#readerinsert

You finally look up at him, unimpressed. “Didn’t know you believed in old wives’ tales.”

“It’s not a myth!” He insists. “Put your phone down. We’re putting the movie on, and I know you’re going to complain when you don’t understand what’s happening—”

“I don’t complain, you liar.”

“—but you do, and then you’re gonna beg me to rewind. But then you’re gonna fall asleep and ask me to rewind it again, but I won’t want to because I’ve rewatched the same part five times—”

“That’s never happened before,” you lie blatantly. It happened last week and he won’t stop bringing it up. You toss your phone somewhere onto his couch and ignore the look he’s giving you when you take the bowl from his hands. “You made popcorn? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Clark laughs, the sound full and warm. He drapes a throw blanket over your laps — one of yours that he stole from your apartment — and hands you the remote. “I did. You were too busy scrolling.”

“Sorry.” You make yourself comfortable on his couch, pressing yourself into his side and stretching your legs out onto the ottoman. “I was busy doing some very important things.”

“Such as?” he asks, watching you flick through his TV subscriptions. “Oh, come on. We aren’t watching that one again.”

You frown as you click past one of your favorite movies. “I was just looking at it.”

“I’m sure.”

You kick at his ankles and watch the dimples crease on his face. It’s hard not to stare too long at the way he looks in the golden lighting from the TV. The blue of his eyes seems warmer.

“Whatever,” you grumble. “You can pick. As long as it’s not that trashy zombie show you like.”

He takes the remote from you, leveling a look at you from under the frames of his glasses. “It’s not trashy.”

“We can agree to disagree, babe.”

You fight the urge to laugh. You aren’t sure Clark realizes it, but he has the same reaction to that nickname every time — he looks up at the ceiling, and then away from you as the blush creeps up his neck. It’s even easier to see when his face is lit up like this, his sweet face tinged pink.

The two of you scroll through the movie and show selections in relative silence after. You’re sitting close enough that you can nudge him in the side when you want him to skip something, and he does so with only some complaints. You make it all the way down to the romcom section before he breaks the silence. 

He coughs. Then asks, “So, what were you doing on your phone? Texting someone?”

You hum absentmindedly, inspecting the movie thumbnails. “I was reading through some Superman hate posts, actually.”

It’s not the most accurate description of what you were doing, but you say it just to get a rise out of him. Clark would never admit it, but you’re almost one hundred percent sure that he’s a secret Superman megafan. 

There’s a look that he gets in his eyes whenever he reads something about him. It’s hard to place, but it kind of looks like he’s a little kid again, his entire face lit up with emotion.

But if he really is as big of a fan as you think he is, you have no idea how he’s so blasé about all those interviews he gets with him. Clark Kent really is one of the most interesting people you’ve ever met.

He looks at you sideways, glancing away from the TV. “You were,” he says, less of a question and more of a statement.

“Kidding. Kinda. You know what people are like. Your friend’s famous, you know. People are going to scrutinize him no matter what he does.”

Clark clears his throat and his eyes dance back to the screen, but you know he’s only half paying attention to it now. “And you… do you agree with them? With what people say about him?

Something in his voice is odd. You sit up against the couch to look at him properly, though all you can see is his side profile. 

On the screen in front of you, he clicks past the titles the second they load, uncaring of what he’s scrolling past.

“I think Superman’s great,” you say honestly. You speak slowly, trying to gauge his reaction. The only change in expression you get is the slight twitch of his mouth. “Don’t know why people complain so much about someone who saves lives. Like, who cares if he’s from Kirpton?”

“Krypton,” he corrects.

You smile. “Right, sorry.”

The slight tension in his shoulders release. “You really think he’s great?”

“Yeah.” You slip the remote out of his hands and click play on the first movie you recognize. Surprisingly, Clark doesn’t complain. “He’s gorgeous, too. You think you could introduce us? I hear his harem has quite the waiting list.”

He laughs, tossing the blanket back over your leg where it’s exposed. “He’s not my friend, and there’s no harem. And hopefully, you won’t be meeting Superman anytime soon.”

“Why not? Don’t want to mix your friend groups?”

He nudges your side, relaxing into his cushions again. His arms cross over his chest, and you try not to focus on the way his biceps pull against the sleeves of his shirt. “No. If you ever run into Superman, it probably means you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be.”

The two of you sit quietly with the weight of his words. Sure, he’s right, but you’re sure a totally normal Superman interaction isn’t out of the realm of possibility. 

You wonder if the superhero has a favorite coffee shop. And how he would even order from it if he did. Would he wait in line? Maybe he’d have a priority lane specifically for him on the roof.

“Wait, what?” Clark’s voice cuts into the silence. His features have scrunched up in confusion. “When did we agree on watching this?”

“It’s Saw.”

“I can see that.”

“I chose it when you were too busy talking.” 

“You sure you want to watch this one? You remember what happened when we watched The Exorcist, right?”

“The lights went out, Clark. What was I supposed to do, not scream?”

“I was sitting right next to you. Nothing was going to happen. If anything, we’d get possessed together.”

“That’s so not funny. As long as nothing supernatural happens, I’ll be good with this one, I swear.”

He blinks at you.

“I swear.”

You wake up drooling on Clark’s t-shirt. 

Thirty minutes into Saw you were holding onto his arm so tightly that he put you out of your misery and put on National Treasure instead. The last thing you can remember is Nicolas Cage asking for lemon juice before the comfort of Clark’s shoulder became too much to resist drifting off.

You untangle your legs from his to sit up properly, a different movie playing in the background. Much like you a few seconds ago, your friend is fast asleep, his head leaning against the armrest in a way that can’t be comfortable.

His glasses are askew now, resting politely on his chest. You worry about the chances of them getting squished and leave them on the side table for him to find.

It’s only then, when you’re staring at the black frames on the wood, that you realize something silly. 

You’ve never seen Clark without his glasses on. 

He often talks about how his bad eyesight is why he’s so adamant about wearing them. You’ve asked him once before about wearing contacts, and he’d said something about how he has sensitive eyes and didn’t like them much.

