in. With a harsh shove, the front door gave way into a dark home. By the looks of it, your mom probably wasn’t home, or every light inside would have been on. 

An eeriness crept over you, but through your glossy eyes and overwhelming feelings of loneliness, you brushed it off. The One Wish Willow was an absolute joke, and you knew you should have texted Sarah and Haley that it hadn’t worked. Your chest tightened once you realized exactly why you didn’t want to rub it in their faces right away. In the car, you’d given yourself the smallest morsel of hope that it would actually work. The idea of having your own Jack Abbot had taken over quicker than you would have liked. Even with all your constant reassurances to Sarah and Haley that you didn’t want a man, that you were happy with being alone, you were beginning to feel the crux of being the last single person in your friend group.  

Even the promise of a new chapter once you shuffled into bed wasn’t enough to lift your mood. But as you tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep, you reached for your phone in need of familiar comfort. Your thumb pressed on the white T icon, and you scrolled until one caught your eye. The tags used xreader, but as you scrolled, you couldn’t help but notice something peculiar. 

Instead of the normal “Y/n” whenever Jack would “say” the reader’s name, your actual name stared back at you in every paragraph. 

You blinked a few times, wondering if you’d gotten to the point where “Y/n” automatically became your given name. But when the words didn’t change, your brows pinched. You didn’t have any added mods, and the author stated that they hadn’t given the reader a special nickname or anything of the sorts. You scrolled up until the page refreshed. 

Surely there was a glitch you thought. 

However, after the loading symbol went away, your name continued to be written in the fic. On one hand, you knew you should have put the phone down; obviously you were tired and sad and currently hallucinating. Yet, you continued reading on, already sucked deep into the story. 

Jack didn’t know what to do; you’d disappeared on him after an argument. His calls went unanswered, his messages left unread. His heart raced below his sternum in a panicked rhythm. He couldn’t lose you, not after he already lost his wife. He refused to lose you. With a sharp inhale, he turned and faced an empty space to his right, hazel eyes boring into the reader’s—wait. 

You pulled your phone away from your face as you sat up. Had you read that correctly? 

—hazel eyes boring into the reader’s. He stood still, seemingly knowing that there was a presence he couldn’t see but could always feel. 

“I’ll be there soon, sweetheart,” Jack spoke to no one. “And when I find you, I’m going to make you so, so, so, so happy. I’m exactly what you need and want. I—”

Your phone screen went black after you pushed in the power button. The eerie feeling from earlier grew at the base of your skull, and your skin pricked with the sensation that someone was watching you. Your face whipped to the far corner of your room, the one that was always half-cast with a shadow after the sun went down. Logically, you knew no one was standing there, but you turned your flashlight on anyway. A quick scan around the room settled you some but not entirely. 

You slowly lowered back down into your bed and pulled the covers up to your chin. Thankfully, sleep was already licking at the edges of your mind. But as you lolled into its grasp, you couldn’t rid yourself of what the author made Jack say at the end. 

—I won’t hesitate to do anything to make you mine. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Two loud knocks at the front door followed by your mom screaming Y/n! Get your ass down here and answer the fucking door! had you shooting up from your bed. 

Without even looking at yourself, you scampered down the stairs in just a pair of sweatpants and a tank top. You had no time to even think about what the person on the other side could even want before you wrenched the door open, and all reminders to look through the peep hole first failed entirely. Sun spots swirled in your vision, but once they settled enough for you to see who had been knocking, you froze entirely. 

“There you are, sweetheart.”  

You knew that voice. You’d heard that voice clearly through your TV speakers. 

Your eyes widened, and a breath hitched high in your throat. You gripped the sides of the threshold with white knuckles. For a split-second, you wondered if you were still dreaming before wondering if you’d died in your sleep, because there was absolutely no fucking way the man standing on your doorstep was actually who you thought it would be. 

Your body jolted under a firm hand, and you whirled around to see your mother’s figure standing behind you. She eyed you carefully before putting on a smile that only you knew to be very fake. 

“Hi there,” she said loudly, voice too chipper for 8:15 am. “How can we help you?” 

The salt-and-pepper-curly-haired man smiled warmly, and his hazel eyes never left yours. “Baby, you didn’t tell your mom about me?” he chuckled like this was all some inside joke. 

Your mom glared at you from the side of her eye. “Baby?” 

“I really should have called beforehand that I was on my way over,” he explained before thrusting out his large hand. “Jack Abbot. It’s nice to meet my girl’s mom.” 

The way he said my girl had your heart racing for more than one reason. The main one being you’d never met this man in your entire life, unless you counted the multitude of fics you consumed to the point you felt like you did know him—Jack. But that was all fiction uploaded to multiple websites, yet the man standing less than a foot away from you looked real and not a figment of your wild imagination. Hell, even your mom saw him, so to some degree you knew you were hallucinating or weren’t dead upstairs.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Jack. I’m sorry you’ve seemed to slip my daughter’s mind,” she hissed the last bit out. “Come inside please.” She yanked you away from the door and whispered harshly in your ear, “You could have told me about this.” 

Your jaw dropped before snapping back shut when your mind refused to catch up to the situation. Jack—if you could even think of him as your beloved fictional character—stepped forward and placed a hand to the small of your back. His touch felt like electricity, white hot and zipping up your spine. He softly pushed you along until he fully got inside your hours. 

“Jack, let’s get you into the kitchen! I’m sure I can make a quick breakfast for us while Y/n changes upstairs,” your mom stated, but the suggestiveness in her gaze wasn’t as subtle as she thought it was. 

Jack clicked his tongue against his cheek. “That sounds lovely, but I’m afraid I already made plans with Y/n to go out for breakfast.” He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you in like a rag doll. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart,” he cooed. 

As if a spell had been cast over you, you nodded numbly. “Yeah,” you managed to croak. “We’re going out for breakfast.” 

“Let’s get you changed, baby, and then we’ll get heading out,” he said. “It was nice meeting you.” With not another glance toward you mom, he walked you over to the staircase and motioned for you to go first. 

Once the two of you made it into your room, you closed the door before pushing your back against the grain to put some space between you and supposedly Jack Abbot.  

“Okay, what the fuck man,” you sneered. “Is this some stupid cosplay? Did Sarah and Haley put you up to this? Because coming to my house and pretending we know each other let alone dating is downright creepy and stalker behavior.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said while cocking his head to the side. “Did you hit your head? Should I look at it for you?” He stepped forward and raised his hands, but you were quick to shake your head. 

“No; I’m fine,” you said. “I’m just . . .” You closed your eyes. “I don’t know why you’re here. You don’t exist here.” 

Jack paused for a minute before laughing loudly. “Baby, are you taking the piss? Of course I exist here; you know I exist only for you.” This time, he walked until your fronts were almost pressing. The warm, spicy scent of his cologne hit your nose. His hands did not touch you, but the twitches in his fingers told you he wanted to. “I told you last night that I’d come find you, baby.” 

“Huh?” 

Jack’s eyebrows furrowed. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head? You asked for me last night after the mall. I know I’m old, but how could you forget so soon, baby?” 

His words hit you like an 18-wheeler to the stomach. 

The broken-in-two One Wish Willow that remained in your car filled your thoughts. You swore it hadn’t worked, because last night nothing had happened. And then you remembered one of the fine print warnings. 

*Wait up to 24 hours for your wish to come true.

It was as if it all made sense now. The fucking gimmick worked; you couldn’t rub it’s failure in Sarah and Haley’s faces anymore. Jack fucking Abbot was in your bedroom acting like the two of you were romantically together. 

Your wish—against all odds—had come true. 

Happiness washed over you like a tidal wave, and you stepped right into Jack’s orbit, arms coming up to wrap around his middle. You couldn’t believe the way you fit right into his chest, and you were elated to hear his heart beat so fast at your closeness. 

“There you go, pretty girl,” Jack whispered against your temple. His hand gently rested against the back of your head. “I’ve missed you so, so, so, so much. I’m yours forever; I’ll do anything for you.” 

In the throes of his whispered promises, you forgot about the smallest warning buried within the fine print of the One Wish Willow Packaging. 

*Side effects of a wish may include violent tendencies, self-mutilation, and unexpected behavior. Please wish responsibly. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Life with Jack was infinite bliss, and you’d be a fool to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

He was the perfect man and exactly the type of person you’d been secretly wishing for the entire time. If you were truly honest with yourself, all the times you said you were happy were lies upon lies upon lies. You hated how Sarah and Haley went on double dates with their boyfriends all the time while leaving you behind. Their happiness just showed that if you didn’t have them, you had no one. 

No one to laugh with; no one to be around; no one to love. Jack filled in those spaces like glue holding your life together. Suddenly, you didn’t have to wonder who you’d take to the movies to see the latest film. You didn’t have to sit alone in your bed while hoping for someone to come along and sweep you off your feet like men did in stories. You didn’t even have to worry about feeling scared when you slept. Jack apparently had an affinity for watching you rest. 

When Jack was around—which was pretty much all the time—you were never alone. 

A few weeks after he showed up on your doorstep, you made plans to introduce him to Sarah and Haley at the local bar the three of you frequented. You’d been excited for them to see what had happened, to see how Jack made you happy. Jack seemed to be passive about it, but one smile his way had him melting to your every whim. 

“What makes you happy makes me happy,” he had told you before pressing his lips deeply against yours. “Do I make you happy, sweetheart?” 

“So much,” you had whispered back against his lips. 

However, now that you were seated next to Jack and their eyes were filled with skepticism and doubt, an ugly feeling settled inside your chest. You tried to focus on the game of Jenga, but the weight of their gaze pressed heavy on your mood that continued to sour the longer the night progressed. 

As you tried your best to shuffle another block out, Sarah leaned forward. 

“So . . . Jack . . . where do you work?” she asked. 

Jack rubbed at his jaw while he thought, and your focus shifted to the way his bicep bulged in the short-sleeved shirt he wore out. 

“I’m a senior attending at an ER up in Pittsburgh,” he stated.

Haley raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you here? Surely your hospital keeps your leash a bit tight.” 

You pulled the block out successfully and held it up for Jack to see. He mouthed a good girl and winked, sending you into a blushy mess before answering. 

“I’m on a well-needed sabbatical right now. My girl needed me here, and I couldn’t think of being anywhere else.” His hand came to rest at your nape, and his fingers squeezed. 

“What happens when your sabbatical is up? Y/n’s in grad school right now, and I doubt she can do the long distance,” Sarah explained, and that ugly feeling roared inside your chest.  

Jack pursed his lips and sat back against the couch. “I’m sure that we’ll work something out when we cross that bridge. I’m not opposed to long distance, but I’m also not opposed to her moving close to me either.” 

Haley let out a soft scoff to which you looked at her strangely. 

“Do you have something to say, Haley?” you questioned. 

She looked like a deer caught in headlights. “I-I just think that moving in with someone you’ve been with for a few weeks is a bit fast.” 

“I’m not getting any younger,” you tried to joke, but the tone of your voice said that you were anything but joking. “And it wouldn’t be too terrible. After this semester I’m changing to online classes anyway.” 

Sarah’s face pinched tightly. “What happened to moving onto campus with us next semester?” 

You shrugged lazily. “The thought about moving was getting to be too stressful.” You linked your arm into Jack’s. “Jack suggested online classes, and it was like a weight lifted off my chest.” 

Your friends stared widely with their jaws unhinged. 

Sarah waved a hand around. “Hold on. Just because he told you to do something, you just did it without discussing it with anyone else? Y/n, we won’t be able to afford the deposit for the apartment if you pull out.”  

“Plus, what if he dumps you halfway through the year?” Haley suddenly asked in a stage whisper, not caring if Jack heard the question.  

Next to you, Jack’s entire body tensed. “I’m sorry—what?”

She at least had some decency to understand that her question was invasive. “Ya know . . . what if y’all have, like, a really bad argument or something? Some relationships don’t end up lasting long enough for a couple to live together. Plus, with your age gap it’s inevitable that—” 

Jack suddenly stood from the couch, and his towering body cast a shadow across the Jenga tower. He frowned deeply, and his darkening eyes narrowed down at your friends. His fists curled at his sides while his head tilted very slowly. 

“You don’t know anything about our relationship,” he hissed. “So I wouldn’t be so presumptuous if I were you.” 

Sarah leaned back enough to look him in the eye at an angle. “Dude, we’re just looking out for our friend.” 

“Yeah,” Haley said lightly. “No need to get so upset about it.” 

He ran his tongue along his teeth. “I’m upset because you had the gall to even think I’d break up with her.” He bent in slightly at the waist. “I’m in love with her; she is my everything. Whatever she asks me to do, I will do it without hesitation.” 

His voice rose with anger on every word, and soon, the entire bar was looking towards your small group. You nervously shifted on the couch, but the annoyance of their questions kept you seated and stopped you from pulling Jack back. 

Jack turned his head and spotted an empty beer bottle. He turned back to look at your friends, and without breaking eye contact, he grabbed the bottle. In one fluid motion, he swung it down, and the glass shattered against the side of the table. At the sound, you, Sarah, and Haley stood up. They backed away slightly while you stepped forward to be at Jack’s side. Yet, he paid no attention to you. 

“No one on this earth will ever comprehend what it feels like to love someone as much as I love her,” he said, timber dark and serious. It sent shockwaves through your soul. “I’d rather kill myself than ever hurt her or be without her. Every ounce of my blood that keeps my beating heart alive belongs to her and her alone.” 

Before you could do or say anything, Jack dragged the jagged edge of the broken bottle from his wrist and towards the inside of his elbow, and dark blood welled and dripped from the long gash. Sharp, surprised and horrified gasps rang through the air. 

When your eyes caught the red thick smear, you reached forward and yanked the bottle out of his hand. “Jack!” 

At the sound of your voice, Jack’s eyes softened instantly, and all tension in his body melted away. Any glimpse of the Jack moments ago was gone, but the damage had already been done. Everyone, including Sarah and Haley, watched on with scared eyes as you gently set the bottle down. You said nothing and grabbed your (Jack’s) jacket and purse. Your hand found Jack’s quickly, and without saying anything to your friends, you tugged him out of the bar and towards his car. Thankfully, he didn’t fight for the keys, and you took off, leaving the bar to turn into a speck in your rearview mirror. 

The ride back to your house was oddly quiet. Jack stared out the window the entire time, never once looking over at you. When you parked the car in the driveway, you shifted in your seat and turned to face him. 

“Jack,” you said softly. “Why’d you do that?” 

Not being on to deprive himself of your face, Jack turned too with hunched shoulders. “I’m sorry.” 

You rested a hand on his cheek. “I know you’re sorry, but you scared everyone. And you hurt yourself.” 

“I know. I don’t know why I did that, but I couldn’t let them keep talking about us—about you like that. I love you so much; that’s why I did it.” 

“Jack, I don’t need you to cut yourself because you love me, I—” 

“Do you love me?” he interrupted. 

You paused. “I do.” 

Jack leaned back into his seat. “You never say it like I do.” He sat up straight again in a jerky motion, and he placed his hands on your cheeks and held your face there. You watched his hazel hues melt into something darker. “Do you love me? Say you love me. I need to hear you say you love me, sweetheart.” 

Your throat bobbed in a thick swallow. “I love you, Jack.” 

Like at the bar, he all but melted back into his seat before leaning forward to kiss you. You let his lips languidly move against yours in sloppy motions. His hands tightened around your face, and with a small gasp, your mouth opened just enough for him to shove his hot tongue between your teeth. You moaned at the taste of him.

Before you could go any farther, he pulled back and licked his lips. “Are you going to listen to them?” 

Your head reeled at the sudden change of events. “Who?” 

“Your friends,” he spat bitterly. “They won’t change your mind about moving with me once I need to go back to work?” 

You hummed and tried to lean back in for another kiss, but Jack stopped your motion. His eyes bore into yours deeply in almost a pleading manner. 

“Tell me you want to move with me. I can’t be without you, baby. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d rather kill myself than not be with you. Do you want me to kill myself? I’ll tell you how I’d do it. Instead of my wrists, I’d take one of my scalpels and drag it along my throat.” 

Your heart beat wildly at his words, and concern corroded any love you felt for Jack in that moment. 

He looked at you through lidded eyes. “Is that what you want? You want me to die? Want me to commit suicide just to show you how much I’m obsessed with you?” 

You shook your head between his hands. 

He grinned stretched impossibly wide, but his eyes stayed dead and unmoving. “Then say what I want to hear, sweetheart. It’ll all be so, so, so much better when you say it.” 

“I want to move with you Jack. I want to follow you to Pittsburgh or wherever you go after this.” 

You were rewarded with another deep, invasive kiss that left you gasping for air. Instead of fully pulling back, Jack breathed heavily while his nose nuzzled into your face. 

“Maybe it’ll be good when I don’t have to listen to Sarah and Haley anymore,” you softly mentioned. 

Jack froze near your hairline but didn’t say anything. 

“They were kind of rude at the bar. To think they were the ones who wanted to push me to get a boyfriend in the first place. Like, imagine if you hadn’t shown up.” 

“You’re no one else’s but mine,” he growled, chest beginning to heave at the thought of you with someone who wasn’t him, kissing someone who wasn’t him, fucking someone who wasn’t him. “I’m never going to leave you.” His eyes fluttered closed. “I’m going to make sure your friends have no impact on your life again. I promise.” 