You don’t mind at all. He looks very gorgeous with them on, and you find it very cute how they fog up when he gets flustered enough. 

You’re grateful for the light of the TV, because it means you can still somewhat see Clark’s face. You rub the sleep from your eyes to look at him, and—

Huh. 

You wonder if it’s normal to look this different without your glasses on. Sure, they can sometimes change the size of a person’s eyes, and losing a significant feature on anyone’s face is bound to make them look a little different, but… 

Clark looks different. Still familiar, but undoubtedly different.

It’s weird. The changes are so subtle you wonder if you’re hallucinating. The differences are written clear as day on his face, but it feels impossible to put them into words. 

Is it the shape of his jaw? You don’t remember it always looking so carved, and you would know, with how often you look at him. Maybe it’s the shape of his mouth.

Something in the back of your mind twitches, like a memory begging to come to the surface. It’s a slight tension against your skull, a pressing feeling trying to nudge you in the direction of something.

You have no idea why you do it, but your hand moves without thinking. Your fingers thread through his hair, the same way you do when you tease him for looking like he’s just rolled out of bed in the morning. As you do it, the features of his face shift just so, and…

Woah. 

Clark doesn’t just look familiar. 

He looks exactly like fucking Superman.

You pull your hand away so quickly the joints in your arm protests. Clark shifts underneath you, his eyes twitching as he rouses from sleep. He pats the fabric of the couch before he feels you under his hand, and he squeezes your thigh when he does.

“You alright?” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “What’re you doin’?”

“Nothing. I just woke up.” 

The sentence is true in more ways than one. It feels like you’re seeing Clark’s face for the first time. How had you not noticed just how much he looks like the same man that saves the city for a living? 

He blinks himself awake, and it’s like your heart flips. Staring at his devastatingly long eyelashes, it’s like everything becomes ten times clearer. 

You weren’t hallucinating — he looks just like Superman. It’s uncanny.

He pats you as he sits up, still clearly in the last dregs of sleep. His words slur together when he asks you, “What time is it?”

“Uh,” your eyes search the couch for where you’d ditched your phone earlier, and you find it on the floor next to the ottoman. It’s covered in spilled popcorn from the bowl that must’ve fallen off Clark’s lap during the night. “It’s two.”

The reminder is enough to make you yawn, and you rub your eyes to clear your vision. He leans over to the side table to get the lamp, and the room is filled again with warm light.

“Geez,” Clark says. “My neck hurts like crazy. Is your back okay?”

You turn back to face him, and with the lights on you can see him a lot better. His glasses are back on, and he…

Looks absolutely nothing like Superman anymore.

You must look a little surprised, because he stops massaging the back of his neck to scan you with his eyes. “Is everything okay?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you look just like Superman without your glasses on?”

The words land awkwardly. 

Clark laughs, but it’s not real. He scrubs his hand over his jaw. “What?” 

“You…” It feels like you’ve said something you really shouldn’t have. “You just look a lot like him.”

“Oh,” he says. His hand rises to adjust where his glasses sit on his face. “That’s funny.”

If he really thinks so, you aren’t hearing much laughter from him.

You aren’t sure why he’s so unsettled at the thought. Based on the limited information you have about him, Superman kind of seems like the perfect guy. He’s kind, selfless, great with kids, and…

Oh no.

It’d been such a brief stint in your conversation — there’s no way he remembers it. It’d been a joke, albeit one wrapped in underlying truth. 

“He’s gorgeous, too. You think you could introduce us?”

Clark is one of the most rational people you know. It’s no question that he knows you were kidding about that — hell, he’d laughed — but your technical confession is enough to make embarrassment rush through your entire body.

He seems completely upended by your comparison between the two of them. You stand abruptly, suddenly wishing you were anywhere but here. 

“It’s late. I should go back to my apartment.”

It’s not far. Few people in the world live closer to Clark actually, with your apartment being directly below his. When that dog he’s fostering is running around too much, you can hear his footsteps scurry above your head.

(Oddly enough, you’ve never actually seen the dog in person, and Clark refuses to tell you what his name is, but you’re pretty sure he’s real.)

The furrow Clark gets between his brows is so deep you wonder if it hurts. “You don’t want to take the bed?”

You slip your phone in your pocket and start looking for where you’d kicked off your shoes. “No, it’s okay. Your neck deserves a break from the couch,” you say, busy checking underneath the kitchen table. 

There’s nothing there. You wonder if it’d be weird to leave without them.

Clark places one of his broad hands on your lower back before he passes your shoes to you. He is so irritatingly perfect it borders on unfortunate for you.

“Thanks,” you say, quickly. You’re even faster to slip them on, uncaring of the way the heels fold uncomfortably inward. 

“Hey. Hey.” His hand encircles your wrist when you turn away from him. He’s frowning, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something. “Are you okay? You know I don’t mind taking the couch.”

The smile that softens your expression is real. “So selfless, Clark Kent. I just want to sleep in my own bed tonight. Thank you, though.”

He tries one last time. Glances furtively at the door, like he’s hesitant to let you go. “It’s late.”

You feel evil. It can’t be ethical to turn down Clark when he looks like this, sleep mussed and soft and a little worried about you.

“You can watch me walk to the elevator if you’d like.”

“I’ll walk you downstairs,” he offers instead, opening his door for you and stepping out. “It’ll help me sleep better.”

Looking at him waiting for you in his pajama pants and his wrinkled shirt, you wonder how you haven’t proposed. 

But when he leans against the doorway of your apartment downstairs, smiling at you with sleep in his eyes and telling you to get some rest, you come very close to it.

Your friendship with Clark Kent kind of started the same way — with him taking you home.

The Daily Planet is a block away from your office building, a much smaller structure with just enough windows that you can watch the next world-ending threat from anywhere inside. Once, you got to watch Superman save an entire floor of people in the building across from you before some creature gutted half the skyrise.

You’ve witnessed enough extraterrestrial villains to not be too surprised when you see them on the news, or catch a glimpse of them in real life.