You giggled, not fully knowing the meaning of his words. “We’ll be in Pittsburgh. I’m sure they won’t want to make the drive. Don’t worry about them putting any more unsolicited input into our relationship.” 

Soon after Jack gave you one more kiss, you slipped into your house knowing Jack would be back in the morning to pick you up for another breakfast date. You paid no mind to the sound of Jack pulling away from your house or the way his car suddenly passed by in the opposite direction moments later. 

Because if you had, you would have realized he wasn’t driving to his house, oh no, he was driving back in the direction of the bar to make sure he kept his promise. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Waking up during the night wasn’t uncommon. 

Most times, you never fully managed to sleep deep enough to stay asleep for more than four hours, always having to get up for a drink of water or a bathroom break. But tonight, you woke up for a completely different reason. From the corner of your room, a noise reached you through a deep dream in a wet, continual plat, plat, plat, plat. 

With bleary eyes, you looked around the room through barely slotted eyelids. Nothing seemed to jump out at you until you glanced at the shadowed corner. There, someone stood, their outline barely visible against the black background. You blinked rapidly in a desperate attempt to get your eyes focused. 

A sigh of relief wheezed through your chest when you realized that the person was just Jack; although you were confused as to why he picked the corner when you had already set up a chair near your bed the first time you found him watching you sleep. You knew he liked to take his prosthesis off after dark to give his limb a break. The least you could do was make sure he was comfortable. 

“Jack?” you called out, voice scratchy and slurry with sleep. “What’re you doin’ in the corner?” 

When he failed to answer, you pushed yourself up halfway with your arm. You reached for the lamp on your bedside table, but the floor creaking beneath his weight made you stop. 

Plat, plat, plat, plat, plat. 

“Don’t turn on the light,” he whispered. 

You slung your legs over the side of the bed and reached out a hand. “Could you at least come and sit down? Your leg must be killing you.” By now, your eyes had adjusted to the dark atmosphere, and you peered over at him when you noticed something splashed on his face. “Did you get mud on you?” 

Jack took a step forward, and his shoes squished against your hardwood floors. He stopped a few feet away from you, and that’s when a thick, metallic waft hit your senses. You urgently rubbed at the skin between your lip and the bottom of your nose in an attempt to disrupt the onslaught of iron. Your brows pinched as you looked up at him with utter confusion. 

Plat, plat, plat, plat, plat. 

“What are you covered in, baby?” You reached out to touch a large stain on the hem of his shirt. Your fingers game back slick. “What the fuck,” you whispered. Jack’s words be damned; you reached over and turned on the lamp.

As the light drenched the room, horror seized your chest with large hands at the sight in front of you. The noise that had awakened you from your sleep was the steady drip of blood that trickled from Jack’s pant leg. The stain you’d touched was larger under the light, and the lower half of his shirt was drenched in the bodily fluid. His arms that were normally tanned and freckled were covered in blood like cleaning gloves, a harsh line of red cutting around his bicep. 

Bile rose from deep in your stomach, and the acrid taste coated your tongue. 

“Jack,” you whispered in terror. Sleep’s effect had been ripped from you the moment you realized what he was covered in. “W-why are you . . . covered in blood?” 

Jack’s mouth twisted in an elated smile as he looked down at his lower half. “Do you not like it, sweetheart?” Despite his leg, he kneeled between your legs, and his dripping hands rested against your thighs. He looked up at your face with a pinched expression, similar to one you’d see on a sad puppy. “Do you not like it?” 

“It’s blood, Jack. Why are you covered in blood?” 

“Not like I don’t deal with blood on the daily.” He licked his lips. “You should be asking whose blood it is I’m covered in, baby.” He leaned in closer to your face, and your eyes burned with the smell. “C’mon; ask me.” 

You swallowed a frustrated groan before whispering, “Whose blood are you covered in?” 

His head lolled to the side. “Remember when I promised you that no one would ever speak out against us again?” Jack moved in closer and pressed his cheek against yours so that his lips were right near your ear. “Let’s just say I made sure that wouldn’t ever happen again . . . permanently.” 

It felt like all the blood drained from your face in an icy instant; a complete contrast from the way Jack licked a hot strip up from your pressure point to your ear. Your mouth dried up completely. 

“Don’t worry, baby. Those girls are never going to bother us ever again.” 

“Jack,” you whimpered, suddenly scared of the man between your legs. 

He hushed you softly. “And I made sure that your mother was also removed from the picture. I couldn’t have her waking up to find me like this.” 

Your shoulders caved in, and the smallest whimper pressed through your lips. At the sound, Jack lurched back to look at your face. Within three breaths, all emotions washed from his face as he realized that you were scared—scared of him. 

Now, he couldn’t have that, could he? 

His hand rushed up to your face, and his fingers crushed your cheeks together. He stood to his feet, but his face stayed close to yours, his warm breath fanning across your nose and lips. 

“There’s nothing for you to be afraid of,” he said calmly as if he hadn’t just implied that he’d killed your best friends and your mother. “Besides, isn’t this what you wished for?” 

Even with his strength, you managed a small shake of your head. 

He pouted. “No? But I could have sworn you said I wish Jack Abbot would love me and do anything for me.” 

“I d-didn’t ask for you to kill my friends and mom,” you cried through smushed lips. 

Jack nodded along like he agreed with you before barking out a laugh. “But you said it’d be good when you wouldn’t have to listen to them anymore. That’s what you said!” his voice thundered in your face. “I did exactly what you told me to, so why don’t you FUCKING LOVE ME?” 

You tried to jerk your face out his hand, but his hold tightened, fingers digging into your teeth through your cheeks. Your eyes shut closed, but that did little to appease Jack’s anger. This wasn’t what you wanted; you never wanted your wish to turn into him harming people for you. 

“I-I do-do love you, Jack,” you cried while tears traced down your cheeks. 

He frowned intensely, lips forming an upside-down u. “I don’t believe you.” His unoccupied left hand gripped onto the pudge at your hipbone. “I can feel you shaking like a leaf. It’s okay, baby. I would never hurt you.” 

Somehow, you knew he was telling the truth, though it didn’t help you feel less scared. Your thighs rubbed against each other in a nervous manner, and Jack’s eyes tracked the movement. However, he thought it was for a different reason. 

“Oh,” he breathed, eyes widening at the idea formulating in his sick, twisted head. “You want to show me that you love me? Is that it, sweetness?” 

His left hand released your hip and trailed lower and toward the right, and you inhaled sharply when he pressed his fingers to your core. You reached out and gripped his wrist, halting any other movement from his appendage.  

“No,” you stated. “Jack, this isn’t-this isn’t normal.” 

He pressed his hard chest forward, and the cooled blood began soaking through your sleep shirt. You cringed and shuddered when the wet fabric clung to your skin. 

“Your heart is racing,” he whispered in awe. “For me? Is your heart racing for me, sweetheart?” He dropped to his knees this time and pressed his ear right to your heart. He exhaled breathily at the sound. “Yeah; that’s for me.” His next inhale was sharp. “I can smell you. You’re utterly dripping.”

“I’m not,” you argued. “I’m—” A wince turned whine cut you off after Jack squeezed your sides painfully. 

“You know better than to lie to me.” His matted curls pushed against his forehead as he twisted his face to look downward. “Remember,” he muttered, “you wished for this.” 

His hand planted itself in the middle of your chest and pushed you down to your bed, your spine hitting your mattress so hard it pushed out a small oomph.  

“Wait- stop-”

Jack shushed you, his hands, still covered in blood, yanked the sleep shorts you’d been wearing down your legs. Your legs kicked and twisted, trying in vain to stop him, but he had them down and hanging off one ankle despite your efforts.

“You just need to remember why you love me,” those big, calloused hands pushed your thighs apart, keeping them pinned open despite your efforts to close them. His hot breath against your core shocked you, your wiggling and writhing halting for a moment. He licked a stripe through your folds, humming in satisfaction. “No one can make you feel as good as I can. No one.”

“Jack please!” Your hands were pushing at his head, trying to get him away from you, but he barely budged, not even acknowledging your efforts.

“Already begging for me and I’ve barely touched you,” his chuckle vibrated through your traitorous body as he laid kisses over your mound. “I told you, you love me.”

“You have to stop! I don’t want this!”

“Yes you do,” Jack wrapped both of your wrists in one of his hands, holding them down against your stomach to keep you pinned. “You want this. I don’t know why you’re trying to lie to me when your cunt is being so honest, sweetheart.”

Humiliatingly, he was right. You could feel how wet you were, practically dripping down onto the bedsheets below you, your hole clenching and begging for something deep inside it. But you didn’t want this. Right? No, of course you didn’t. This was the man who had just admitted to killing your mother and best friends. Their blood was still on the hands that held you open and in place as his mouth descended on you.

But it was hard to stop the whine you let out when his tongue began tracing around your clit. The pressure was firm and insistent, sending bursts of pleasure coursing through you against your will.

You fought through the sensations, trying to focus on wiggling out of his grip, but inevitably your focus was drawn back between your legs. Jack was unrelenting, repeating the motions and keeping a steady pace, like he knew exactly how to push your buttons. You supposed he did, having been created by some sick force of nature just for you.

Belatedly, you realised exactly what his tongue was spelling out against you:

J-A-C-K A-B-B-O-T

His own name, again and again, all at the same speed and intensity. 

Gradually, your desperate attempts to flee were being tempered by the pleasure rocketing up your spine. Your twisting and writhing to get away had turned into rocking and grinding against his face, using his bruising grip on your wrists as leverage. But while your body betrayed you, your mind didn’t.

Through the gasps and whines and moans he was yanking out of you, you tried your best to keep up the protests. Your increasingly weak protests of “No!” and “Please stop!” fell on deaf ears, until, right as you neared your peak and, fearing what the impending orgasm might do to your psyche, you got through to him. But not in the way that you’d hoped.

“Stop! Stop, Jack, or I’ll never love you!”

He froze, pulling his face away from your folds but keeping his hold on you firm. You were gasping for air, eyes firmly shut. You were afraid to look at him, afraid he’d see just how close he was to breaking you.

“You want me to kill myself?” His grip around your wrists tightened even more and his fingers holding your thigh open tensed, nails digging into your skin. He didn’t let up, despite the yelp that left your lips. “Is that what you want? You want to watch me slit my fucking wrists right now? Wanna watch me bleed out all over you? Because I will. I love you more than anything - more than life itself - and you are breaking my heart.”

“Jack, I-”

“Do you want that?” His voice raised, eyes wide and manic. “I’m all you need, baby. If I die, you have nothing. You made me kill your mom, your friends, and if I’m gone, what do you have left? You need me just like I need you.”

“No, no I didn’t make you-”

“You said you didn’t want to have to listen to them anymore,” Jack stood from the floor, his blood stained figure looming over you as you cowered back against the mattress. “I did exactly what you asked for, and now you don’t have to listen to them anymore.”

You were shaking, trying to look away, trying not to think about how everyone you loved had died because of a poor choice of words and Jack’s instability.

Jack’s hand grabbed your chin, forcing your eyes on his. His expression had softened, the lines on his face deepening as he stared down at you.

“Don’t make me kill myself because I did what you wanted,” he was begging, the whiplash from his rapid change in demeanor taking a moment to register in your mind. “Don’t make me, please.”

“I-I won’t,” you swallowed around the lump forming in your throat. “I won’t make you kill yourself, Jack. Please don’t do that.”

“Then tell me you love me,” his eyes darkened again and the frown fell from his face. 

“Jack-”

“Tell me,” the tone of his voice dropped, practically growling at you as his fingers tightened against your jaw. “You love me.”

“I…”

The words stuck in your throat. The love you’d felt for him from before was still there, but your terror and grief was overshadowing it, making it impossible to verbalize.

Jack sighed, his expression once again changing, this time to disappointment. He tutted at you, like you were a small child failing to follow directions.

“I guess I just have to remind you how much you love me.”

There was no time for you to question what that meant, but you found out quickly. Jack’s hands wrapped around your waist. Before you could even gasp at the rapid change, his thighs were straddling yours, his palm planted between your shoulder blades to hold you down.

“I’m going to make you tell me you love me,” you could hear clinking and shuffling behind you, but it took a moment for it to connect that he was undoing his belt.

“Wait, Jack!” Bucking your hips and trying to push yourself up was futile, his weight and the strength of the muscles cording his arm simply too much for you to fight back against. This wasn’t what you wanted for your first time. You’d been hoping for a romantic dinner with him, followed by sweet, slow sex, not him covered in your loved ones blood as he took you by force. “Jack please, I’m a virgin!”

“Oh, sweetheart,” the heat of his chest, pressing against your back as he leaned down, was scalding. His fingers gently tucked your hair behind your ear, his lips pressing a kiss against your cheek. You didn’t realize you’d been crying until his tongue darted out to lick up the droplet. “Don’t worry. I’m all you need. I’ll be the only man to ever have you like this. I’ll take such good care of you.”

And then he was sliding in, stretching your traitorously wet walls around his length. Fuck, he was thick. You felt every ridge and vein as he sunk into you as deep as he could, until the tip was pressing against your cervix. It was impossible to stop the moan you let out, the noise mixing with his grunt as he ground against your ass.

“Jack, please…”

“You feel so good around me, baby,” He let more of his weight fall against you, pushing you even further into the crumpled sheets. One of his big arms slid around your neck, pressing your throat into the crook of his elbow. 

“You need to sto-”

You choked on your words when Jack’s arm tightened, his bicep and forearm cutting off  your air supply.

“The only thing I need,” his voice was low and gravely, his lips pressed against the shell of your ear. “Is for you to stop pretending this doesn’t feel good, and let me make love to the love of my life.”

Your whole body tensed, walls trying to push him out, as he began to withdraw slowly.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he was panting against your ear now. His little groans and sighs rattled around in your head, clouding your already conflicted senses. “Squeeze me just like that.”

You felt yourself flutter involuntarily around him as his thick cock bullied its way back inside of you. Fighting against his hold to get air into your lungs, your own breathing picked up in pace, each exhale forcibly pushed out when he sunk in. 

Jack’s pace was slow. Each thrust was long, pausing to grind against you when he bottomed out, his head pushing hard into the deepest parts of you. You’d never considered yourself a masochist before, but the little jolts of pain mingled with the pleasure, pushing you even higher. The confusing signals sent to your brain were sapping your willpower. You needed to fight him off, needed him to get away from you, but your body was tightening around him, pulling him in.

God, it felt good, but you had to hold out. You still needed to find a way to break free and to get rid of him.

But it was growing increasingly hard to focus on anything other than the sensations between your legs when your head grew fuzzy from the lack of air and your clit was dragging against the sheets as every move he made rocked your body. He’d gotten you close before with his mouth, but now the dizzying pleasure of his cock had your eyes crossing.

“You’re doing so good, my sweet girl,” his words were whispered into your hair as his pace gradually increased. He never fully withdrew, but his hips were bouncing against your ass as his slow, grinding rhythm transitioned into hard and fast thrusts. “Doing so good for me. I can feel how close you are, I want you to tell me you love me when you cum, ok?”

You tried to shake your head no, trying your hardest to beat back the ever rising pressure of your impending orgasm, but Jack’s hold around your neck stopped you from moving. The only noises you could squeeze out through his hold were little whines and whimpers.

“You’re going to say it,” he pulled you in tighter, leaning all of his weight onto you. His hand not around your neck slipped between you and the sheet. “Say it, say it, say it.”

The first brush of his fingers against your clit was all it took for you to shatter in his arms. You spasmed and clenched around him, your eyes rolling back into your head. Your trembling hands scrambled for a hold on the sheets when he pinched the little bundle of nerves between his fingers. It was overwhelming, the intensity of your orgasm squeezing you so tightly around him that you nearly pushed him out.

Jack responded by thrusting even harder inside of you, all the while mumbling, “say it, say it, say it.”

But you didn’t. You weren’t sure if it was your willpower that kept the words from falling from your lips, or the debilitating pleasure that was rendering your mind nearly blank, but you didn’t say it.

Jack roared in frustration as the last waves of your orgasm faded, leaving you shaking beneath him. You were unprepared for him to rip himself away from you, leaving you completely free of him for just a moment. Your brain cleared slightly without his skin on yours. There was only about a second for you to try to will your still trembling body to get up and run, but you ran out of time. 

He flipped you over onto your back, spreading your legs wide and forcing himself between them before you could snap them shut. His eyes were wild, his chest heaving with every breath.

And, for the first time, you saw his cock, pointing up and out of where his jeans were just barely pulled down. He was big, even bigger than you’d pictured when he’d first slid inside you. Long and thick, flushed red and dripping with your juices. In any other situation, you’d be reaching for him, eager to get your hands on him. Even despite the position you found yourself in, against your will, you felt your mouth water and hands itching to reach out and touch him. 

But you managed to hold back, trying to squirm away from him up the bed. He stopped you before you could put any meaningful distance between you, though, his hands found the back of your thighs, pushing them up and pressing them down, folding you in half.

“I gave you everything,” Jack looked close to tears, but you couldn’t tell if it was from anger or sadness. “I would do anything for you. Why don’t you love me?”

You didn’t have an answer for him. How do you answer when the man confessing his undying love to you killed your family and then took your virginity against your will? What do you say to the man taking off his shirt, revealing the bloody mess of his chest, slashes covering the skin on his left pec?