The one thing you didn’t expect, though, was to run into one from this planet.

It’s late when you’re walking to the metro after work. You’re barely half awake, exhausted after dealing with some data issue that had you and a few other people on cleanup duty late into the night.

You’re digging around in your purse, searching frantically for your phone. To make a bad night even worse, you come up empty.

“Shit,” you say under your breath, stopping to press your fist to your forehead. You remember it vividly, now. You’d left it on the counter when you’d cleaned up the cup of coffee you spilled when you were dead on your feet.

You let out a few more curses under your breath as you continue walking, hoping that you didn’t throw out that old alarm clock you found in your closet.

It happens a few minutes later, and it’s nothing like in the movies. There’s no anticipatory music, or a suspicious sound that makes you turn your head, or the hair on the back of your neck standing up. You’ve walked down this street countless times before, one well-lit by the street lights and store signs, and felt safe every time.

The universe gives you no warning. It only lets you make it three blocks before someone seizes your arm and tugs you into a damp, dark, Metropolis alley.

You don’t have time to scream. A hand, grimy with sweat and something else clamps hard over your mouth, muffling any sound you could’ve let out.

Your back presses into the rough brick of the alley. You recognize where you are immediately — a small deli that you and your coworker frequent. You don’t know how you’re going to tell her that you’re never coming back here ever again.

“I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. And you’re not going to scream, or lie to me, because I will stab you.” The man’s voice is thick and gravelly, almost as sharp as the blade he presses into the give of your stomach. “Nod if you understand me.”

You jolt when he presses hard enough to nick your skin. The nod comes immediately after.

“You’re going to give me all the money in that purse of yours, and your phone. I need your phone.” 

You glance over to your purse where it sits on the pavement. It must’ve fallen when he’d pulled you into this alley.

“Take it,” you say quickly, voice wavering with stress. You aren’t going to fight with this man over chump change and your lip balm. “You can have all of it.”

He ducks down immediately to reach for the purse, and sniffs out the money quickly. He shoves the few pathetic crumpled bills into the pockets of his worn out jeans, before turning his attention back to the inside of the bag.

You swallow, glancing towards the entrance of the alley. He wouldn’t chase you if you made a run for it, would he? 

There’s a sickening crack as your stuff hits the floor, and your daydream is crushed. The man is shaking his head, pressing his hand to his forehead, mumbling to himself in hushed tones. 

You press yourself further against the wall, like the extra inch of space between you will save you.

“Your phone. I need your phone.”

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. You know he won’t believe you. You’ve never been more scared to speak.

“Did you hear me?” His voice shakes uncontrollably, his eyes narrowed to near slits. “Your phone. I need… You have to give me your phone.”

“I don’t have it with me,” you choke out. Your hands curl protectively in front of you. “I forgot it at work.”

He turns the knife back at you, though his hand wavers. Spit flies from his mouth and onto the ground in front of you. “You’re a liar.”

“I’m not lying, I swear. I swear. Please, you can take whatever I have—”

Another voice pierces the silent street, one firm and so authoritative that both of you turn to look.

The man doesn’t waste another second. He turns and flees down the dark alley, taking the few things of worth in your purse with him. You don’t feel strong enough to move until he’s completely gone from your sight.

The adrenaline crash doesn’t take long to set in. Your head feels light, like it’s filled with helium. You think that’s why you don’t notice yourself walking directly into the other person there with you.

The universe had been the reason why you’d gotten mugged, but the universe also brought Clark Kent into your life.

You had caught glimpses of him at your shared apartment all the time, your similar schedules meaning you often left for work and came back around the same time. He’d held the door open for you a few times, and you’d seen him help some of your neighbors with their groceries before. You’d always known he was nice, but you had no idea stopping crime was on his list of talents as well.

After he’d saved you from that man in the alley that night, he’d walked you back to your apartment.

He did the same the next night. And almost all of the nights after that, too.

It didn’t take long for the two of you to become close friends, and for your lives to start merging together. You’d invited him over for dinner as a thank you, and it slowly turned into a regular thing. You soon found yourself splitting your time between your apartment and his. 

You really like Clark, and can barely remember life in Metropolis without him. 

That’s probably why it feels so terrible to ignore him.

[4:29] farmboy kent: I’ll be running a little late today

[4:29] farmboy kent: White sent us out to Park Ridge and the train back is delayed. I’ll be by your building around 5:20

[4:33] you: No problem!! also no need to swing by today. my cousin invited me over to hers so i’ll be in civic city until late

The message is marked as read a few seconds after you send it, making the next few minutes agonizingly long. 

Around 4:35, Clark finally starts typing, only to delete his message. A minute later, he continues again.

[4:38] farmboy kent: Ok. Be safe

[4:39] farmboy kent: I’ll pick you up at the station later

[4:39] you: Are you okay with that? i’m not sure when i’ll get back

[4:40] farmboy kent: Of course. Text me when you know what time your train will get in

You feel like a dick pressing the thumbs up reaction on his last message. What kind of person lies to Clark Kent?

You aren’t even sure why you do it. It’s probably the lingering embarrassment from last night — it was the closest you’ve ever come to telling him how you feel about him.

So… maybe a Clark-free day is what you need. 

You can’t remember the last day you’ve spent without seeing him at least once. On your days off from work he’d come by after his shifts, and even on days that one of you were busy, you would still show up at his place to say hello.

No wonder he makes you crazy. You haven’t had a Clark Kent detox since the day you met him.

Surely all good friendships need time apart, right? You’ll just spend a day by yourself and when you see him again tomorrow, you’ll be back to normal. There won’t be any more slips where you compare him to one of the most gorgeous people you’ve ever seen, or where you tell him he’d be a great husband, or something friendship-ending like that.

It’ll be good for you. Tomorrow will be a great, much needed, neighbor-free day.

You’re buying a paperweight for Clark when a building falls on top of the Metropolis Museum of Art.