There were certainly no words to be found when it clicked that those lines were your initials, carved into the skin over his heart. They weren’t bleeding anymore, but the skin was red and angry, blood still smeared over his skin. The more you looked, the more you realized the incisions were much more precise than you’d realized. Jack specialized in trauma procedures, of course the self inflicted modification he’d given himself would be perfect.

Your first instinct was awe, quickly followed by disgust at yourself and fear at the sight of his dedication to you. But you couldn’t help tracing your eyes over the split skin, admiring the clean lines. It sparked something deep inside you, to see him declare your ownership over him so blatantly on his skin, despite the fact that you still told yourself that you didn’t want to hold his leash.

“All I want is to be yours, sweetheart,” Jack’s intensity hadn’t dimmed, but his anger seemed to be gone for the moment. He sounded miserable, literally begging on his knees before you “Please let me be yours.”

“Jack . . ..”

“Please,” he still had your knees pressed to your chest, his fingers flexing and digging into your flesh.

You didn’t know if  it was the pathetic way he was begging for your love or the devotion in his eyes that broke you. You could tell yourself that you were playing along, trying to go along with it to get away from him, but you didn’t know if that was true. 

“Ok.”

Jack lit up immediately, all traces of his despair disappearing in an instant. The wide and handsome smile that split his face was at odds with the blood still smeared across his body. The juxtaposition was jarring, adding to the warring feelings rising in you.

“Can you say it for me?”

“I love you,” your voice was barely above a whisper. You didn’t know if you meant it - you weren’t sure you wanted to know, either - but Jack took you at your word.

“I love you, too.”

And then he was sliding back in, pushing through your folds and sinking into you up to the hilt. With your legs still folded up and resting over your shoulders as he bent forward, he felt even bigger than he had before, filling you completely to the brim. You swore you could feel him in your throat.

When he pressed fully into you, he leant down, his lips connecting to yours. You didn’t bother to fight him, returning the kiss as he fell into a rhythm. His tongue pushed between your lips as his hips pulled back from yours.

Jack sheathed himself back inside you, thrusting hard and punching a broken sound out of your mouth. He swallowed the noise, continuing to devour you as he continued. Every slow withdrawal was followed by a brutal thrust in.

“I love you,” Jack broke the kiss. His lips traveled down over your cheek until they reached your neck. His teeth scraped over a spot just below your jaw that had you keening, arching up into him.

He continued to work the spot, kissing and sucking and biting until he was satisfied with the blooming bruise before he was moving onto another, unblemished section of skin. It hurt, your skin burning from the contact of his lips, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything besides cry and moan. 

“Fuck!”

You couldn’t help the expletive when his hips shifted, his thrust pushing directly against a spot inside you that had your back arching into him. It shot sparks through you, the sensation tightening into a knot in your stomach. Jack adjusted his angle to hit that spot head on again and again. A strangled groan vibrated through Jack when you clenched around him as a result.

“Take me so well,” Jack disconnected from your neck. His forehead rested against your shoulder, looking down to where you were connected, but the bulk of his body blocked your view. 

Jack pushed back, sitting up to kneel between your legs. His large hands kept your legs over his shoulders, holding you in place, even though you weren’t sure you’d be strong enough to get away from him, even if you wanted to. He felt too good buried deep inside you.

Your brain felt foggy, the combination of sensations washing away your self preservation and critical thinking. When Jack had you on your stomach, you were being taken, but here, you felt like you were being worshipped. There was still fear simmering under your skin, but it was taking a backseat to the orgasm rising in your gut.

“God, look at you,” Jack was panting, his pace increasing and his eyes focused down between your legs. You didn’t realize what he was looking at until one of his hands let go of your thigh to press down on your stomach against the visible outline of his cock. “Can see how much I'm stretching you out.”

Your body seized, the breath flying out of your lungs. That added pressure made him feel even bigger. It triggered your orgasm, pleasure crashing through you unexpectedly. It caught you off guard and unprepared. Your head lolled back, eyes fluttering as your mind went blank. Jack kept his hand there, pinning you down as he kept thrusting into you, his rhythm faltering slightly as he battled his way through the continued clenching of your walls. He wasn’t letting you come down, giving you no reprieve from the waves of pleasure wracking your shaking body beneath his.

“Oh, fuck,” Jack finally took his hand away from your lower stomach, but you still didn’t get a moment to breath. His fingers found your clit again, rapidly circling the small bud. “One more, baby, one more.”

“No, Jack, no,” you started to try to wiggle away. Through your addled brain, deja vu struck you. It made you almost want to laugh. You didn’t want to get away from him out of fear - although fear was certainly still there - no, instead you were trying to get away from the rapidly building overstimulation. “I can’t, not again!”

“Yes you can,” his rhythm picked up, hips moving even faster against you. The squelching and slapping sounds filling the room were obscene. “I know what’s best for you. Trust me.”

You were chanting; “No, no, no!” even as your core tightened, the rapid build up of your third orgasm contradicting with your words. You were sure Jack could feel it, too. The way your walls clenched and fluttered around him was telling.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” sweat was beading on his chest, mixing with the blood on his skin and dripping onto you, leaving small splatters on your stomach. “Cum for me and I’ll cum for you.”

“Jack!”

You broke. This orgasm hit you like a truck. You felt it physically snap inside of you, the tension releasing a flood of endorphins into your blood. Through the haze wiping your mind blank, you heard Jack cry out, hips stuttering and pushing into the hilt. You could feel the heat as he spilled deep inside of you. It felt like a brand, burning you from the inside out and soaking your depths in him.

The waves of pleasure mounted, consuming you until you couldn’t take it anymore. Your eyes rolled back into your head and everything went black.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Jack had fallen asleep, and you were far from turning over and snuggling into his side after you'd been ripped from the consuming darkness. 

You ached in ways you didn’t know were possible. Every limb felt heavy like you’d been shacked to a ball and chain, and you knew every step would be agony. The bruises he’d left behind would mottle your skin for weeks as reminders of what he did to you, to your friends, to your mom. Staying next to him in bed would ease the pain, but you needed to get up. The thought of waking Jack sent your heart into a panicked rhythm, and you were sure the sound alone would wake him up. Soft snores and grunts sounded from his lips every few seconds. 

Centimeter by centimeter, you pushed up from your lying position. You thanked anyone who was listening for the fact that he hadn’t slung an arm around your waist to hold you down further. Instead of your normal wake-up routine, ten minutes must have passed by the time you stood from your bed. You could not let Jack wake up under any circumstances. You took another glance back at Jack. 

Still asleep. 

Gingerly, you grabbed your phone off the side table and began to shuffle towards your bathroom. You held back the urge to throw up when your foot slid through a puddle of thickened, coagulated blood. With trembling hands, you closed the bathroom door, mentally cursing yourself when it gave off the tiniest click. You held your breath and listened and listened and listened for any sign that Jack had woken up. When you caught another puff of steady air, you pushed in the small lock carefully. Not daring to turn on the light, you powered on your phone and Googled “One Wish Willow Customer Service” and clicked the first number that showed up. 

Your phone rang quietly three times before a bored voice filled your ear. “Hello.” 

“I need to cancel a wish . . . please,” you pleaded in a whisper. 

“I’m sorry, we don’t really do that.” 

Your stomach dropped, and the room tilted. “Please; you have to do something. I need my wish to go away.” Your mouth pooled with bile-tasting saliva. 

“If you had read the back of the box, you would see that wishes can’t be canceled or altered. It’s all in the fine print.” 

A whimper slipped through your lips. “He killed people, don’t you understand? And I’m scared he’ll kill me eventually.” 

Static crackled from the speaker before the guy on the other line sighed heavily. “The only way a wish can go away is if the wisher or the wished-upon passes. Sorry, but I can’t do anything else for you.” 

The call ended, and all you were left to do was stare at your phone. 

A flash of pills or your razor against your wrists crossed your mind briefly, but that meant Jack would still be in your world. And there was no telling what he’d do if you died. You could practically envision the city drenched in red and violence. But not doing something wasn’t an option. You couldn’t force yourself to go back into the room, get back into bed, and sleep like your world was perfect. 

Your guilt wouldn’t silence enough for that. 

With a tight chest, you called a second number and waited. 

It wasn’t long before you heard the sirens wail down your street, and you pressed your back against the door. By now, you were certain Jack was either close to waking up or he was now fully awake. You didn’t know which terrified you more. 

“Sweetheart?” Jack called out, and your lungs seized. “Where’d you go, baby?” His tone was soft and gentle for now. 

You wondered if the blue and red flashing lights poured through your blinds and illuminated his enraged face. Besides the sirens, your bedroom and bathroom were silent. On the other side of the door, Jack made no movements that caused any sound. It was as if he had disappeared, giving you an opportunity to think about opening the door. The golden knob felt cool against your palm and– 

BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! 

You squealed loudly in terror and backed away immediately from the door only stopping when the backs of your legs hit the side of the tub. 

“What did you do, sweetheart?” Jack’s loud voice carried through the door in a hollow manner. “Y/nnnnnn,” he drew out your name. “WHAT DID YOU FUCKING DO?” 

Downstairs, another blam! sounded and was followed by many footsteps and cries of Police! and We’re coming up! 

A glimmer of hope raced through your chest, however panic engulfed it when Jack began rattling the door so hard you feared he’d take it off its hinges. 

“You think you’re so smart? You think the boys in blue will keep me away from you?” Jack screamed through a raw throat. “You’re so dead wrong, baby. I’ll never be apart from you. You’re mine for the rest of your life. I—” 

His voice cut off from the slam of your bedroom door. Following, grunts, the Miranda rights, and the sound of struggle echoed into the bathroom. You attempted to block it out with both hands on your ears, but Jack was too loud, too impossible to suppress. All went quiet a few moments later until his empty laugh began to stutter out in broken barks. 

You were going to be sick. 

“We aren’t over, sweetheart!” he continued, though his voice was waning. “I’ll find you again soon enough! We’re going to be together until the end of time! We—” 

“Ma’am, it’s safe to come out,” another male’s voice covered the rest of Jack’s taunts. 

You ripped the door open and a sob of relief sputtered from your lips. You stepped back through the smeared blood–a result of Jack’s struggle–and sat back down on your bed. Your spine bent as you hunched forward in an attempt of self-comfort. You gripped your arms with white knuckles, and the bruises Jack left behind didn’t even compute through your twisted emotions. 

One of the officers stepped close to your knees. “I know this has been very traumatic for you, but when you’re ready, we’ll need to take you down to the station to get your statement.” 

You nodded wordlessly. 

Two officers stood in the corner where Jack dripped the most blood while he stood watching you. 

“What the fuck happened in here,” one of them whispered, but without much other conversation, you heard him clear as day. 

“I wish I knew, man,” the other responded. 

Your soul tensed at his wording and the way he tossed it out so casually. Because you’d wished for something you thought to be so trivial, and now look at where it got you. 

Alone and traumatized where you’ll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. 

Be careful what you wish for. 

"Get out! I fucking hate you, just get the hell out of my room!" Nikki screams, her voice cracking under the weight of pure, unadulterated rage. Her chest is heaving, her knuckles white as she grips the edge of the dresser, looking at you like you’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to her.

But you don't move. You don't even flinch. Because you know that if you walk out that door right now, the anger will turn into desperate, sobbing panic within three seconds. You know that behind the fire in her eyes, she is terrified that you actually will leave.

That’s the thing about loving Nikki.

When it started, everything was a whirlwind. People with Borderline Personality Disorder don’t just love; they consume. She had put you on a pedestal so high it made you dizzy, looking at you like you hung the moon and stars, suffocating you with a passion that felt almost addictive. But the higher the pedestal, the harder the fall. It didn't take long for you to learn how quickly her mind could twist a simple, careless action into evidence of an impending betrayal. To her, there is no middle ground. You are either her absolute savior, or the person about to break her heart into pieces.

And tonight, all it took was a split-second glance at a screen to bring the whole world crashing down.

But before the screaming, before the platform shoe dented the drywall, there were the mornings. Beautiful, suffocating mornings where you learned exactly what it meant to be Nikki’s entire universe.

You remember waking up just a few days ago, the pale morning light filtering through the blinds of her messy bedroom. The moment you shifted your weight, preparing to slide out from under the heavy blankets to use the bathroom, her entire body reacted. Before your feet could even touch the cold floor, Nikki’s arms snapped around your waist with a desperate, iron-clad grip, pulling you fiercely back against her chest.

"Stay," she had whined into the crook of your neck, her voice thick with sleep but laced with a sharp, immediate edge of panic. "Don't go. Stay right here."

"Nikki, I'm just going to the bathroom," you had whispered, letting out a soft laugh, trying to pry her fingers open.

But she wouldn't let go. Instead, she threw her leg over your thighs, pinning you down, burying her face in your shoulder as if she were trying to crawl right under your skin. She didn't care about your space or your boundaries; she just needed you there, anchored to her, matching her heartbeat. And when Nikki wanted to keep you in bed, she knew exactly how to use her body to make you forget about leaving. She would kiss you with a needy, bruising hunger, her hands tracing your skin with an urgency that always turned a lazy morning into something raw, loud, and deeply addictive. Sex with her was always like that, a chaotic blur of overwhelming worship and a desperate plea to never be forgotten.

It was easy to lose yourself in that kind of obsession. It made you feel wanted in a way nobody else ever could.

Until the flip clicked. Until tonight, when that same terrifyingly intense devotion turned into the weapon she was currently using to tear the room apart.

Back in the present, the silence in the bedroom is deafening, heavy with her ragged breathing. Nikki is staring at you, her chest heaving, and you notice her white knuckles tightly wrapped around the heavy ceramic vase on her nightstand. She’s already winding up for a second strike, desperate to keep the distance between you, desperate to protect herself. She expects you to yell back. She expects you to pack your things and prove her worst fear right.

Instead, you take a slow, deliberate step toward her.With every inch you close, the fight visibly leaks out of her.

Her fingers tremble, losing their tight grip, and the heavy ceramic slips from her hand, clattering harmlessly against the wooden surface before rolling away. The violent shield is completely gone. Nikki just stands there, her bottom lip trembling now, the defensive anger finally cracking to reveal the raw, bleeding panic underneath.

"What did you see, Nikki?" you ask, your voice low, steady, a jarring contrast to the chaos she's just caused. You need to hear her say it. You need to see exactly where the pain is coming from.

Her breath hitches, and a single tear tracks through her smudged eyeliner. "You... you were on that site again. There were tabs open. Different girls. Women who look nothing like me." Her voice cracks, and the rage flares again, a desperate shield for her hurt. "Why? Why can't I be enough for you? Is it because I'm not them? Are you just with me until you can find someone better, someone sane?"

She’s shouting again, but this time she isn't pushing you away. This time, she’s begging you for confirmation.

You don't answer with words. You take another step, closing the distance until you are inches away from her. You can feel the heat radiating from her skin, feel the desperate vibration in her chest. You lift your hand, ignoring her flinch, and cup her jaw, forcing her to look you in the eyes.

"You are not listening," you say, your voice rough, a different kind of intensity in your gaze. "You saw tabs. You saw pixels on a screen. But right now, you are seeing me. You are feeling me."

Before she can retort, you crush your mouth to hers. It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s a messy, bruise-deep, frantic collision. It’s an answer to every single insecurity she just screamed, a promise and an ownership all rolled into one. And as her arms snap around your neck, pulling you fiercely against her as if she were trying to crawl under your skin, you know that this isn't just about comforting her. This is about matching her fire with your own, breaking the walls down with a passion that’s just as destructive, just as desperate.

You break the kiss, both of your chests heaving, and before the panic can return to her eyes, you move. You sweep her up in your arms, the messy, tear-streaked girl who just threw a shoe at you, and carry her back to the one place where the chaos finally, finally makes sense.

When you drop her onto the center of the mattress, you expect her to pull you down with her. Instead, Nikki scrambles backward until her back hits the headboard, immediately locking her arms tight across her chest.

She glares up at you, completely souring her face in a stubborn, childish pout. Her bottom lip pushes out aggressively, trembling just a bit with residual emotion, while her brows knit together into a hard, defensive line. She ducks her chin, staring at you from under her dark hair with a look that is equal parts furious, humiliated, and desperately wanting to be coddled. It’s her ultimate defense mechanism, looking like an obstinate, pouting brat who refuses to admit she’s already melted completely under your touch.

"Don't look at me like that," she snaps, her voice dropping into a petulant whine as she exaggerates her pout, turning her face away from you. "You think you can just kiss me and make me forget that you're an idiot? I'm still mad at you. I hate you."

You can't help the small, dark smirk that tugs at the corner of your lips. You crawl onto the mattress, sliding your knees on either side of her thighs, trapping her against the headboard. She doesn't try to escape, but she keeps her arms locked and her chin tucked, stubbornly refusing to look at you, her bottom lip still stuck out in that defiant, brooding expression.

"Look at me, Nikki," you murmur, reaching out to wrap your fingers around her wrists, slowly but firmly pulling her hands away from her chest.

She resists for a split second, letting out a sharp, frustrated huff, but as your grip tightens with dominant, unyielding authority, her arms go slack. The bratty shield shatters all over again, her breathing hitching as you pin her wrists down against the sheets on either side of her head.

Her pinned wrists twitch under your fingers, but she doesn't pull away. Nikki's eyes flick down to your lips, her breathing turning shallow and erratic as the last bit of her stubborn pout finally melts into pure, unadulterated need.

"You're a bastard," she whispers, though there's no heat left in it, only a breathless plea as she arches her back slightly against the mattress, her thighs parting just enough to welcome your weight. "Show me. Prove to me that you don't want anyone else."

You don't lean down to kiss her mouth this time. Instead, you release her wrists, letting your hands slide down to grip her waist, digging your fingers into her skin with a rough possessiveness that makes her gasp. You trail your lips down her jawline, burying your face in the crook of her neck, biting gently at the sensitive skin until she whimpers, her fingers immediately tangling into your hair to pull you closer, burying you against her.

She doesn't want space. She doesn't want boundaries. She wants you entirely inside her world, consuming her until the background noise of her own mind completely shorts out.

Slowly, deliberately, you shift your lower body, pressing your length firmly against her center through the barrier of your clothes. Nikki’s eyes snap wide open at the friction, a low, shaky moan tearing from her throat as she hitches her leg higher around your hip, trying to eliminate every single millimeter of distance between you. The raw power of your anatomy leaves her completely helpless, her hips rolling up to meet yours in a desperate, instinctive rhythm.

"Please," she gasps out, her knuckles turning white as she grips the fabric of your shirt, her tear-streaked face flushing a deep, dark crimson. "Please, right now. Don't make me wait."

You look down at her, your breathing heavy, your fingers already tracing the waistband of her underwear. Even in the heat of the moment, the logical part of your brain kicks in. "The box on the nightstand, Nikki," you mutter, your voice rough and strained. "With or without?"

"With," she whispers instantly, nodding her head as she guides your hand toward the drawer. She looks up at you with wide, remarkably innocent eyes in the dim light of the bedroom, offering a soft, almost submissive smile that completely erases the girl who was throwing porcelain minutes ago. "Put one on. Be safe."

You reach into the drawer in the dark, blindly tearing open one of the wrappers she already had prepared. You're too consumed by the heat radiating from her body to notice anything out of the ordinary, completely focused on her as she pulls you closer.

As soon as you slide back between her thighs, Nikki arches up to meet you, her legs locking around your waist like a vise. The moment you push inside her, a loud, shattered moan breaks from her lips, her eyes rolling back as her fingers dig violently into the muscles of your back.

The rhythm is frantic, borderline aggressive, a raw, bruising collision of skin and desperate friction. Nikki is completely helpless beneath your weight, her hips rolling up to meet every deep, unyielding thrust as she whimpers your name like a prayer. Her hands move frantically over your chest, your neck, your face, trying to anchor herself to you, trying to completely lose herself in the overwhelming sensation of your anatomy stretching her open. There is no gentleness here; it’s the kind of hardcore, possessive smut that leaves both of you breathless, a chaotic blur of wet friction, harsh slaps of skin against skin, and Nikki sobbing into your shoulder, utterly consumed by the fact that you are hers and she is yours.

Every unyielding thrust drives the breath right out of her lungs, her head slamming back against the pillow as you completely lose yourself in her heat. You grip her hips, your fingers digging in so hard they’re going to leave dark bruises tomorrow, but Nikki doesn't care because she welcomes the pain, crying out as you pin her down and rough her up, dominating her entirely.

Ah! Faster—fuck, please, harder!" she screams into the quiet room, her voice hoarse, completely unhinged. She hitches her legs up over your shoulders, opening herself up completely to the brutal, heavy friction, her inner muscles clamping down tightly around your length with a desperate, crushing warmth.

The wet, rhythmic slaps of skin against skin sound like thunder in the small room. You push yourself deeper, your movements turning entirely feral as you chase the edge, driving your weight home until she’s practically sobbing under you. Nikki’s eyes are wide, glassy with tears and heavy with a dark, suffocating lust as she watches you dominate her body. She grabs your wrists, her nails scratching your skin, completely overwhelmed by the intense, raw stretch of your anatomy filling her to the absolute limit.

"You're mine... tell me you're mine," she whimpers, her entire body beginning to tremble violently as the tension tightens inside her. Her hips twitch in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm, chasing your fast, heavy pace. "Don't stop, don't you dare stop, fuck!"

You shift your grip to her throat, not choking her, but anchoring her down, holding her steady as you deliver three last, brutal, bone-deep thrusts. Nikki’s chest hitches, a shattered, high-pitched scream tearing from her throat as her vision goes white. Her walls violently spasm around you, clamping down in a crushing, endless orgasm that triggers your own release. You groan against her neck, driving yourself into her one last time as you let go, completely filling the latex inside her while she holds you tight against her chest.

The next morning, you wake up to an entirely different world.

The violent chaos of the night before feels like a distant, feverish dream. The storm has passed, and in its place is a suffocating sort of peace. Nikki is curled up against your side, her head resting soft on your chest, one of her legs tangled firmly with yours to keep you anchored to the bed. Her skin is warm, and the tear stains from last night have been washed away, replaced by a soft, content smile as she sleeps.

When she finally opens her eyes, there is no trace of the girl who threw a platform shoe at your head.

"Good morning, pretty girl," she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep as she immediately scoots up to press a sweet, lingering kiss to your lips. She looks at you with absolute adoration, her fingers gently tracing your jawline as if you were the most precious thing in her entire universe. "I missed you so much while I was asleep. Don't get up yet, okay? Just stay like this with me."

This is the cycle. After the explosion comes the worship. She spends the rest of the morning cooking your favorite breakfast, hovering close to you in the kitchen, laughing at your jokes, and kissing you every time you turn around. To anyone else, it would look like the perfect, most loving relationship.

But beneath the sweetness, you can feel the invisible walls closing in.

Over the next few days, the reality of her rules starts to weigh heavy on your shoulders. You find yourself carefully filtering every text, checking your phone with a knot in your stomach, and making sure you don't mention any names that could trigger another crisis. Nikki doesn't just want your love, she wants your entire existence. She wants to be the only person you talk to, the only person you see, the only world you need.

By the third day of walking on eggshells, the suffocation becomes too much. You need to breathe. You need a single hour where you don't have to monitor your every move.

So, while Nikki is out running errands, you make a choice you know she would consider a betrayal. You grab your keys, step out of the apartment, and drive over to see the one person she completely forbade you from contacting.

You pull up to the curb outside a quiet apartment complex, letting out a long, heavy breath you didn't even realize you were holding. Stepping out of the car feels like escaping a pressure cooker.

When you knock on the door, it only takes a few seconds before she opens it. Your friend takes one look at your exhausted face, the dark circles under your eyes, and the way your hand instinctively twitches toward your phone, and she immediately sighs, stepping aside to let you in.

"You look like a ghost," she says softly, tossing a warm blanket onto the couch and handing you a glass of water. "Let me guess. Nikki?"

You collapse onto the cushions, rubbing your face with both hands. You don't even know where to start. You don't tell her about the shoe flying across the room, or the ceramic vase shattering the quiet, or the suffocating mornings where you aren't allowed to leave the bed. You just tell her about the rules. The way you aren't allowed to text anyone anymore. The way you had to sneak out just to have this single conversation.

Your friend listens in silence, her expression tightening with every word. She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, looking at you with deep concern.

"Look, I know you love her, and I know how intense she is," your friend begins, her voice cautious but firm. "But this isn't normal. People with her kind of personality disorder... they don't just get jealous because they're insecure. They try to completely erase your world so they can be the only thing left. They trap you. They'll do anything, manipulate your schedule, isolate you from your family, or even crazy shit like breaking your things or punching holes in condoms just to tie you down forever. You need to open your eyes before you're completely stuck."

Her words send a strange, cold shiver down your spine, but you quickly shake your head, brushing it off. Nikki wouldn't do something that extreme. She's just sensitive. She just loves you too much.

You spend another hour just talking about old times, soaking in the rare feeling of a normal, peaceful conversation. But the peace is cut short the moment your phone buzzes in your pocket. Your heart drops into your stomach.

It's a text from Nikki.

[Text — 03:23 PM] Nikki: Where are you? I'm home.

The text message is enough to make you cut the visit short, racing back home before Nikki can fully split and assume you’ve abandoned her. You manage to smooth things over with a lie about a long line at the store, but the tension stays humming beneath the surface for the next couple of days.

To make it up to her, you agree to take her out shopping.The mall is crowded, but Nikki is in her element, dragging you into one of those alternative, vintage-style shops filled with oversized hoodies and graphic tees. You're just wearing your usual style, a lightweight, brown plaid button-up open over a plain black t-shirt.

While Nikki disappears into the fitting room with a mountain of baggy clothes, you wait near the racks, holding her heavy gothic wallet and her cat plush keychain.

"I love your shirt," a soft, syrupy voice interrupts your thoughts.

You look up to see the cashier, a girl with heavy eyeliner and a nose ring, leaning against the counter with a playful smirk. She steps closer, intentionally reaching out to touch the collar of your brown plaid shirt, her fingers brushing dangerously close to your neck as she slides her hand down the patterned fabric. "The coffee-brown tones look really good on you. Honestly, it fits you perfectly... I could just write my number on a receipt for you if you want."

Before you can even process the blatant flirt, the heavy curtain of the fitting room snaps open.

Nikki steps out, and the moment her eyes land on the cashier’s hand lingering on your brown plaid shirt, the entire atmosphere in the store turns ice-cold. You watch the physical shift in her face, the sudden, terrifying widening of her eyes, the way her jaw locks tight, and the deep, heavy scowl twisting her features into pure venom.

She doesn't make a scene in the store. She doesn't scream. Instead, she marches straight over, grabs your arm with a bruising, iron-tight hold, and drags you out into the parking lot without uttering a single word.

The drive back to the apartment is deafeningly silent. Nikki stares straight ahead, her knuckles white against the dashboard, her breathing coming in ragged, shallow gasps. The second you step through the front door, the explosion happens.

She doesn't say a word at first. She just lunges at you, her fingers frantically gripping the front of your brown plaid shirt. With a violent, manic strength, she rips the metal snaps open, tearing the patterned fabric right off your shoulders, leaving you standing there in just your black t-shirt.

She storms out onto the small concrete balcony, dragging the shirt behind her, and pulls a metal lighter out of her pocket.

"Nikki, what the fuck are you doing?" you yell, stepping out after her.

"She touched it! She touched you!" Nikki screams, her voice completely breaking as tears finally spill over her flushed cheeks. Her face is contorted in a mix of agonizing heartbreak and blind rage. "You liked it, didn't you? You liked the way she looked at you! You want her because she's normal! Because she isn't broken like me!"

Flicking the wheel of the lighter, she sparks a bright orange flame and holds it directly against the corner of the plaid fabric. The thin material catches instantly, the fire quickly devouring the brown and white pattern, turning the shirt into black ash right before your eyes.

Nikki stands there, the fire reflecting in her wide, manic eyes, her chest heaving as she stares at the burning cloth. The sheer terror of losing you has completely overwhelmed her brain. She drops the lighter, her body suddenly trembling violently as she turns around and looks at you, her bottom lip quivering in that familiar, desperate pout.

"Tell me you don't want her," she chokes out, sobbing now, stepping closer until her body is pressed flat against your chest. "Tell me you're mine. Only mine. Please."

She doesn't wait for your answer. Nikki aggressively grabs the collar of your black t-shirt, pulling you back inside the bedroom, throwing herself at you with a frantic, possessive hunger. She shoves you down onto the mattress, immediately climbing on top of your lap, her hands tearing at the rest of your clothes with a wild, desperate urgency.

This is her marking her territory. She needs to consume you, to feel your anatomy completely filling her up until the image of the cashier is entirely wiped from your mind.

Before you can even reach toward the nightstand, Nikki beats you to it. She rips open the drawer, grabs one of the foil wrappers she already had waiting, and without even pausing to use her hands, she catches the edge of the plastic between her teeth. She tears the packaging open with a desperate, feral bite, spitting the foil onto the sheets in the dark before quickly sliding the latex over your length with trembling fingers. She is too consumed by panic and lust to wait even a single second.

Nikki straddles your lap instantly, her knees pinning your thighs down against the mattress as she heavy-breathes over your face. There is no hesitation in her movements tonight, only a wild, desperate urgency to reclaim what she thinks she almost lost.

"You are mine," she gasps out against your lips, her voice dropping into a fierce, demanding whisper. "You are only mine. Don't look at anyone else. Don't let anyone else look at you."

She slides down your length in one deep, sudden motion, a sharp, choked moan tearing from her throat as her eyes roll back. Her inner muscles clamp down around you with a tight, crushing friction, completely overwhelming in its warmth. Nikki arches her back, her fingers immediately flying to your shoulders and digging violently into your skin as she begins to move.

The pace she sets is frantic and punishing. She rides you with a desperate, unhinged energy, her hips rolling and slamming down against yours in a heavy, wet rhythm. Every single thrust drives a loud, broken whimper from her lips, but she refuses to slow down, completely consumed by the need to feel your anatomy filling her to the absolute limit.

As the pleasure tightens inside her, Nikki leans forward, burying her face in the crook of your neck. She bites down on your skin, hard enough to make you groan, before sucking frantically at the sensitive flesh. She leaves a trail of dark, heavy hickeys all along your jawline and collarbone, deliberately branding you, leaving marks that anyone will be able to see tomorrow.

"Say it," she roars softly, her voice breaking as she franticly moves her hips faster and harder against yours. "Tell me you're mine!"

"I'm yours, Nikki," you rough-whisper, your hands flying to her waist to try and steady her chaotic, bruising pace.

The heat in the room is suffocating. Nikki screams into your shoulder, her nails dragging all the way down your bare back, scratching deep into your skin, leaving long, red lines that burn under the sweat. Her entire body goes rigid, her walls violently spasming around you in a crushing, endless orgasm that hits her so hard she collapses flat against your chest. The intense friction completely shatters your control, and you drive your hips up one last time, groaning loudly as you release inside the latex, holding her tight while she trembles against you, utterly spent.

Later that night, the apartment is dead silent. Nikki is fast asleep beside you, her arm draped heavy over your stomach, breathing softly as if she hadn't just burned your shirt and torn your back apart hours ago.

Your neck is burning from the fresh hickeys, and your back stings every time you shift against the sheets. You stare up at the ceiling, your friend's warnings from earlier floating back into your mind, echoing louder than before. They'll do anything... even crazy shit like punching holes in condoms just to tie you down forever.

A strange, uneasy pit forms in your stomach. You look over at Nikki's peaceful face, then slowly turn your head toward the nightstand drawer. It’s a stupid thought. It’s crazy. Nikki is intense, but she wouldn't go that far, right?

Carefully sliding out from under her arm, you try not to make a sound as your feet hit the cold floor. You pull the nightstand drawer open just an inch, the tiny sliver of moonlight from the window guiding your fingers as you reach inside and pull out the cardboard box of condoms.

Before you open it, you pause and look back at the bed.

Nikki looks so incredibly tiny curled up under the heavy blankets. With her long dark hair messy against the pillow and her lips parted slightly, all the terrifying, manic fury from earlier has completely vanished. She looks like a fragile, innocent doll, sleeping so softly after the storm. You shake your head, feeling a pang of guilt for even letting your mind wander into such a dark place. There's no way, you think to yourself, a faint smile touching your lips. This cute, tiny little thing sleeping right here wouldn't do something that psycho. She's just intense.

Holding that comforting thought, you turn back to the box and slide three unused foil wrappers out, bringing them close to your eyes in the dim light.

At first glance, they look completely normal. But as you run your thumb firmly across the smooth foil of the first one, squeezing the air inside, you feel it collapse.

You bring it right up to your face, squeezing again.

A tiny, almost invisible hiss of air escapes against your skin. Right in the dead center of the wrapper, there is a microscopic, clean pinprick. You quickly check the second one. Another hole. The third one. The exact same thing.

The blood completely drains from your face, your hands shaking so hard the wrappers crinkle loudly in the quiet room. Your gaze slowly snaps back to the bed, staring at the "cute, tiny little thing" in the dark with a sudden, suffocating horror. She didn't want to be safe. She never wanted to be safe. Every single time you thought you were protecting yourselves, you were walking straight into the trap she’d built to keep you from ever walking away.

The horror of that discovery doesn't let you sleep for the rest of the night. You lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, completely hyper-aware of the tiny, delicate girl sleeping soundly beside you, realizing she has officially trapped you.

The next morning, the second Nikki steps into the shower, the walls feel like they are collapsing on you. The scratches on your back burn, and the hickeys on your neck look like bruises in the mirror. Driven by pure, suffocating panic, you grab your keys and sprint out of the apartment before she can even turn the water off. You drive blindly, your hands shaking on the steering wheel, until you hit the brakes outside your friend's complex again.

When your friend opens the door, her eyes immediately drop to your neck, her face tightening with an expression of pure disgust and pity.

"Jesus..." she whispers, pulling you inside the apartment and slamming the door shut. "Did she do that to you because you came here the other day? I told you she was dangerous."

"It's not just that," your voice cracks, your chest heaving as you collapse onto her couch. You pull out your phone, your fingers fumbling with the screen. "You were right. About everything. I checked the box last night... she poked holes in all of them. Every single one."

Your friend's jaw drops, the room falling into a heavy, terrified silence. "Oh my god. I told you. I fucking told you she would try to trap you! You need to leave her right now, block her number, and never look back!"

"I can't... look at what she sends me when I don't answer," you mutter, unlocking your phone to open the chat history.