The remorse from your little white lie followed you through every second of your Clark Kent boycott, effectively ruining it. Your plan was to head down to the park and enjoy the weather, but you found yourself making a quick detour to the souvenir store inside the museum. 

You’d come here with him a few months ago, and he’d seen the paperweight and loved it. It was a little glass sphere depicting Superman flying over Metropolis, and he’d almost bought it before reading the price tag. The guilt following you around now was enough to choke a horse, and you decided that it’d make for a great apology gift. 

(Not that he was aware you were apologizing for anything.)

The crash of the building sends plumes of dust into the room, coating everything in a haze of white. The emergency sirens start their crying almost immediately, joining in what sounds like the actual crying of children on an after-school field trip. 

You cough to clear your throat and find that even the air is saturated in thick dust, the cloud becoming even worse as more debris drops from the ceiling.

The roof of the museum is clearly trying its best, but it seems like the entire structure groans in protest. One of the overhead lights hangs precariously above your head, and you take a few healthy steps back from it.

Distantly, you can see the blinking red light that marks the exit. The cashier you were talking to a second ago makes a mad dash for it, ducking under a fallen beam while she does. Hordes of people crowd by the door as everyone rushes out, eager to flee.

The sun shines through the gaping hole in the museum made by the other building, and through the light it offers, you see it on the floor— the gift you’d gotten Clark.

The little paperweight sits sadly on the tile about five feet away from you. 

If you weren’t afraid of inhaling too much dust, you would’ve groaned. There’s no way you’re abandoning the thing after all this trouble you’ve gone through to get it. 

Against your better judgement, you move further from the exit to go and pick it up.

In the end, though, it doesn’t matter. 

There’s a strong gust of wind and a bright flash of light, and you’re outside again. 

When your feet hit the pavement, you resist the urge to vomit. It feels like your stomach has been flipped inside out and then put back again. The dizziness makes you double over, but you’re braced by a pair of firm hands around your forearms.

You’re halfway through a mumbled thank you when you look up. 

You blink a few times to clear your vision. When nothing changes, you’re forced to wonder if you hit your head somewhere in the museum.

Standing in front of you, with his perfect hair disheveled and windswept, is Superman.

“Be patient. Let it happen naturally.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ ✧ 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝒾𝓍 ✧ ɞ˚‧｡⋆

January arrives like a door swinging open onto cold air — sudden, inevitable, the kind of thing you knew was coming and somehow still aren't ready for. Final semester. Last stretch. The end of something enormous that they've been inside so long it stopped feeling like an ending and started feeling like just the way things are.

The campus wakes up with a different kind of energy — quieter in some ways, louder in others. Seniors move through the quad with that specific expression of people who can see the finish line and aren't sure whether to sprint or stop and look around one more time. She feels it in her chest every morning: the particular anxiety of being almost done, which is somehow more terrifying than being in the middle of it. Almost done means having to figure out what comes next. Almost done means the structure she's been living inside for four years dissolves and something else has to take its place.

She doesn't think too hard about what that something is.

Soobin is already at the kitchen counter when she comes out most mornings — his things, her kitchen, this blurred arrangement that stopped being temporary somewhere around week three and never found its way back. Coffee made before she asks. Her mug on the left because he noticed she always reaches left first. The specific brand of creamer she likes on the second shelf because the first shelf gets too cold near the back and the creamer separates if it gets too cold and she complained about that once, months ago, and he has apparently filed it away alongside every other small detail of her existence.

She stopped noticing the small things. That's the part that matters — not that he does them, but that she stopped noticing, which means she started expecting, which means the absence of them would register as lack rather than normal. He built a floor under her feet so quietly that she forgot there was ever anything beneath her but his hands.

Thesis drafts take up most of January. She works at the dining table most evenings and he works across from her, his own pages spread, and they've developed a rhythm of productive silence broken by murmured questions and the occasional shared snack and the way he reaches over without looking to refill her water glass whenever it gets low. She's told three separate people that she works better with him there than she ever did alone, and she means it the way you mean true things — carelessly, without examining why it's true or when it became that way.

Beomgyu texts her one Thursday: you two are basically married. i'm sending a gift registry.

She sends back a middle finger emoji and doesn't show Soobin.

He already knows what Beomgyu thinks. He's known for a long time. He finds it useful.

The stress peaks in February the way it always does — deadlines compressing, every professor deciding this is the week to assign the difficult thing, her sleep getting thin and her temper getting shorter and the specific hormonal cocktail of finals-adjacent anxiety making her feel like her body is slightly too loud for her skin. She knows this version of herself. She doesn't like her but she recognizes her.

Soobin recognizes her too.

He shows up one evening with a heating pad she didn't ask for — it's not her period, just tension across her lower back — and a packet of the good painkillers and a container of whatever his mother used to make that involves ginger and enough warmth to soften the worst edges of a bad week. He sets everything on the coffee table without ceremony, drops onto the couch beside her, and pulls her sideways into him with one arm while he opens his own laptop with the other like this is just how evenings go now.

"You didn't have to," she says, already reaching for the ginger thing.

"Didn't have to do what?" he says, which is the only answer he ever gives to gratitude, which is the way he makes it feel like breathing — like something that just happens, like oxygen, like of course, why would there be any other option.

She eats the whole container. He doesn't comment. Just keeps working, one hand eventually drifting to her knee where it rests for the rest of the night, thumb making those slow absent circles she's stopped registering as anything except warmth.

Later — much later, the drafts put away, the apartment quiet — she ends up in his lap with her mouth on his jaw and his hands under her shirt and the particular urgency of people who've been sitting very close to each other for too many hours and have reached the natural end of the tension that produces. They've stopped discussing it. It just happens now the same way the coffee happens — naturally, without ceremony, an arrangement that suits them both. She tells herself this because it's comfortable. He lets her tell herself this because it's useful.

"Stay," he says against her throat, the word barely above a breath, which she understands to mean in my bed tonight, because she still sometimes retreats to the pull-out when the evening ends with them tangled on the couch rather than moving to the bedroom, a small preservation of the idea that this is still flexible, still a choice being made, still something she could step back from if she decided to.