But as you open the screen, the phone automatically defaults to your recently opened apps, throwing your photo gallery right onto the display. Your friend blinks, staring at the screen for a second before you can frantically swipe it away. The gallery is an absolute, unfiltered mess, hundreds of hidden, explicit nudes of Nikki. Photos of her arched on your sheets, mirror selfies in her oversized hoodies with nothing underneath, videos of her crying out your name in the dark. It’s the visual proof of your own dark, dangerous addiction to her. Even knowing she's destroying your life, you are completely obsessed with her body.

Your friend gives you a long, deeply disturbed look, shaking her head. "Are you serious right now? You're literally obsessed with her."

"Just... just listen to the voice notes," you deflect quickly, your face burning with a mix of shame and anxiety as you scroll past the photos and hit play on the first audio file she sent you this morning.

The quiet apartment is suddenly filled with Nikki's voice, sounding terrifyingly sweet, almost childlike.

[Voice Note 0:14] Nikki: I love youuuu so so much... I miss you, I never wanted to be apart ever again.

Your friend shivers, but before she can speak, the next automated audio plays right after it, Nikki's tone shifting slightly into something more demanding, more breathless.

[Voice Note 0:08] Nikki: Are you coming to see me... Went. Went. Went.

"Turn it off," your friend says, her voice trembling as she reaches for your arm.

But you don't. You let the next one play, the audio turning ragged and panicked, the raw BPD splitting vibrating through the speaker.

[Voice Note 0:22] Nikki: Why are you doing this to me? You are killing me... Don't leave me...

[Voice Note 0:11] Nikki: Promise you never ever ever leave me... ever

Her voice begs in the next clip, sobbing now, a sound that makes the hairs on your arms stand up.

[Voice Note 0:15] Nikki: You are coming to see me right? Right. Right.

[Voice Note 0:19] Nikki: I'll be waiting for you. We'll be together forever, ever and... ever.

The final audio clicks off, leaving the room completely freezing. You stare down at your phone, your thumb hovering over the chat bar where thirty more unread messages are piling up by the second."I don't think you want to see the rest," you whisper, your voice hollow, looking up at your friend with a broken, helpless expression. "She's already losing her mind because I'm not home."

Your friend opens her mouth to speak, her eyes wide with sheer terror after hearing those audios, but she never gets the chance.

The heavy wooden front door of the apartment suddenly shatters open with a deafening crash.

You spring off the couch, your heart leaping into your throat as Nikki steps into the room. You freeze instantly. She isn't wearing her usual oversized hoodies or baggy clothes. She’s wearing a beautiful, delicate dress, the kind she only puts on for special occasions, clearly intended to make this moment feel like a fairy tale. But her appearance is completely unhinged. Her long dark hair is wild around her face, and her eyes are completely black with a manic, murderous rage. She didn't just track your phone; she already knew you had broken her rules once before. Seeing you here, in another girl's apartment, has completely shattered the last remaining piece of her sanity.

You scream and lunge forward, trying to shout her name, but you're too late.

Before your friend can even process the invasion, Nikki closes the distance with terrifying, unnatural speed. Moonlight glints off the sharp metal blade she brought from the kitchen. The room turns into a horrific blur of screams, tearing fabric, and a violent, sickening struggle. You try to pull Nikki away, grabbing her waist, but her strength is fueled by pure, unadulterated psychotic panic. She isn't just fighting; she is erasing the threat of you leaving her.

When the chaos finally stops, the apartment drops into a suffocating, heavy silence, broken only by the sound of Nikki’s ragged, uneven breathing.

Your friend collapses onto the floor, completely still, the dark crimson stain spreading rapidly across the carpet, soaking straight into the hem of Nikki’s beautiful dress.

You take a desperate step back, your hands shaking violently, your vision blurring as the trauma of what you just witnessed hits your brain like a semi-truck. Your stomach turns. It’s too much. The girl you love, the tiny, cute thing you were just holding in bed, is standing in a pool of blood, the dress she wore to announce your future together now stained with the cost of it.

Nikki slowly turns around to look at you. She drops the blade, the metallic clang echoing in the quiet room. Her face, her hands, and the bodice of her delicate dress are splattered with fresh crimson, but her expression isn't angry anymore. The manic rage has instantly melted back into that fragile, innocent, heartbreaking pout. She looks like a scolded child, her bottom lip trembling as fresh tears wash tracks through the blood on her cheeks.

She walks over to you, completely ignoring your trembling frame, and steps right into your space. She wraps her blood-stained arms around your waist, burying her face into your grey t-shirt for a second before tilting her head up to look at you with deep, suffocating adoration.

Slowly, tenderly, she lifts one wet, crimson hand and begins to gently stroke your chest, right over your hammering heart, leaving a dark red smear across the fabric.

"Look what you made me do," Nikki whispers, her voice dropping into a soft, petulant whine, completely sincere in her delusion. She strokes your chest harder, her fingers gripping your shirt with a terrifying possessiveness. "I wanted to tell you something so happy. I was going to tell you about the baby, about our little family, but you broke your promise. You came to see her when you know I'm the only one who truly loves you. This is your fault, honey boo. All your fault. You forced my hand."

She rests her hand against your stomach, smiling beatifically through the tears and blood. "We're going to be a family now, no matter what. Because we're going to be together forever and ever, right? Right?"

Las Vegas already feels like it’s humming before you even properly arrive in it, like the entire city is a living thing that inhales neon and exhales heat. The dry air hits you the moment you step outside with your friends, your skin tightening slightly under the sun that feels too bright to be real, too staged, like it’s been turned up for an audience. Day 1 of the concert hasn’t even begun, but everything already feels like it’s leaning forward, waiting.

You and your friends had landed with a plan that wasn’t really a plan, just a loose agreement to follow anything that felt vaguely ARIRANG-featured, anything tied to BTS lore, anything that might make the trip feel more like a pilgrimage than a vacation. It’s ridiculous, you think, as you walk past tourists filming fountains and gamblers spilling out of casinos like they’ve forgotten what time is. But it’s Vegas. Everything here is supposed to be a little ridiculous.

That’s how you end up there.

The Lotus Magic Shop sits wedged between two louder buildings, its sign small enough to miss if you blink. But something about it pulls your attention anyway. Soft gold lettering, a faint glow even in daylight, like it’s remembering being important once. Your friend laughs immediately when she sees it.

“Okay,” she says, pointing. “That is literally a Magic Shop. We have to go in.”

You don’t argue. None of you do. The name alone feels like permission.

Inside, the air shifts. It’s cooler, quieter, like the city got muted the moment the door closed behind you. Shelves line the walls in uneven rows, filled with trinkets that look half antique and half staged, crystal animals, dusty jars, folded paper charms tied with string. It smells faintly like cedar and something metallic underneath, like old coins or rain that never fully dried.

And then you see it.

The One Wish Willow.

It sits on a middle shelf like it doesn’t belong there, in a highly deceptive, retro, and cheap-looking mass-market packaging. The vintage 1980s-style box is designed to look like an ordinary, inexpensive novelty trinket you might impulsively pick up from a gift shop.

6.99.

Seven dollars, basically. It’s always the seven when it comes to BTS and Army!

You stare at it longer than you mean to.

“It grants one wish, it says!” The exterior and packaging also prominently display "Amaze your friends!" alongside important user warnings. Warning Labels: The packaging and included instructions heavily stress that wishes are irreversible and cannot be repeated.

Your friend snorts. “That’s so fake.”

“Obviously,” another says, already walking away. “But it’s cute. Get it for the memory.”

You should leave it there. You know that. You absolutely know that. But Vegas has a way of making bad ideas feel like traditions, like souvenirs you’re supposed to collect without questioning whether they’re real.

So you buy it. “Are you sure about this?” The cashier asks with a strange look on his face.

“Well, yes.” He continues giving you a look, but then shrugs. You pay him and that is that.

Seven dollars feels like nothing in a city designed to make everything feel like nothing.

When your friends see it at checkout, they laugh.

“You bought a cursed dead wood?”

“It’s not cursed,” you say automatically, even though you don’t actually believe that either. You just tuck the box into your bag like it belongs there. Like it was always meant to come with you.

Outside again, the sun is louder. The world is louder. You almost forget about the shop entirely by the time you’re rushing toward the venue, checking your phone every few seconds like it might suddenly tell you you’re late.

Soundcheck passes are real. You still can’t believe it even as you’re being guided inside with a crowd that feels too excited to be contained in a single building. Everything is flashing wristbands and security instructions and the distant thump of rehearsal sound bleeding through walls.

Inside the stadium, the scale hits you in pieces instead of all at once.

The stage is massive, extending into long catwalk legs that reach deep into the audience sections like arms stretching out to touch as many people as possible. Your seat is just slightly off-center, close enough to feel lucky, far enough to feel invisible. You notice it immediately. You always notice it immediately.

You’re not front row. Not even close.

Your fingers tighten around your phone as you sit. You can already feel the logic forming in your head: they will look everywhere, but not here. Not exactly here. Not you.

You really want them to see you. To acknowledge your existence and not just as a light in the crowd. But as... you. 

Still, you came prepared. Your bag opens like a small arsenal of anticipation, light sticks, snacks you won’t eat, tissues you don’t need, and the poster you spent too long making.

On it, in bold exaggerated handwriting: “Can you BE MINE? 1 for Yes or 2 for Yes.”

It’s stupid. It’s supposed to be stupid. That’s the point. It’s based on Jimin’s solo work, a joke turned into hope turned into something you can hold instead of just thinking about. 

BTS is about to step onto that stage. And more specifically, Park Jimin…the PARK Jimin, is about to exist in the same physical space as you again, even if only briefly, even if only in passing light.

You tell yourself that should be enough.

Soundcheck starts with “Swim,” then “Alien,” then “Fya.” Fifteen minutes that feel like they stretch and compress at the same time, like time is reacting to sound instead of the other way around.

When BTS come out, the stadium erupts in a kind of sound that feels too big for human lungs. You watch them move like they already know exactly where every camera is, every angle, every expectation. Kim Namjoon. Kim Seokjin. Min Yoongi. Jung Hoseok. PARK JIMIN. Kim Taehyung. Jeon Jungkook.

They look effortless in a way that makes you feel slightly unreal for existing in the same space.

Jimin moves like he’s half-aware of gravity but not fully obeying it. Like a fairy, if you will.

He circles the stage during “Alien” with the others, and you immediately stand a little straighter, as if that helps. You lift your poster slightly higher. You even try a small, awkward dance, something to make yourself noticeable, something to separate you from the blur of fans around you.

He comes your direction during the rotation.

Your chest tightens so sharply it feels like it might interrupt the moment itself.

He’s closer now. Close enough that you can see the way his hair sticks slightly to his forehead, the way his expression shifts between focus and warmth depending on where he’s looking.

You raise your poster higher.

“Can you BE MINE? 1 for Yes or 2 for Yes.”

Your heart is doing something unhelpful and frantic.

But his eyes don’t land on you.

They sweep over your section like a light passing over glass, brief, reflective, gone. He’s looking lower, closer to the barricade, the very front rows where people are practically reaching into the stage. His attention is anchored there, grounded in proximity.

You are just far enough back to become part of the crowd instead of part of the moment.

He smiles at someone else. Waves. Moves on.

And then he’s gone.

Just like that.

The disappointment is not immediate. It arrives a few seconds later, like your body needs time to realize what your mind already understands.

Soundcheck ends quickly after that. The members leave in a blur of coordinated movement and flashing lights, and the stadium slowly deflates into noise again, fans talking, laughing, already rewriting the moment into something softer.

You stay seated.

Long after everyone else begins to shift and stand and stretch and leave, you remain still, your poster resting against your knees like it suddenly weighs more than it did before.

Your friends notice.

“It’s okay,” one of them says quickly, sitting back down beside you. “It’s just soundcheck. You’ve got the main show. He’ll definitely see you then.”

“Yeah,” another adds. “There’s still so many chances. And your poster is literally iconic.”

You nod because it’s easier than explaining that something about it already feels decided. Like you’ve seen the shape of how today will go, and it doesn’t include what you wanted.

They eventually leave to get food, promising to come back before the show starts. The stadium empties in waves for a brief moment. You stay behind, claiming you need to charge your phone, even though it’s more about not wanting to move yet.

You open your bag slowly.

That’s when you see it again.

The One Wish Willow box.

It sits at the bottom like it’s been waiting patiently, as if it knew you’d eventually run out of distractions and remember it existed.

You turn it over in your hands.

6.99.

A joke. A souvenir. A stupid little object from a stupid little shop in a city that thrives on illusions. Spark the middle and break in half.

You almost laugh.

“What harm could it do?” you murmur under your breath.

It’s not even a question you expect an answer to.

You open the box.

Inside, the One Wish Willow is smaller than you thought. Delicate. Ordinary. Almost pathetic. Like something you could snap between your fingers if you wanted to.

You hold it anyway.

The stadium hums faintly around you. Distant staff and fan movement, echoing sounds from the VCR play around the venue, the lingering ghost of music still trapped in the walls.

You exhale.

“I wish Jimin would finally notice me,” you say quietly, almost amused at yourself.

There’s a pause.

Your brain tries, genuinely tries, to stop you there. To let it remain harmless. A joke. A story you can tell your friends later.

But you don’t stop.

Because if you’re going to pretend magic is real, it might as well be honest magic.

“…and that once he does, he can’t stop thinking about me. Like I stay in his mind. Like he can’t look away, even when he tries. Like he…”

Your grip tightens slightly.

You don’t know why it suddenly feels harder to breathe in a building full of air.

You continue anyway.

“…like he falls for me completely and can’t stop.”

The moment the sentence leaves you, you break the piece of wood. The air shifts.

Not dramatically. Not visibly.

Just enough that you notice it afterward, like a sound… a jingle… is registered by your ears after it’s already said.

Your phone buzzes beside you. You put away the broken willow in your bag.

You glance down automatically.

A notification lights the screen from a fan update account: soundcheck clips uploading. Thousands of fans reacting. People laughing about interactive moments you didn’t get to experience properly.

And somewhere in that noise, a strange thought forms, quiet and uninvited.

Like something heard you.

Like something is listening now.

Outside, the stadium begins to fill again.

And far away, under stage lights warming up for the main show, Day 1 of 4 starts to feel less like the beginning of something.

And more like the first time something has already chosen you back.

Your friends eventually come back with food in hand, talking over each other about how insane it already feels, how this is only Day 1 and somehow everything already feels like too much and not enough at the same time.

“You’re too quiet,” one of them says, handing you a drink.

“I’m fine,” you reply automatically, but not mention you embarrassingly pulling out that one wish joke trinket and making an actual wish.

Instead, you let the conversation wash over you while your eyes drift to the main stage again. The long catwalks stretch out like empty roads now, the barricades still lined with early fans trying to capture the perfect shot to show that they made it to the BTS concert and have the "best seats in the house". Staff members move across the floor, taping cables, checking screens, resetting the world for tonight’s main show like nothing supernatural had ever brushed through it.

But you cannot shake the feeling that something did.

By the time doors open for the general audience for the main concert, the energy shifts completely.

The stadium fills so fast it almost feels violent. Allegiant Stadium becomes a single body exhaling heat, light, and sound all at once. It's also just a bit overwhelming the more and more you think about it and look around. The crowd becomes a living thing pressed shoulder to shoulder, lightsticks blooming like a field of synchronized stars, and VCR music begins to play ominous traditional Korean instrumental tunes.

You and your friends are back in your seats discussing surprise songs they're hopeful to see, random tweets they saw online, and other yapping about BTS. Things have settled and feel different. Fuller. Heavier. Like whatever happened during soundcheck and you being embarassed by Jimin's lack of attention towards you has been swallowed by something larger.

When the show begins, it begins like impact.

“Hooligan” hits first, and the stage explodes into movement. Then “Aliens,” then “Run BTS,” and the entire stadium screams like it is trying to keep up with its own heartbeat.

BTS move like they are in control of gravity again, but you notice something subtle now that you did not during soundcheck. It is not obvious at first. Just small pauses between movements. Slight changes in where attention goes.

And more than anything, you notice Jimin.

He is smiling, performing, spinning into choreography like he always does, but his eyes keep drifting in ways that feel slightly unfocused. Not lost. Just… searching. Like he is looking for something he cannot name. His body language also looks off at moments, but maybe you're overthinking it a bit much.

Yeah, maybe you are just imagining it.

But then it happens again during “Fake Love.”

He and Yoongi walk toward the extended stage leg closest to your side of the floor. The crowd erupts around you, phones rising like a single wave. You rise too without thinking, lifting your poster again even though your hands are already tired from holding it earlier.

“Can you BE MINE? 1 for Yes or 2 for Yes.”

You watch him approach.

This time, he is closer than soundcheck. Close enough that you can see the way his expression tightens slightly when he scans the crowd.

He stops.

Just for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

His eyes pass over barricade fans first, then the middle sections, then yours.

And for a moment, his gaze catches yours and he looks very elated to find you.

He then looks like he is reading the sign you made and laughs. Then he raises a peace sign. A 2. Answering your question. You and your friends suddenly cheer from the interaction of finally getting noticed.

Then his attitude shifts and he looks away sharply, almost as if something pulled him out of it, and continues moving.

You lower your poster slowly.

“Wait what was that?” your friend shouts over the music.

“I don’t know,” you answer, but your voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. “But who cares, I got noticed! Yay!”

You and your friends continue to fangirl and cheer throughout the set, and the rest of the concert continues like a dream that refuses to stabilize.

“Mic Drop” shakes the stadium so hard your ribs feel like they are vibrating separately from your body. “Fya” turns the crowd into pure movement, with other members like Taehyung and Hoseok coming onto your side. “Fire” makes everything feel like it is burning without heat.

During “Idol,” the members walk the perimeter in a procession, and you catch glimpses of them moving past your section. RM looks out into the crowd with a calm focus that feels almost grounding, like he is seeing the whole stadium at once instead of just pieces of it. Jin waves toward a section slightly farther away, laughing at something a fan is doing. Jungkook runs ahead of the others briefly, then slows like he remembers he is supposed to stay in formation.

But Jimin.

Jimin keeps pausing in small, inconsistent ways. Not enough for anyone else to notice if they weren't his fellow members and staff, though just enough for you to start noticing it as a long time fan. Is something wrong?

Once, during a transition, he turns his head toward the stage wings like he heard something offstage. Another time, he looks directly into the crowd again and holds it for a beat too long, then blinks like he is resetting himself.

Your stomach tightens.

You tell yourself it's likely exhaustion. Lights. Noise. Pressure. Anything normal. This is the last stop of the first leg of the World Tour, maybe he's not feeling 100%.

But the thought from earlier returns anyway.

Like something heard you.

By the time the encore begins, you are physically drained from all of the standing or screaming you've been doing for over an hour. 

“Come Over” feels soft after everything that came before it, like the stadium is exhaling. “Butter” makes everyone laugh and sway, the members joking with each other, moving without precision on purpose.

During “Dynamite,” Jimin spins mid-step and for a brief second looks directly toward the center sections again.

And again, it is like something inside him stutters.

Like he is trying to focus on one thing and failing.

The surprise songs hit differently.

“Permission to Dance” shocks fans at it's sudden return to being played, to the dismay of some, but it brings back some soft memories from Permission to Dance tour. “Go Go” is chaotic and playful, but even then you notice Jimin lagging half a beat behind the others at one point, then correcting himself instantly like it never happened. He laughs it off, but you can tell members like Taehyung catch it immediately that this isn't normal for Jimin.

You hope everything is alright and that he isn't pushing himself.

The final stretch of the concert slows everything down. The members do their ending ments, thanking fans for coming to Vegas, mentioning how they know many travelled fair to be there and also coming back to this venue after 4 years. Time surely has passed. Jimin's ending meant is very normal during this: just teasing fans to make some noise and hoping everyone gets home safely after the show.

“Please” has them sitting on the rotating stage, turning slowly so every side of Allegiant Stadium gets its moment. The crowd is still loud, but it is softer now, emotional in a way that feels like collective fatigue and joy mixing together.

You watch Jimin during that rotation, recording with your phone for some clips to have as memories.

You zoom in with your phone. He is smiling again. Playing around with Yoongi who keeps poking at him, followed by Jungkook who slaps his knees.

But every so often, his eyes flick toward your section.

And stares deeply, as if he’s trying to find…you.

Then “Into the Sun” begins.

It feels like goodbye stretched into music. Slow, aching, and impossibly tender.

The members stand at the edge of the stage, waving, lingering, and walking backward as if refusing to fully leave yet. The stadium roars with everything it has left, a wall of sound that vibrates in your chest like it could keep them there forever.

And then it is over.

The lights come up gradually at first, then all at once.

Harsh, white, and unforgiving. Reality forcing itself back in like cold water after a fever dream.

The crowd doesn’t move right away. Everyone just stands there, stunned into a lingering, messy noise. Some still cheering, some already crying, a few calling out names that won’t be answered again tonight. The magic drains slowly, like water slipping through cupped hands.

Your friends stay frozen beside you for a long second. Then the disbelief spills out.“No way… that’s it?” one of them says, voice cracking. “I can’t believe it’s actually over. It doesn’t feel real.”

Another lets out a shaky laugh, rubbing their face with both hands. “I’m not ready. I’m literally not ready. How are we supposed to just go home after that?”

You swallow hard, throat tight. The stadium lights feel too bright on your wet eyes.

“But hey,” the first friend adds, trying to rally, “we’ve got tomorrow. and Wednesday. and Thursday.”

A half-hearted “Yay” ripples through your little group. Flat, tired, and sarcastic. You join in, but it comes out more like a groan.

Tomorrow suddenly feels less like a gift and more like the last step toward the edge of a cliff.

Your friends grab your arms anyway, pulling you forward before the ache can settle too deep.

“Photos,” one says, already steering you toward the barricade. “We have to get barricade photos while it’s emptying out. Come on.”

You follow them because it is easier than thinking. Easier than sitting still in your seat with your body suddenly too aware of itself. Legs shaky, chest hollow, the ghost of every chorus still ringing in your ears.

The barricade area is less chaotic now. Still slightly crowded, but more manageable. Fans take turns posing, laughing, recreating moments from the show that already feel like memories instead of present tense.

You take a few photos with your friends. You smile when you are supposed to. You hold your lightstick up. You try to match their energy.

But your feet hurt.

Your entire body feels like it has been emptied and refilled too many times in one night.

Eventually you drift away slightly, letting them continue taking pictures while you find a random empty aisle seat closer to the back of the floor section. It is not your seat. You do not care.

You sit down like your body finally makes a decision without asking you.

The relief is immediate and almost dizzying.

You lean forward, unlacing your boots with slow fingers. The floor feels colder than you expect. You pull out your foldable flats from your bag and slip them on, exhaling like you have been holding your breath for hours. You put your boots away in a reusable bag you had folded up in your main bag.

The thought of walking back to the hotel already makes your legs ache. The Strip will be chaos. Fans everywhere. Glittering noise and traffic and exhaustion all wrapped together in a single direction.

“Fans packed like sardines,” one of your friends had called it earlier.

It feels accurate now.

You lean back in the seat for just a second, holding onto your clear bag of stuff and your shoe bag.

Just one.

That is when it happens.

A hand grabs your arm.

Firm. Immediate. Real.

You are pulled sideways before your brain fully processes what is happening, taking a strong hold of your bags before they slip off.

“Wait–” you start, voice rising instantly, shock snapping through your body.

The grip tightens and drags you faster, away from your seat, away from your friends, toward one of the darkened tunnels that leads backstage.

Your breath catches hard.

Where are you going?!

The direction BTS disappeared into? Why? 

Your instinct is to scream. 

You almost do.

But the person stops abruptly and turns slightly, sensing it before it happens. A hand rises quickly, finger pressed to a masked mouth in a clear shushing gesture.

“쉬,” the man says quietly. [“Shh.”]

Your heart slams so hard it feels like it is trying to leave your chest.

The man is small-framed, wearing an oversized hoodie that swallows his body shape completely. A mask covers most of his face, leaving only his eyes visible.

And when you see those eyes properly, everything in you goes still in a way you had once joked about.

Not panic.

Not excitement.

Just total system freeze.

Because your brain refuses to accept what your eyes are showing you.

No.

No way.

That is not–

The man pulls you further into the tunnel, away from the noise of the stadium, deeper into the dim backstage corridor where everything sounds distant and muffled.

Your mind finally catches up to your body.

This is how you thought it would go, once, in a very delusional dream you had many years ago about BTS at Speak Yourself tour when you were still in college.

Well not like this. Not literally. But in that vague, impossible way you dreamed about and immediately laughed off once you woke up.

If it ever happens, you had told yourself, you will freeze. You will not scream. You will not move. You will just accept it because it cannot be real anyway.

And now you are doing exactly that.

Because the man glances back at you again, and the mask shifts slightly as he turns.

And when you meet his eyes properly this time, there is no room left for doubt.

It is him.

Jimin.

He is staring at you like he is still trying to confirm something.

Then, in a low voice, barely above a breath, he speaks in Korean first.

“왜 이렇게 조용해요?” [“Why are you so quiet?”]

You do not answer.

You physically cannot.

He lets out a short exhale that sounds almost like relief, then shifts his grip slightly, still holding your arm but gentler now, guiding instead of dragging.

Then he adds, in careful English, softer and more deliberate than before.

“I need you to come with me. Just for a moment.”

Your legs move because he is moving.

Not because you decided.

Because something in your brain has completely stopped arguing.

And as the tunnel opens further into the backstage world, where lights are colder and voices are lower and everything feels like it is happening behind reality instead of inside it, one thought repeats in your head over and over again.

This is not supposed to be happening.

And yet it is.

The corridor behind the main tunnel is nothing like the stadium.

The sound drops off so sharply it feels like your ears are malfunctioning. One moment there is 50,000 people still screaming somewhere behind concrete and steel, and the next there is only the hum of emergency lighting and the distant vibration of machinery you cannot see.

Jimin keeps walking until the noise of staff and stagehands fades completely.

You try to count doors as you pass them. You lose track after the third.

He finally stops in a narrow stretch of corridor that looks unused, like it exists only for maintenance and forgotten movement. No staff. No cameras in obvious sight. Just pale walls and a flickering light overhead that makes everything feel slightly unreal.

He releases your arm.

For a second, you do not move. You just stand there, staring at him in the hoodie and mask, your brain still refusing to fully translate what is happening into something logical.

Then he exhales, like he has been holding something in since soundcheck.

And suddenly, he steps forward.

Fast.

Before you can process it, your back hits the wall.

Not painfully. Not violently.

But firmly enough that your body registers it as final.

Your breath catches sharply, eyes widening instantly as your hands lift slightly between you and him out of pure reflex.

He is close now. Too close for any normal backstage interaction. Close enough that you can see the slight uneven rise and fall of his chest, like even he is not fully steady.

The mask is still on, but his eyes are completely uncovered.

And they are not performing anymore.

They are focused.

Locked.

On you.

Your voice tries to form something, but it does not make it out.

He takes his mask off and speaks first, in Korean. 

His voice is low. Controlled. But there is something strained underneath it, like the words are being pulled out instead of chosen.

“오늘…” he starts, then pauses, as if correcting himself mid-thought. “오늘 제대로 못했어요.” [“Today… I couldn't do my best.”]

Your brows knit slightly. You know some Korean, so you're only able to catch fragments of words. Today. Could not. Best.

You do not question why he is speaking to you in a language that you don't really understand, mainly due to being a bit nervous of killing the vibe right now. Jimin continues speaking, not looking away from you at all. 

“계속 당신을 찾으려고 했어요.” [“I kept trying to look for you.”]

Your breath stutters.

That word. 당신.

You know enough Korean to understand the weight of it. You. You specifically.

His hand lifts slightly, then stops midway, like he is unsure whether he should touch you again or not.

He continues anyway, voice tightening just a little.

“잠깐이라도 안 보이면…” [“If I could not see you, even for a moment…”]

He stops.

His gaze flickers across your face like he is checking whether you are still here, still real, still reacting.

Then he exhales through his nose, a sound that is almost frustrated with himself.

“불안했어요.” [“I felt anxious.”]

Silence drops between you.

It is not empty.

It is full.

Full of the stadium somewhere behind you. Full of the fact that this is Jimin. Full of the fact that he is standing too close, speaking like you are not a stranger he pulled into a corridor five minutes ago.

Your mouth opens slightly.

Nothing comes out.

Your brain finally forces a question to the surface.

What.

He watches your confusion register. His eyes soften slightly, and for the first time there is a crack in the intensity, like he realizes you are not following everything.

He shifts, leaning back just a fraction, giving you the smallest amount of space against the wall.

Then he switches to English.

Careful. Slightly uneven.

“I kept losing focus on stage.”

Your breath is still unsteady, but at least now you can understand him clearly.

He continues, eyes still locked on yours.

“I would be performing, and then I would look for a second, and you were not in my sight.”

A pause.

His fingers curl slightly at his side, like he is restraining something restless in his own body.

“And I could not stop thinking about it.”

Your heart is beating so hard it feels loud in your ears again, even without the stadium.

You manage a small, broken sound. Not a word. Just disbelief trying to become speech.

He nods once, like he understands that reaction more than he wants to.

Then he speaks again, softer now, but no less direct.

“I do not know why it was happening today.”

His eyes move over your face again, slower this time, like he is trying to confirm something that still does not make sense even to him.

“I have performed hundreds of times,” he says. “But today… I kept feeling like I needed to see you.”

The word see lands heavier this time.

Not just notice.

Not just glance.

See.

Like you were supposed to be part of something that he could not complete without you being there.

Your back is still against the wall. His proximity has not changed much, only softened at the edges.

And then he adds, quieter, almost like he is admitting something he did not plan to say out loud.

“I thought I was imagining it at first.”

A beat.

“But it kept happening again.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying you in a way that feels less like performance and more like confusion mixed with certainty that should not coexist.

“And when I finally saw you clearly during ‘Fake Love’…” he pauses, swallowing slightly. “It felt like something clicked.”

Your fingers tighten slightly against the wall behind you, grounding yourself in something physical because nothing else feels stable.

You force yourself to speak, voice thin.

“You… you saw me?”

That is all you can manage. Stupidest question ever since you know he did and acknowledged your poster, but double confirmation from him would be nice.

He nods immediately.

“Yes.”

Simple.

Absolute.

No hesitation.

Then, after a pause that feels heavier than anything before it, he adds in English again, quieter now.

“I could not stop looking after that.”

The corridor hums faintly.

Somewhere far away, staff voices echo briefly, then fade again.

He does not move away.

You do not move either.

And in the strange silence between a stadium full of people and a hallway meant for nobody, it becomes very clear that whatever this is, it did not end when the concert did.

Your mind latches onto the only logical thread it can find, even as your body refuses to fully cooperate with logic anymore.

Did it actually work?

Did the One Wish Willow actually fucking work?

That stupid seven-dollar box sitting at the bottom of your bag. A joke. A souvenir. Something you were supposed to laugh about later.

Now nothing about this feels like a joke.

Jimin is still standing in front of you.

Too close. Too real.

And then his hands lift.

Slowly.

Carefully.

He cups your face like he is testing whether you are solid.

His palms are warm through the chill of the hallway air, thumbs resting just under your cheekbones. For a moment, his expression shifts like something inside him tightens again, like even gentle contact is not enough to settle whatever is happening in his head.

His voice drops, and this time he speaks in Korean again, slower than before, like he is choosing each word as it comes out.

“볼수록…” he murmurs. [“The more I look at you…”]

His gaze drags over your face like he is trying to memorize it in real time.

“너를…” he continues, then stops briefly, exhaling through his nose. [“You…”]

Then he finishes it, voice quieter but heavier.

“가지고 싶어져.” [“I want to have you.”]

A pause.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just heavy in the way silence becomes heavy when someone says something they were not supposed to say out loud.

His thumbs press slightly more firmly against your cheeks, not painful, but enough that you feel the intensity sharpen.

“그냥 보는 걸로는 부족해.” [“Just looking is not enough.”]

Your breath catches.

Not because you understand everything perfectly, but because you understand enough.

Enough to feel the meaning behind it pressing into the space between you.

His eyes flicker across yours again, like he is checking your reaction, and something in him seems to lean forward before he consciously decides to follow it.

The distance between you disappears further. The distance between you vanishes.

Jimin’s mouth finds yours like he’s been starving for it, slow at first, almost reverent, lips soft and plush as they press against yours. Then the hunger takes over. His hands slide from your cheeks into your hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt your head back as he deepens the kiss. His tongue slips past your lips, hot and insistent, tasting you like he wants to devour every small sound you make.

You moan into his mouth and he answers with a low, throaty sound of his own, pressing you back against the cool wall of the hallway. His body is solid heat against yours, firm chest, narrow waist, the hard line of his thigh pushing between your legs. One of his hands drops to your hip, fingers digging in as he rolls his hips forward, letting you feel exactly how much he wants you.

“Fuck…” he breathes against your lips in English this time, the word ragged. Then he’s kissing you again, filthier, tongue stroking deep and slow while his hand slides under the hem of your shirt. His palm is scorching against your bare skin, fingertips tracing up your ribs until he cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple through your thin bra. It pebbles instantly under his touch and he groans, pinching lightly, rolling it until your back arches off the wall.

You clutch at his shoulders, the ash hoodie fabric bunching in your fists. He’s still in stage clothes underneath, sweat-damp tank top clinging to his body, and the scent of him fills your head: clean sweat, faint cologne, and something darker, purely him. You suck on his tongue and he shudders, grinding harder against you, the very obvious ridge of his cock pressing insistently against your thigh.

“너 때문에…” he pants between kisses, voice wrecked. “이렇게 됐어… [Because of you… I’m like this…]”

His mouth trails down to your jaw, then your neck. He bites, sharp enough to sting, then soothes it with his tongue, sucking a mark right below your ear while his hand squeezes your breast harder. Your hips jerk against his thigh, chasing friction, and he chuckles darkly against your skin before kissing you again, messier this time. Lips wet, tongues sliding, spit-slick and desperate. His free hand grips your ass, pulling you tighter against him so you can feel every inch of his hardness rocking against you.

You’re both breathing hard, almost panting into each other’s mouths. His forehead rests against yours for half a second, eyes half-lidded and glassy with want, before he dives back in-kissing you like the world is ending, like this stolen hallway is the only place left. One of your hands slips under his hoodie, nails dragging down his back, and he hisses, hips snapping forward again in response.