She goes to the bedroom.

She always goes to the bedroom.

It starts with the condom conversation.

Which isn't really a conversation so much as a moment, a Tuesday night, the two of them already past the point of slowing down, his mouth on her neck and her hands in his hair and the drawer of the nightstand open where the condoms live, except his hand pauses on the way there and he turns his face against her cheek instead, voice low and careful in the way he gets when he's about to suggest something he's already decided on.

"I want to feel you," he murmurs, and the words land in the specific register he uses when he wants them to bypass her thinking brain and go somewhere warmer and less rational. "Just once. Just us. I'll get the pill tomorrow — the expensive one, the one that actually works. I just—" his mouth drags to her ear "—I want to know what it feels like."

She should think about it longer than she does.

She doesn't.

"Okay," she breathes, which is the word her body has apparently decided is correct, and then his hands are moving again and the drawer stays closed and the particular desperate warmth of skin without barrier is enough to make the thinking brain go offline entirely.

Afterward — the warmth of him still inside her, both of them slow and wrecked and his face pressed to her shoulder — she thinks: tomorrow he'll get the pill, we'll be fine, this was a one-time thing because he asked so well and she was already too far gone to be sensible about it.

She doesn't notice that the drawer stays closed the next night too.

Or the night after.

What she does notice — weeks later, without connecting the dots she doesn't know are there to connect — is that the nightstand has been subtly reorganized. The things she reaches for most are at the front now. The condoms are still technically there, just toward the back, under some things, slightly less immediately available. She assumes she moved them herself.

She didn't.

He goes to the pharmacy on a Wednesday morning while she's in her 9am lecture.

He knows her schedule. He always knows her schedule.

He takes his time in the aisle — this is not a trip he makes carelessly, this is a trip he has thought about since the baby clothes in the mall, since he felt something unlock in his chest standing behind her at that shop window, since he looked at the tiny Eevee paw shoes and thought: I want this, and the wanting arrived so clean and certain that it frightened him briefly before it didn't anymore.

He picks up her period products first — the right ones, the specific brand she likes, the overnight pads she always forgets to buy herself, the liners because she mentioned once being caught without them. Sets them in the basket.

Then he takes his time with the vitamins.

Prenatal vitamins, it turns out, look remarkably like regular women's health supplements. Same aisle. Similar packaging. He picks up two bottles — compares them with the ones she already takes, the ones she keeps on the bathroom shelf — and selects the ones closest in appearance to her regular brand. Same amber bottle. Similar capsule color. Different contents.

He adds them to the basket without hurry.

He adds the after-pill she asked for too — the expensive one, the one he told her works — and pockets it on the way out of the pharmacy without putting it in the bag.

She never asks to see the receipt.

She never asks about the vitamins.

She takes them every morning the way she takes everything he sets in front of her: because he's always been right about what she needs, because she trusts him completely, because four years of being known this precisely has trained her body to accept care from his hands without question.

He watches her take the first one over coffee on a Thursday morning — still in his hoodie, hair unstyled, squinting slightly at the light — and feels something patient and enormous settle in his chest.

He was always going to get here.

He just had to be careful about the route.

The last semester has a specific quality to it that she can only describe as pressure — everything compressed, every deadline tighter, every emotion closer to the surface. She cries twice over thesis footnotes. She laughs too loud at things that aren't that funny. She wakes at 4am with her heart already going and her mind cataloguing every unfinished thing, and the only thing that reliably puts her back to sleep is the weight of his arm across her waist and the slow even rhythm of his breathing against her shoulder.

She's also, she notices with a detachment that feels like someone else's observation, the horniest she has ever been in her adult life.

She doesn't analyze this too deeply. Stress, she tells herself. The body compensating. Senior year hormones. The fact that she's been sleeping next to someone warm and large and genuinely excellent at the specific activity for months now and her body has recalibrated its baseline accordingly.

Whatever the reason, the effect is this: they fuck constantly.

Not carelessly — they're never careless, even when they're frantic, even when it's 11pm and she has a 7am alarm and she's the one climbing into his lap instead of sleeping like a reasonable person. There's always intention in it. His, she will understand later, has always been very specific. Hers is just want — uncomplicated, immediate, the particular hunger of a person who has been given something extraordinary and can't stop reaching for it.

Tuesday morning before her seminar — quick, efficient, him sitting on the edge of the bed with her straddling his lap, face in his neck, his hands gripping her hips to set the pace, both of them quiet because the walls are thin and it's 7am and the world hasn't fully started yet.

Thursday night after she finishes her last draft revision — slow, thorough, him taking his time with her in the particular way he does when they have nowhere to be, no urgency except the kind that builds and builds until she's shaking and he's still moving like he could do this forever.

Sunday afternoon — twice, because the first time ends too fast and he pulls her back before she's even caught her breath, mouth at her ear saying stay and his hands already finding the places that make staying the only possible response.

She stops keeping track of what's protected and what isn't. She trusts him. She has always trusted him. He said he'd handle it — the expensive pill, the good brand, we're covered — and she accepted that the way she accepts everything from him, which is to say: fully, without verification, because he's never been wrong before.

He is not wrong now either, technically.

He's just not doing what she thinks he's doing.

The tension doesn’t break so much as it simply stops pretending to exist.

It starts on a random Tuesday in late February, the kind of gray afternoon where the light never quite decides to commit. She’s been hunched over her laptop for six straight hours, shoulders tight, eyes burning, when Soobin appears behind her chair without a sound. His hands settle on her shoulders first, warm, sure, thumbs pressing into the knots with the exact pressure she likes because he’s mapped every inch of her tension over months.

“You’ve been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes,” he murmurs, voice low and close to her ear.

She exhales shakily. “It’s not working.”

“Then stop.”

He doesn’t wait for permission. He never really does anymore. His fingers slide under the collar of her hoodie (his hoodie) and peel it upward. She lifts her arms automatically, letting him strip it off her like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The cool air hits her bare skin and she shivers once. He notices. Of course he does.

He turns her chair slowly until she’s facing him. Then he drops to his knees between her spread thighs like it’s nothing — like kneeling for her is just another Tuesday evening task.

“Soobin—”

“Shh.” His palms glide up her thighs, pushing the soft fabric of her shorts higher until his thumbs brush the crease where leg meets hip. “Let me take care of you.”

He leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh, then another, higher. When he reaches the edge of her panties he hooks his fingers in the waistband and tugs them down with one smooth motion. She lifts her hips to help without thinking. The trust is bone-deep now; her body has learned that his hands only ever bring relief.

He doesn’t tease tonight. There’s no slow build, no playful denial. He simply spreads her open with his thumbs and puts his mouth on her like he’s starving.

The first lick is broad and wet and perfect. She jolts, one hand flying to his hair. He hums against her, the vibration shooting straight up her spine, and then he settles in, slow, deliberate drags of his tongue over her clit, two fingers sliding inside her without resistance because she’s already soaked from the sheer relief of his attention.

“Fuck— Soobin,” she gasps, hips twitching.

He doesn’t answer with words. He answers by curling his fingers, finding that spot that makes her see white, and sucking her clit into his mouth with steady, rhythmic pressure. The wet sounds fill the quiet apartment, obscene and intimate at the same time. Her thighs start to tremble around his ears. He doesn’t let up. He never lets up when he decides she needs to come.

She comes the first time with a broken cry, back arching off the chair, fingers tightening painfully in his hair. He rides her through it, gentling his tongue but keeping his fingers moving until the last spasm fades.

Only then does he pull back, lips shiny, eyes dark and focused entirely on her flushed face. He rises to his feet, towering over her, and strips his own shirt off in one fluid motion. His sweatpants follow. His cock is already hard, flushed dark, the tip glistening.

He doesn’t ask. He simply pulls her up from the chair, turns her around, and bends her over the dining table where her thesis pages are still scattered.

The wood is cool against her breasts. She braces her palms flat as he kicks her feet wider apart.

“Stay just like this,” he says quietly, one large hand smoothing down her spine.

Then he’s pushing inside her — bare, hot, thick — in one long, steady stroke.

They both groan. The feeling without the latex is overwhelming: every ridge, every vein, the blunt head pressing right against her cervix when he bottoms out. He stays there for a moment, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust, letting himself feel her clench around him raw.

“So tight,” he breathes, voice rough. “Always so fucking perfect for me.”

He starts moving — slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that drag against every sensitive spot inside her. One hand grips her hip, the other slides up her back to fist gently in her hair, not pulling, just holding. Anchoring.

The pace builds. The table creaks under them. Her moans turn into whimpers, then sharp cries as he angles his hips and hits that spot again and again. The second orgasm crashes into her without warning. She clenches hard around him, vision blurring, and he curses under his breath, pace faltering for the first time.

He doesn’t pull out.

He fucks her through it, harder now, chasing his own release. When he comes it’s with a low, guttural sound, hips snapping forward as he spills deep inside her, hot pulses that seem to last forever. He grinds against her ass, making sure every drop stays where he wants it.

She’s still bent over the dining table, chest heaving, when Soobin’s hands slide up her sides with deliberate slowness. His cock is still buried deep inside her, softening only slightly, and the feeling of him twitching against her walls makes her whimper softly. He doesn’t pull out. Instead, he leans down, pressing his broad chest fully against her back, caging her between the cool wood and the heat of his body.

His lips find the shell of her ear first.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice low and rough, breath hot against her skin. “How perfectly you take me?. Nothing between us.”

A shiver runs through her. She nods, unable to form words yet. His hips give one lazy roll, pushing his cum deeper, and she clenches around him instinctively. The wet, filthy sound it makes should embarrass her. It doesn’t. Not with him.

Soobin’s mouth trails down to her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive column. He sucks lightly at the spot just below her ear, the one that always makes her melt, then soothes it with his tongue. His hands aren’t idle. One large palm smooths up her spine, fingers splaying wide between her shoulder blades, while the other slips around to her front, cupping her breast and thumbing over her nipple until it pebbles under his touch.

“Such a good girl for me,” he whispers between kisses, voice dripping with that quiet intensity he only ever uses when they’re like this. “Letting me have you exactly how I want. Just us.”

He starts moving again — not thrusting hard, but slow, deep grinds that keep him pressed flush against her, his cock stirring back to full hardness inside her slick heat. Every roll of his hips drags against that sensitive spot, making her gasp and push back against him. His free hand leaves her breast to trace down her stomach, fingers brushing lightly over her clit in teasing circles that match the rhythm of his hips.

She turns her head, seeking his mouth. He meets her instantly, kissing her deeply, tongue sliding against hers in the same unhurried way he’s fucking her. The kiss is messy, wet, full of shared breath and quiet moans. His lips are soft but demanding, sucking on her lower lip, nipping gently, then soothing with his tongue again. He tastes like her, and the realization sends another wave of heat through her body.

His hand on her back slides up to tangle in her hair, just holding her head in place so he can kiss her harder. The other hand continues its slow torture between her legs — fingers circling her swollen clit with perfect pressure, occasionally dipping lower to feel where they’re joined, where his cock stretches her and his cum leaks out around him with every shallow thrust.

“You’re getting wetter,” he breathes against her mouth, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. “My cum inside you… you like that, don’t you? Feeling me drip out while I’m still fucking it back in.”

She moans into the kiss, nodding frantically. Her walls flutter around him, and he groans, the sound vibrating through his chest into her back. The kissing grows more heated — tongues tangling, teeth grazing, desperate little sounds escaping both of them. His hips pick up a fraction more speed, still controlled, still deep, each thrust accompanied by another slow circle over her clit.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips along her jaw, down her throat, sucking another mark just above her collarbone. His fingers in her hair tighten slightly, tilting her head to give him better access. Every touch is reverent and possessive at once — his palm mapping her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of her breast, then back down to pinch her nipple lightly while his mouth claims her neck.