He’s just starting to push your shirt higher, mouth moving down toward your chest, when–

A sound cuts through the hallway.

Footsteps.

Sharp. Controlled. Fast.

A voice follows immediately, colder than everything else in the corridor.

“지민아.” [“Jimin.”]

The spell breaks instantly for a moment.

Jimin’s hands drop from your face like he has been shocked. His entire posture changes in a single snap, shoulders tightening, breath shifting.

He turns his head.

RM is standing at the end of the corridor.

His expression is not confused at first.

It is sharp.

Then it turns fully into disbelief.

His eyes move from Jimin to you, then back to Jimin.

“뭐 하는 거야?” [“What the hell are you doing?”]

Jimin takes a half step back so quickly it looks involuntary, like his body is suddenly remembering it is supposed to have boundaries.

“What the fuck?” his eyes widen, and mutters under his breath, but not directed at anyone in particular, like he is realizing the situation at the exact same time everyone else is.

He looks down briefly, running a hand over his face, then turns slightly away from you as if trying to physically reset himself.

The shift is so abrupt it makes your stomach drop. What’s going on?

It’s as if someone just turned the volume of reality back on too fast.

Namjoon steps closer, eyes narrowing as he takes in the corridor, the distance between you and Jimin, the way Jimin is standing like he is trying to reassemble his own thoughts.

“무슨 일이야?” Namjoon asks, voice controlled but clearly strained. [“What is going on?”]

Jimin does not answer immediately.

Namjoon exhales sharply, looking between you both again.

“끝나고 나서 너 갑자기 후드 쓰고 마스크 쓰고 뛰쳐나갔다며.” [“After the show ended, you suddenly grabbed a hoodie and a mask and ran off.”]

He gestures vaguely down the corridor.

“스태프들이 계속 찾고 있었어.” [“The staff have been looking for you everywhere.”]

A beat.

Then his eyes flick to you again, slower this time, assessing.

Jimin suddenly lets out a short, strange laugh.

It is not the kind of laugh that belongs in this moment.

It is too light.

Too detached.

Namjoon notices immediately, his expression shifting.

“왜 웃어?” [“Why are you laughing?”]

Jimin tilts his head slightly, still half turned away, then looks back at you like he has just remembered you are there in a different way than before.

Then he says, in Korean, almost casually:

“그냥… 이 팬이 눈에 들어와서.” [“Just… this fan caught my eye.”]

His gaze lingers on you.

Then he adds, slower:

“같이 데려가고 싶었어.” [“I wanted to bring her with me.”]

Namjoon scoffs immediately.

“호텔까지?” [“To the hotel?”]

His disbelief sharpens.

“너 지금 우리 전부 다 걸고 그런 짓을 한 거야?” [“You’re putting all of our reputations on the line for that?”]

He gestures between Jimin and the corridor like he cannot believe he is having to say this out loud.

“그냥 데려가서 여기서 키스라도 하려고 한 거야?” [“Did you just drag her here to kiss her in a hallway?”]

The air goes still again, but this time it is different.

Not charged.

Just heavy with consequences.

Jimin opens his mouth like he is about to respond, then closes it again.

His expression shifts slightly, like he is trying to grasp something that keeps slipping out of reach.

Then, unexpectedly, he starts laughing again.

Softly at first.

Then a little more.

Namjoon stares at him like he is no longer sure what he is looking at.

You do not move.

You cannot tell if you should.

Jimin finally looks at Namjoon properly, still smiling faintly like the situation is slightly unreal to him.

Then he says, in Korean:

“형, 그냥 영어로 말해줘.” [“Hyung, just tell her in English.”]

A pause.

Namjoon blinks.

“뭐라고?” he asks, voice flat with disbelief. [“What?”]

Jimin tilts his head slightly toward you again, eyes briefly sharpening as if refocusing on the original thread that started all of this.

His voice lowers when he speaks next, calmer now, but still unsettling in its certainty.

“그냥 영어로 말해줘.” he says first, almost absentmindedly, like he is setting the tone of the moment for himself. [“Just say it in English.”]

Then, after a beat, he adds in Korean, slower, deliberate, as if each word has already been decided and there is no room left to argue with it.

“데려간다고 말해.” [“Tell her she’s coming with us.”]

Namjoon does not move right away.

The word hangs in the corridor like something physically uncomfortable.

“데려간다고?” he repeats, slower this time, like saying it again might make it make sense. [“Bring her with us?”]

His eyes flick to Jimin first. Then to you. Then back again, sharper now.

“지민아, 너 지금 무슨 말 하는지 알아?” [“Jimin, do you know what you are saying right now?”]

Jimin does not look away.

He stands straighter now, like the earlier instability has been replaced with something more fixed, more certain in a way that is almost worse.

“I know,” he says simply in Korean, then exhales once. “알아.” [“I know.”]

Namjoon lets out a quiet breath through his nose, frustration and concern mixing in a way that makes his voice drop lower.

“아까부터 이상했어.” [“You’ve been strange since earlier.”]

He gestures slightly toward Jimin, controlled but tense.

“무대에서도 집중이 계속 끊겼고, 스태프들도 봤어.” [“Even on stage, you kept losing focus, and the staff noticed.”]

His gaze sharpens.

“이거 그냥 넘길 문제가 아니야.” [“This is not something we can just ignore.”]

Jimin’s jaw tightens slightly, but he still does not step back.

Namjoon finally looks at you properly now, like he is including you in something he did not plan for. It makes you nervous. He is your bias wrecker after all.

Then he switches to English, voice softer but very deliberate.

“I need you to listen carefully.”

You swallow.

He glances briefly back at Jimin before continuing.

"Jimin wants you to come with us."

A pause.

Not dramatic. Just heavy. The kind of pause where a single second stretches long enough for your pulse to beat twice, three times, while your brain tries to assemble the sentence into something that makes sense.

"Okay…" The word comes out before you can stop it. Neutral. Question shaped. A placeholder while your mind scrambles for footing.

Namjoon's expression tightens slightly. Not anger. Something closer to the careful patience of someone explaining the rules of a game you haven't agreed to play.

He adds, more carefully now, "But you need to understand… this is not normal."

His eyes flick down the corridor, checking for what? Security? Staff? Other fans spilling out of nearby exits? Then back to you.

"I think he is going through something. Mentally. Like a crisis. I don't know what triggered it, but this behavior is not like him."

Behind Namjoon, Jimin says nothing. Doesn't move. Just keeps smiling that small, knowing smile, watching you like you are the only person left in the world. 

Something cold traces down your spine. Not fear. Not yet. But the awareness that the ground has shifted beneath your feet, and you haven't noticed until just now.

Namjoon's voice drops lower, pulling your attention back.

"I am not letting you be pressured." He says it like a fact. Like a line he has already drawn in his own mind and will not cross. "But I also cannot just leave you like this in the middle of Allegiant Stadium."

He exhales, a slow controlled breath, and takes a step slightly closer to you. Close enough that the ambient noise of the departing crowd seems to recede. Close enough that his next words feel like they are being placed directly into your ribs.

"If you go with us, you stay calm. You do not post anything. You do not record anything. You do not argue. You just go where we go and we figure this out."

His eyes sharpen. Not cruel. Precise. The way a leader's eyes sharpen when they know the margin for error has just shrunk to nothing.

"And you tell your friends you left with other people from the concert. Other friends. Tell them you'll be back at their hotel tomorrow. You understand?"

A beat of silence. Then, softer, "Can you do that?"

"Yes." You blush a bit from his authoritative tone, which is one of the things you love about him.

The word leaves your mouth at the exact same moment your phone buzzes in your hand.

You glance down instinctively.

No signal.

That's strange. The stadium has been crowded all night, but your service has held. Now the bars at the top of your screen sit empty, replaced by a small, blinking icon you don't recognize.

Another flicker. The screen stutters, ghost inputs, a lag you have never seen before, and for a split second, the edges of your wallpaper pixelate into gray static.

Then your phone dims.

Not the slow fade of low battery. Not the auto brightness adjusting to the corridor's fluorescent glare. This is different. It is like the screen is struggling. Like something is pulling the life out of it in real time.

The phone goes dark.

Then it lights up again, dimmer. Then dark. Then dim.

Namjoon notices this.

You see the exact moment he does, the slight pause in his breathing, the way his gaze drops to your hand for half a second too long.

"That's fine," he says quickly, already interpreting it, already smoothing over whatever jagged edge has just appeared in the air between you. "Your phone is probably overloaded with the mass usage of the stadium network. Just say you couldn't share location."

His tone is steady, but there is tension underneath it now.

Jimin finally speaks again, quietly in Korean.

“형, 빨리 가.” [“Hyung, let’s go quickly.”]

Namjoon does not respond immediately. His eyes stay on you for another second, like he is still deciding whether this is a mistake that can be stopped.

Then he exhales once, sharply.

“Okay,” he says in English, more to himself than anyone else.

He turns slightly, gesturing down the corridor.

“Follow me.”

The walk with them feels unreal.

Not fast. Not chaotic at all.

Controlled, like your body has been inserted into someone else’s world and is now expected to cooperate with the storyline it's now in.

The corridors shift from narrow backstage passages into wider service halls. You pass staff areas, locked doors, rolling equipment cases. Every sound feels muted, like the building is underwater now.

Then you reach the loading area.

The air changes again.

Colder. More open. Outside doors are partially raised, letting in flashes of Las Vegas night light, distant traffic, and the lingering echo of a stadium that is still emptying out behind you.

A black Escalade is already waiting. The usual ones that transport BTS, that is.

Engine running.

Lights on.

Other members are not here.

Just this one car.

Just Namjoon, Jimin, and you.

Security is stationed nearby. A few staff members in BTS tour uniforms. And near the vehicle, a man you recognize from earlier briefings, likely head of security, labeled Mr Lee by the staff.

He looks at you immediately.

Not with curiosity.

With assessment.

Like you are a problem that has entered a controlled environment.

His eyes flick between you, Jimin, and Namjoon in quick succession.

One of the security staff leans slightly toward Mr Lee, speaking under his breath.

Namjoon notices immediately and steps forward before it escalates.

“괜찮아요.” he says firmly in Korean. [“It’s okay.”]

Then he switches to English for clarity, voice calm but authoritative.

“She’s with me. She’s a friend.”

There is a pause.

The security team does not look convinced.

Mr Lee’s gaze lingers on you a moment longer than comfortable, then shifts back to Namjoon.

A quiet exchange happens between them without words needing to be said.

Then, finally, Mr Lee gives a short nod.

No approval.

Just acceptance of responsibility being transferred.

No one argues out loud, but the air says everything anyway.

Namjoon opens the door to the Escalade.

“Get in,” he says gently, looking at you again.

Behind him, Jimin is already waiting, eyes fixated on you like the decision was never really open to question at all.

And the night outside of the venue, fans continue to walk home, unaware that something with bts has already changed direction completely.

he car ride feels wrong in the way dreams feel wrong. Not frightening at first, just assembled incorrectly, with pieces that belong to different realities forced into the same scene.

The black Escalade pulls away from Allegiant Stadium smoothly and disappears into the Las Vegas night with dark windows and practiced timing. Outside, the Strip is exactly what you imagined it would be after Day 1 of a BTS concert. Thousands of people flood the sidewalks in every direction. Lightsticks still glow in people’s hands. Fans carry banners rolled under their arms and film themselves while walking in crowds thick enough to slow traffic. Cars inch forward beneath giant LED billboards and neon reflections.

You should be out there.

You should be squeezed between your friends, complaining that your feet hurt and replaying every moment from the show. You should be hearing someone insist Jimin definitely looked in your direction at one point. You should be heading back to the ARIA, where you're staying at, and deciding whether overpriced room service is worth it. Or if you should door dash some food from somewhere.

Instead, you’re here.

Inside a black SUV.

With Jimin and Namjoon.

You unlock your phone.

It freezes once before opening. The screen flickers for a second before stabilizing and immediately reveals a flood of notifications.

Friend 1: WHERE ARE YOU HELLO????

Friend 2: DID U LEAVE WITHOUT US?? WHERE'D YOU GO?

Friend 1:YOU LEFT YOUR POSTER BTW I'LL SAVE IT.

You stare at the keyboard.

Your fingers hover for longer than necessary.

Eventually you type:

you: sorry!! ran into some friends from online and hanging out for a bit 😭 my phone is glitching rn and i cant share location

you: but im okay!! don’t wait up if i’m late

You stare at the message again after sending it. It looks normal enough. Weird, but not alarming. Your friends know concerts are chaotic. People split up all the time. They won't question this at all, right?

You lock your phone.

Only then do you realize one of your hands feels warm.

You look down.

Jimin is holding it.

There is nothing dramatic about it. His fingers are loosely intertwined with yours between the seats as though he reached over without thinking and never stopped. He isn’t gripping tightly. He isn’t even looking at your hand.

He’s looking at you.

Not glancing.

Looking.

You’ve spent years watching performances, interviews, clips, fan interactions, livestreams. You know his expressions. You know what his performance face looks like. You know what his fanservice face looks like. You know what his polite public smile looks like.

This isn’t any of those.

His eyes look almost unfocused around the edges, soft in a way that makes your stomach feel strange. Like he found something unexpectedly beautiful and cannot stop checking whether it’s still there.

His thumb brushes lightly across your knuckles once.

You look away first.

On your other side, Namjoon sits with his elbow resting against the door. His expression is neutral, but not relaxed. His phone keeps lighting up. You accidentally catch pieces of the group chat reflected faintly in the screen.

Jungkook asking where they are.

Taehyung asking if everyone’s alive.

Jin saying staff is really upset with them right now.

Namjoon types for a while.

Namjoon: Found him. Coming back. Will explain.

Then another message appears.

Namjoon: Actually.

Namjoon: Something’s weird.

He sends it.

Locks the screen.

And goes back to staring out the tinted window.

After a while he finally turns slightly toward you and says in English, quietly enough that it feels private, “You okay?”

You blink.

The question feels too normal.

You swallow and answer honestly. “I think so.”

Namjoon nods once and looks away again before saying, “You don’t have to be afraid,” then pauses briefly before adding, “but I know this is strange.”

You almost laugh.

Strange feels like the wrong word for being pulled out of a stadium by your celebrity crush after making a suspiciously specific wish to a fake magic item.

The ride ends before your brain can finish processing any of it.

Eventually the scenery outside changes. The Strip becomes cleaner. Taller. More expensive.

Then the SUV turns and your eyes widen slightly when you realize where.

The Waldorf Astoria.

Which feels absurd because you and your friends are staying at ARIA. Practically next door.

The car doesn't approach the front entrance. Instead it descends into a private underground level. Concrete walls. Controlled access. Security checkpoints. Quiet lighting. The kind of infrastructure designed specifically so famous people never have to become public if they don't want to.

The vehicle comes to a smooth stop. Before anyone can speak, Jimin opens the door and gets out. Then he immediately turns and reaches for you. You grab your things and take his hand because, apparently, that is what your body does now. You are not questioning anything right now. He pulls gently but decisively, and suddenly you're moving again. Namjoon unfolds his tall frame from the backseat and follows behind with the energy of someone who has accepted this situation without approving of it.

You're led through the garage toward a set of elevators tucked behind another secured entry point. Private elevators. No guests. No chance encounters with fans or sasaengs. Jimin pulls you inside, grip firm and possessive, and Namjoon steps in right after you, earning a visible eye roll from Jimin.

Jimin presses the button to close the elevator doors immediately before any of their staff could enter with them. Three's already a crowd, he thinks.

Once again you're sandwiched tightly between them, Jimin facing directly in front of you, Namjoon behind you. There's space. And no escape. The elevator starts its smooth ascent and your pulse spikes.

Oh god, not here. Not with both of them like this. Your mind races. You can feel every inch of them. Your clothes are wrinkled, your makeup is ruined, and these stupid foldable flats make you feel small and unprepared.

Jimin notices the split second your eyes flick toward Namjoon. His expression shifts instantly, still calm, but now sharply attentive. He leans in closer, chest brushing yours, and murmurs low against your ear in Korean.

"여기 봐요." Look at me.

Your face burns as you obey. The second your gaze meets his, his eyes soften with dark satisfaction. Then he dips his head without hesitation.

His lips find the side of your neck, hot and deliberate. He kisses you open mouthed, slow and wet, sucking gently at first before dragging his teeth along your pulse point. A helpless little whimper escapes your throat before you can stop it. Embarrassment floods you. Namjoon is right there, inches away, witnessing every second of this. But the shame only makes your body react stronger. Heat pools low in your belly.

Jimin smiles against your skin, clearly loving it. He loves the sound you made, loves how you tremble knowing you have an audience. His hand slides around your waist, pulling you tighter against him as he kisses lower, sucking harder at the sensitive spot just above your collarbone. His tongue traces slow, filthy circles before he nips again, hard enough to make you gasp.

You can feel Namjoon's solid warmth at your back, his body heat radiating through your clothes. The elevator feels impossibly small. Jimin's free hand trails up your side, thumb deliberately brushing the underside of your breast through your dress, teasing the curve as his mouth continues its assault on your neck. Licking. Sucking. Marking you.

Another needy, breathy moan slips out of you. Jimin's grip tightens possessively, his breath hot and ragged against your damp skin. He's completely lost in teasing you now, staring deeply into your eyes whenever he pulls back for air, his gaze hooded and hungry.

Behind you, Namjoon clears his throat. Loudly. He stares fixedly at the glowing floor numbers like they are the most fascinating thing in the world, his jaw tight, his ears visibly red. This is probably one of the most embarassing moments of his life, and he can't believe Jimin's audacity right now. 

Mortified of being watched by your bias wrecker, you push weakly at Jimin's chest, your voice shaky and breathless. "Jimin, Namjoon is right here. Let's save this for when we're alone."

Jimin scoffs, low and amused, his lips still grazing your flushed, marked neck. He steals one last slow, deliberate kiss right under your jaw, tongue flicking teasingly, before he finally pulls back. His eyes stay locked on yours, dark and full of filthy promise.

The elevator doors open with a soft ding.

The hallway outside is quiet and expensive in a way only luxury hotels can be. Thick carpet. Soft lighting. Closed suite doors.

Before Namjoon fully exits, Jimin moves.

He takes your wrist and starts walking quickly.

“지민아,” Namjoon calls.

Jimin doesn’t stop.

One door.

A keycard.

A green light.

The door opens.

You’re pulled inside.

And before Namjoon reaches it–

Click.

Locked.

Outside of that door, there’s now silence.

Namjoon stands there staring at the door for a second before letting out a tired sigh.

Nearby, other doors open.

Jungkook appears first and looks around before asking, “왔어?” [You’re back?]

Then he notices one person missing and asks, “지민이 어디 갔어?” [Where did Jimin go?]

Other doors open.

Jin.

Taehyung.

Yoongi.

Hoseok.

Namjoon rubs his face and says quietly, “…나도 아직 잘 모르겠어.” […I still don’t really know.]

Everyone waits.

Then he adds, “근데 여자 한 명 데려왔어.” [But he brought a girl.]

The hallway goes silent.

Jin immediately lowers his voice and asks, almost whispering, “…팬?” […A fan?]

Namjoon nods.

Jin rolls his eyes.

Taehyung blinks once before saying casually, “지민이 성적으로 너무 답답했던 거 아냐? 오랜만에 투어잖아.” [Maybe Jimin’s sexually frustrated? It’s been a long tour.]

Hoseok immediately smacks his arm. “야.” [“Hey.”]

Taehyung rubs his shoulder dramatically and frowns.

“왜? 진지하게 말한 건데.” [“What? I’m being serious.”]

Jin lets out a quiet breath through his nose and mutters under his breath. “진짜 별소리를 다 하네.” [“You really say the most ridiculous things.”]

Yoongi shakes his head before Taehyung can continue and says quietly, “아냐.” [No.]

Everyone looks over.

Yoongi crosses his arms loosely and leans against the wall.

“대기실에서도 이상했어. 계속 멍 때리고 있었어.” [“He was strange in the dressing room too. He kept spacing out.”]

His expression turns thoughtful.

“…집중을 못하는 느낌?” […“Like he couldn’t focus?”]

Hoseok nods slowly.

“맞아.” [“Yeah.”]

He glances toward Jimin’s closed hotel room door.

“…누구 찾는 것 같기도 했고.” […“And it kind of felt like he was looking for someone.”]

That makes Namjoon’s expression tighten.

He noticed it too.

Not enough to interrupt the concert.

Not enough to panic.

But enough.

Enough that he checked on Jimin between transitions.

Enough that he remembered him staring too long toward one side of Allegiant Stadium before snapping back into choreography.

Enough that he noticed Jimin miss a cue during rehearsal and brush it off.

Namjoon looks back at the closed suite door.

Then quietly says:

“…공연 중에도 그랬어.” […“He was like that during the show too.”]

Nobody says anything after that. Because suddenly this feels less like recklessness.

And more like something none of them understand.

The hallway goes quiet. Namjoon stares at the closed door for several more seconds.

That is their shared grand presidential suite.

Normally they barely saw each other once schedules ended. Separate bedrooms. Separate routines. Namjoon goes out often to avoid feeling enclosed in these concrete buildings only meant for their temporary lodging.

But tonight…

His eyes linger on the door.

He thinks back to the corridor.

The look on Jimin’s face.

Too focused.

Too emotional.

Too....unlike himself.

Namjoon exhales.

Then turns.

“…오늘은 내가 다른 방 써도 돼?” […“Can I stay in someone else’s room tonight?”]

Everyone looks at him.

Jungkook blinks, confused.

“왜?” [“Why?”]

Namjoon rubs the back of his neck.

“그냥… 좀 놔두는 게 좋을 것 같아서.” [“I just think… it’d be better to leave him alone tonight.”]

His eyes drift back toward the closed door.

“생각 정리할 시간 필요할 수도 있잖아.” [“He might need time to organize his thoughts.”]

His shoulders lift slightly.

“…내가 옆에 있으면 오히려 불편할 수도 있고.” […“Me being there might make it harder.”]

Nobody speaks immediately.

Jin studies him.

Then quietly asks:

“너 괜찮겠어?” [“You okay with that?”]

Namjoon exhales softly.

Not really.

But he nods.

“내일 되면 괜찮아질 수도 있지.” [“Maybe tomorrow things will be better.”]

His eyes lower.

“…그냥 오늘 하루 이상했던 거면 좋겠어.” […“I just hope today was weird and that’s all.”]

A pause.

Then Jungkook lifts his hand.

“형 와!” [“Hyung, come stay with me!”]

Taehyung immediately points.

“야 왜 너만.” [“Hey, why only you?”]

Jungkook looks offended.

“내 방 제일 커.” [“My room’s the biggest.”]

Taehyung scoffs.

“내 방도 커.” [“My room’s big too.”]

Jin immediately cuts in.

“둘 다 조용히 해.” [“Both of you, be quiet.”]

That finally earns a small smile from Namjoon.

Small.

Tired.

He nods.

“고맙다.” [“Thanks.”]

Before leaving, though, he looks at Jimin’s door one more time.

For a second he considers knocking.

Checking in.

Talking.

But he stops himself.

Jimin isn’t dangerous.

He’s overwhelmed.

Exhausted.

Maybe emotional after finally touring again.

Maybe tomorrow they’ll talk.

Maybe tomorrow Jimin will apologize.

Maybe tomorrow things will feel normal again.

Namjoon turns and follows Jungkook down the hallway.

Behind him, the door stays closed.

And he doesn’t notice that for the first time in years…

he feels uneasy leaving Jimin alone.

Meanwhile, behind the locked hotel room door, you stand in unfamiliar silence and realize for the first time all night that there are no crowds now, no friends, no staff, no excuses.

You are completely alone with him.

The place is quieter than you expected.

Not silent. Hotels are never truly silent. There is still the low hum of the air conditioning somewhere overhead, the faint vibration of elevators traveling through hidden shafts in the walls, and the distant pulse of Las Vegas existing dozens of floors below. But compared to the roaring stadium, the screaming crowds, the lights and constant movement, it feels unnaturally still.

And huge.

You hadn’t actually processed where you were until now.

Your eyes drift upward first.

The ceilings are absurdly high.

Then outward.

The suite opens far beyond what your brain expected when someone says hotel room.

It isn’t even a room.

It feels like an apartment.

No. Bigger than that.

A long central living space stretches ahead with polished wood floors and designer furniture arranged so intentionally that it almost feels untouched. There’s a sitting area with couches and a television mounted into the wall. Farther in, a dining area. Decorative lighting. Another hallway branching deeper into the suite.

Your brain immediately compares it to your room at ARIA.

Two queen beds shared amongst three women. Suitcases exploded across every available surface that is NOT a bed. Phone chargers fighting for outlets. Someone’s makeup bag permanently open for the duration of the trip.

This feels ridiculous in comparison.

Your eyes continue wandering.

There’s another side of the suite too.

You notice another closed bedroom farther away across the living space. Bigger than a normal connecting room. Another member probably stays there.

You wonder who.

Not that you’d ask.

For some reason the thought of accidentally opening the wrong door and discovering another BTS member relaxing in pajamas or even naked feels more embarrassing than ending up backstage with Jimin.

Your attention shifts back.

Jimin is watching you.

Not intensely this time.

Almost shy.

Like he forgot what this would look like through someone else’s eyes.

You glance around once more and laugh quietly.

“…Your room is huge.”

His expression softens immediately.

He looks around too.

Then gives a small shrug.

“익숙해져서 잘 몰라요.” [“I’m used to it, so I don’t really notice anymore.”]

Then after a second he smiles faintly.

“…근데 그렇게 말하니까 갑자기 큰 것 같네요.” […“But hearing you say it makes it suddenly feel big.”]

"Hehe, yeah.." You smile back at him.

He stands there for another second before walking over.

Without really thinking, he reaches for your wrist again.

Not pulling.

Just guiding it.

His fingers wrap loosely around your hand this time.

Then he quietly says:

“이쪽이에요.” [“This way.”]

He leads you across the suite.

Not toward the center.

Toward the left side.

As you walk farther in, the layout starts making more sense.

The shared spaces stay behind.

The hallway narrows.

There’s a bedroom tucked off separately, with its own bathroom and sitting area outside the room.

This must be his room.

When Jimin opens the door, you notice now how his actual bedroom feels more lived in than the rest of the place.

A hoodie tossed over a chair.

A phone cable plugged in.

Water bottles.

A few bags.

Enough signs of actual life that suddenly this stops feeling like a luxury hotel and starts feeling strangely personal.

Jimin releases your wrist after he closes and locks the bedroom door.

For the first time since he pulled you from your seat at Allegiant, he seems uncertain.

He glances around once, then quietly walks to the edge of the bed and sits.

And just… sits.

His shoulders look different now.

Not smaller.

Just heavier.

You remain standing for a moment, watching him.

Finally he looks up at you.

His eyes still carry that earlier softness, but something else lies underneath now.

Fatigue.

Maybe embarrassment. Does he regret bringing you now? 

You swallow.

This feels like the moment you should ask about him.

You take a small breath and speak carefully.

“I wasn’t sure when the right time was to ask…”

His expression shifts.

“But… are you okay?”

His brows move slightly.

You look down briefly before meeting his eyes again. “What Namjoon said… about how you were acting during the concert.”

You hesitate.

“I know this probably sounds weird because I’m literally your fan and everything, but… I like you.” Your face warms. “I mean… obviously I do.”

That draws a faint smile from him.

You continue anyway. “But if something’s wrong… I don’t want to do something if you’re vulnerable or not okay.”

The room falls quiet.

Jimin stares at you. Then, unexpectedly, his eyes begin to water.

Your stomach drops.

His gaze lowers. His hands clasp together loosely. When he speaks, his voice is quieter. “Kind of. I’ll say it in Korean first, to let my feelings out, as it’s hard to describe in English.”

He exhales, then switches into Korean. “괜찮긴 했어요.” He looks at his hands. “근데…”

He lets out a short, embarrassed laugh. “나이 드는 게 생각보다 별로예요.”

You stay quiet, letting him continue.

“예전 같지가 않아요. 예전엔 하루 종일 연습하고 공연해도 괜찮았어요.”

He translates for you. “When I was younger… I felt unstoppable.” His smile is small. “But now… my body feels different. It doesn’t help that military happened.” His expression tightens. “I hated it.”

His voice lowers. “Coming back… touring again after so long… I keep thinking… what if I get hurt? What if I get sick? What if I can’t keep up and everyone has to slow down because of me?”

Your chest tightens.

He laughs once under his breath. “You know… I started noticing every little thing. My knees. My stamina. My breathing.” He smiles faintly. “And then I started thinking too much.”

He finally looks at you. “And today… I saw you.” He shrugs slightly. “And everything burden and problem disappeared.”

You think for a second, then walk over and sit beside him. Not too close. “You say all this like your value is in how perfectly you perform,” you say softly. “I think people came back because they missed you. You’re allowed to get tired. You’re allowed to not feel twenty forever.” You smile a little. “And honestly… if a member got hurt or needed a break, I think ARMY would want them to rest and be healthy more than perfect. You don’t carry everybody.”

His eyes soften. Then he laughs, small and real. His shoulders lower. “Thank you.”

After a moment his ears turn faintly pink. He looks embarrassed. “…I’m sorry. For grabbing you. And bringing you here suddenly.” He rubs the back of his neck. “This is probably really weird.”

You shake your head, expression softening. “There’s no need to apologize. I’m here… as a fan.” You pause. “And as a friend.”

His eyes widen slightly, then soften. After a moment he reaches for you slowly, carefully. His fingers curl around yours and he tugs gently, inviting.

“Will you stay tonight?” he asks quietly. “…I think I need comfort.”

Your heart twists. You nod. “Okay.”

His face relaxes. You both sit there for a while. Eventually he stands and begins to undress, leaving only his sweatpants on. Shirtless. His body is toned yet compact, bigger than yours but somehow delicate in the low light.

He pokes your side gently, nudging you to do the same. You undress, slipping out of your lace black dress, socks, and shoes until you’re left in your undergarments. He promises to give you one of his shirts afterward.

When you sit beside him again, a strange awareness settles between you. Not bad. Just heightened. You are suddenly very conscious that you are in a hotel room with Jimin at midnight.

He looks at you quietly, then smiles. “You being here… makes me really happy.”

Your face heats. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He scoots closer. “I thought if I got close I’d realize I imagined all of this. But you’re still here.”

He leans in and kisses you. Softly at first. Warm. Unrushed. His lips move against yours with tender care, deepening gradually as his tongue brushes yours. You lift a hand and touch his cheek, feeling the smooth warmth of his skin beneath your palm. He sighs into the kiss, the sound low and needy.

His hands find your waist. With gentle strength he helps guide you onto his lap until you straddle him. Your thighs settle on either side of his hips. The new position presses your bodies closer, and you feel the heat of his bare chest against you. His hands slide up your back, holding you there as the kiss grows slower, deeper, more sensual. Every brush of his tongue sends warmth spreading through your body.

Then suddenly he freezes. His eyes widen. He pushes you away, body jerking back. Fear flashes across his face angrily saying:

“씨발!…”

He moves too quickly and loses balance, falling off the bed.

You jolt upright. “뭐야?!” A word in korean slips out, “What? Why did you do that?”

He sits up, rubbing his face. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.” His breathing is uneven. “I’ve had weird experiences before… with people. Something in my brain… triggered.”

“You’re scaring me a bit.:

“I know, I know. I’m sorry! Please forget about it.”

You stare at him, chest aching at the genuine fear in his eyes. He notices your concern and reaches over, squeezing your hand. “I’ll make it up to you,” he says quietly.

He does.

Jimin coaxes you onto your back with soft kisses along your jaw and neck. He peels away the last of your undergarments with careful hands, then settles between your thighs. His mouth is warm and insistent. He starts slow, teasing licks and gentle kisses that make your hips twitch. Then he grows bolder, tongue pressing flat and dragging over your most sensitive spot before circling it with focused intent.

Your fingers thread through his hair as pleasure builds. He hums against you, the vibration pulling a moan from your throat. He doesn’t rush. He savors every reaction, every gasp, adjusting to what makes your thighs tremble around his head. When release finally crashes over you, sharp and overwhelming, he keeps going, gentling you through it until you’re boneless and panting.

Afterward he climbs back up, lips shiny, and kisses your forehead. He disappears into the bathroom for a moment and returns with a warm, damp cloth. With tender care he cleans you, wiping away the evidence of your orgasm with slow, soothing strokes. He presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, then helps you slip into one of his oversized shirts before pulling you into his arms.

Eventually the tension fades. Conversation replaces the awkwardness. Exhaustion wins.

Later he curls behind you in bed, one arm draped around your waist, warm and sleepy. You both drift off like that.

At 3:45 AM you wake and quietly slip into the bathroom outside the bedroom with your phone to pee. Notifications from friends, memes, photos. No stress calls from friends asking if you've been kidnapped luckily. You'll craft a story later that will prevent them from knowing what's going on.

Then you open reddit and search up the one thing that has been bothering you the most: One Wish Willow. Only two reddit threads with comments come up. People swearing it worked. Others calling it coincidence. Warnings not to wish vaguely. Things going to shit. Warnings not to wish emotionally. Suggestions to buy a crystal for protection...

Your stomach twists.

If this actually worked… why does everything feel so off? Especially with Jimin?

You stare at your reflection, then lock your phone. Nothing bad has happened. Maybe you’re overthinking.

When you return, Jimin is already awake, sitting on the bed, menacingly. His eyes find you immediately, but they look dead. You’re scared to address him being awake, so you plan to ignore it and lay down to continue your sleep.

However Jimin decides to speak.

“어디 갔어요?” His voice sounds clear as day, with a tint of frustration. He speaks in korean, and you manage to understand what he says thanks to the countless kdramas you’ve seen. Not a hard question to answer.

“The bathroom.”

His shoulders tense. “I thought you left.”

You smile and settle back down beside him. “I’m not leaving any time soon. I willl tell you when I go later in the morning. I have to meet my friends.”

His brows knit. “…later?”

You nod. “Yes, I’m going to the concert later too.” You tell him you forgot the exact row, but your seat should be closer this time.

His expression visibly relaxes. “좋아.” Then, quieter: “I want to see you. At all times.”

Your chest tightens at the words, but you don’t question them. Instead you let him pull you closer, holding you like he needs to be sure you are still there.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Is it odd to say you’re progressively starting to feel a bit weirder about this. But will you do anything about it? Despite the strange situation you’re in, the answer is no. - - ▶ cue: Emotions by Brenda Lee 

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