“So pretty when you’re like this,” he murmurs between kisses and soft bites. “All flushed and needy. Taking everything I give you.”

Her breathing is ragged now, hips rocking back to meet his slow thrusts. The combination of his cock moving inside her, his fingers on her clit, and his mouth worshiping every inch of skin he can reach is overwhelming in the best way. She feels completely surrounded by him, his heat, his scent, his quiet control.

Soobin kisses the corner of her mouth again, softer this time, then whispers against her lips:

“Turn around for me, baby. I want to see your face while I touch you.”

He pulls out slowly, both of them groaning at the loss, a thick trickle of his release sliding down her thigh. He helps her straighten and turn, his hands gentle but firm on her hips. When she’s facing him, he lifts her effortlessly onto the table, spreading her legs wide and stepping between them.

His mouth finds hers again immediately, deep, consuming kisses that make her dizzy. His hands roam freely now: one cupping her face, thumb stroking her cheek, the other sliding between her thighs to push two fingers back inside her cum-filled pussy, curling them slowly while his thumb works her clit.

The kissing never stops. Slow and filthy, then soft and sweet, then hungry again. He drinks every moan from her lips, every gasp, every broken whisper of his name. His fingers move in perfect rhythm, scissoring gently, spreading his cum and her wetness, preparing her for more.

He only pulls back when she’s trembling, lips swollen and shiny, eyes glassy with need.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

She does.

And in that moment, with his fingers buried inside her and his gaze locked on hers, she feels the depth of how completely she belongs to this, to him, even if she still calls it friendship.

Soobin’s fingers are still buried deep inside her, curling slowly, when he pulls back just enough to look at her properly. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, but his voice stays soft, almost reverent.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb stroking her clit in lazy circles while his other hand cradles her jaw. “Sitting on the table all spread open for me… so fucking beautiful.”

She bites her lip, cheeks burning under his gaze. “Soobin… you don’t have to say that every time.”

“But I do,” he replies instantly, leaning in to press a slow, deep kiss to her mouth. When he pulls away, his fingers keep moving. “Because it’s true. Every inch of you drives me crazy. I’ve wanted this for so long… wanted you like this.”

Her breath hitches as he curls his fingers again, hitting that spot that makes her thighs tremble. “You already have me,” she whispers, voice shaky. “You know that.”

A small, satisfied smile curves his lips. “Yeah… I do. And I’m never letting go.”

He withdraws his fingers slowly, making her whimper at the loss, then brings them to his mouth and licks them clean without breaking eye contact. She watches, mesmerized and flushed.

“Soobin—”

“Shh. Let me worship you properly tonight.” His hands slide up her thighs, spreading them wider as he leans down. His mouth starts at her collarbone, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the line. “You’ve been so stressed with the thesis… let me take care of every part of you.”

He trails lower, lips brushing the swell of her breasts, then down her stomach. Every kiss is deliberate, slow, like he’s mapping her. “This spot right here,” he murmurs against her ribs, sucking lightly, “makes you shiver every time.” He proves it by doing it again, smiling when she gasps.

“You remember everything,” she breathes, fingers threading through his hair.

“Of course I do.” His voice is low, intimate. “I’ve been paying attention for years. Every sound you make, every place that makes you wetter… all mine to learn.”

He moves back up, mouth finding the sensitive skin just below her ear while his hands roam — one palm smoothing over her hip, the other cupping her ass, squeezing gently. “Tell me how it feels, baby. Tell me what you need.”

“It feels… so good,” she moans softly as his fingers trace circles on her inner thigh. “Your hands are everywhere. I can’t think when you touch me like this.”

“Good,” he whispers, nipping at her jaw. “You don’t need to think. Just feel. Just let me love on you.”

He kisses down her neck again, slower this time, sucking a faint mark into the hollow of her throat. “This neck… always smells like your shampoo and a little like me now.” He inhales deeply, then licks the spot. “Fuck, I love that.”

She arches into him, a soft laugh escaping despite the heat building again. “You’re so obsessed.”

“With you? Yeah.” His eyes meet hers, serious and heated. “Completely. Every curve, every sound, every time you say my name like that.”

His hands slide under her thighs, lifting her slightly as he kisses lower, across her stomach, tongue dipping into her navel. “This little spot right here always makes your hips twitch.” He demonstrates, and she does exactly that, giggling breathlessly before it turns into a moan.

“Soobin, please… I need more.”

He looks up at her, chin resting on her lower stomach, eyes dark with promise. “Patience, baby. I’m not rushing tonight. I want to taste every part of you first. Tell me, does this feel good?” He presses a kiss just above her mound, then another on the inside of her thigh.

“Yes— fuck, yes,” she gasps, legs spreading wider on instinct. “Your mouth is so warm… I love when you kiss me there.”

He hums in approval, the vibration traveling through her skin. “Good girl. Keep talking to me. I love hearing how much you need me.”

His palms stroke up and down her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts as his mouth continues its slow worship — kissing, licking, sucking gently on every inch of skin he can reach. He pauses at her hip bone, biting lightly, then soothing with his tongue.

“You’re shaking,” he observes softly, voice full of quiet pride. “Already so sensitive for me. That’s because your body knows who it belongs to now, doesn’t it?”

She nods, breath coming in short pants. “It does… it’s yours, Soobin. All of it.”

His eyes flash with something deep and satisfied. He rises slightly, capturing her mouth in another slow, filthy kiss while his hands continue exploring — squeezing her ass, tracing her waist, thumbs circling her nipples until they’re tight and aching.

“Say it again,” he whispers against her lips, voice husky. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” she breathes, kissing him back desperately. “I belong to you.”

He groans softly into the kiss, one hand sliding between her legs again to tease her entrance with two fingers. “That’s my girl. So perfect. So mine.”

The touching never stops — slow, reverent strokes mixed with firmer grips, every movement designed to make her feel completely adored and completely claimed at the same time. His mouth stays busy on her skin, murmuring praises between kisses.

“You’re so soft here… so warm… I could spend hours just touching you like this.”

She whimpers, hips rocking against his hand. “Soobin… I’m getting close again just from this.”

“Then come for me whenever you want, baby,” he murmurs, kissing her deeply once more. “But I’m nowhere near done worshipping you tonight.”

She’s still trembling from his slow worship, thighs spread wide on the dining table, when Soobin straightens up and cups her face with both hands. His thumbs brush her flushed cheeks, eyes locked on hers with that quiet intensity that always makes her stomach flip.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice low and rough around the edges, “you’re so good for me. Letting me touch you everywhere… but I need your mouth now. Can you do that for me?”

Her breath catches. She nods quickly, lips parting. “Yes… I want to. I love making you feel good too.”

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face. “That’s my girl. Come here.”

He helps her slide off the table, legs still shaky, and guides her gently down until she’s on her knees in front of him. The apartment floor is cool against her skin, but the heat radiating from his body makes her forget everything else. His cock stands hard and flushed in front of her, still slick from being inside her earlier, the tip glistening with a mix of their arousal.

Soobin threads his fingers gently through her hair. “Look at me while you do it,” he says softly. “I want to see your eyes.”

She looks up at him, heart racing, and wraps one hand around the base of his thick length. He’s big, always has been, and the weight of him in her palm feels familiar and intoxicating. She leans in and presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the head, tasting the salty tang of him mixed with her own wetness.

“Fuck…” Soobin hisses, his grip tightening slightly in her hair. “Just like that. Start slow, baby. I want to feel every second.”

She obeys, licking a long, slow stripe from base to tip, swirling her tongue around the sensitive head before taking him into her mouth. The groan that escapes him is deep and guttural, his hips twitching forward just a little.

“Oh shit, your mouth feels incredible,” he breathes, watching her with dark, hooded eyes. “So warm… so wet. You always take me so well.”

She hums around him, the vibration making his cock twitch against her tongue. Encouraged, she takes him deeper, bobbing her head slowly while her hand strokes what she can’t fit. Her other hand rests on his thigh, feeling the muscle tense under her palm.

Soobin’s breathing grows heavier. “That’s it… just like that. Use your tongue more on the underside — yes, fuck, right there.” His voice drops lower, almost reverent. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this. You on your knees, looking up at me with those pretty eyes while you suck my cock.”

She pulls back for a moment, lips shiny, breathing hard. “Do you really think about me like that?” she asks, voice husky, giving him a few slow pumps with her hand. “Even when we’re just… hanging out?”

“Every day,” he admits, thumb stroking her cheek. “Sometimes when you’re studying across from me, all focused and biting your lip, I imagine pulling you under the table and letting you worship me while you try to stay quiet.” He guides her mouth back to him gently. “But this is better. This is real. Suck a little harder, baby — yeah, just like that. Good girl.”

She moans around his length, taking him deeper until he hits the back of her throat. She relaxes, swallowing around him, and Soobin curses under his breath, head tipping back for a second before he forces himself to look down again.

“God, you’re perfect,” he groans, hips starting to rock shallowly. “The way your throat squeezes me… fuck, I could stay in your mouth forever. You like tasting us together? My cum and your pussy all over my cock?”

She nods as best she can, eyes watering slightly but never breaking eye contact. The filthy words send heat straight between her legs again. She hollows her cheeks, sucking harder, tongue working the underside while her hand twists gently at the base.

Soobin’s grip in her hair tightens, but he’s still careful, never forcing her. “Slow down a little or I’m gonna come too fast,” he warns, voice strained. “I want to enjoy this. Want to watch you take every inch. You’re so fucking eager for it… my sweet best friend on her knees sucking me like she was made for it.”

She pulls off with a wet pop, stroking him firmly while she catches her breath. “I was made for you,” she whispers, pressing sloppy kisses along his shaft. “I love how you feel in my mouth… how heavy you are on my tongue. Tell me what else you want.”

His eyes darken further. “Lick my balls while you stroke me. Then take me deep again.”

She does exactly that — tongue laving over his sack, sucking one into her mouth gently while her hand works his cock in long, steady strokes. Soobin’s thighs tremble, a low moan escaping him.

“Fuck yes… just like that, baby. You’re so good at this. No one else could ever make me feel this way. Only you.”

She switches to the other side, then licks back up to the head and swallows him down again, taking him as deep as she can. Soobin’s hand guides her rhythm now, gentle but firm.

“Look at me,” he says again, voice rough. “I want to see how much you love having my cock in your throat.”

Their eyes lock. Tears cling to her lashes, but she doesn’t stop, humming and swallowing around him. Soobin’s breathing turns ragged.

“You’re gonna make me come if you keep that up,” he warns, though his hips keep moving in shallow thrusts. “But not yet… I still want to fuck you properly tonight. Want to fill you up again while you’re moaning my name.”

She pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing the tip. “Then use my mouth however you want first. I can take it.”

Soobin pulls her up from her knees with gentle but firm hands, his mouth immediately claiming hers in a deep, messy kiss. He can still taste himself on her tongue, and the thought makes him groan softly into her mouth. He walks her backward until her hips hit the edge of the dining table again, then lifts her effortlessly so she’s sitting on it once more, legs wrapping around his waist.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs against her lips, breaking the kiss only to trail his mouth along her jaw. “The way you looked up at me with my cock down your throat… fuck, I almost lost it.”

She smiles breathlessly, hands sliding up his chest. “I love making you feel like that. You always take such good care of me… I want to do the same for you.”

His eyes soften for a moment, something deep and possessive flickering behind the heat. “You do. More than you know.” Then his voice drops lower, hands sliding up her sides. “But right now, I need to taste you again. Spread your legs wider for me, baby.”

She obeys instantly, leaning back on her elbows on the table as he drops to his knees between her thighs once more. His large hands grip her inner thighs, spreading her open, and he stares at her glistening pussy with open hunger.

“Look at this pretty little pussy,” he says, voice rough with want. “All wet and swollen from my cock and your mouth. Still leaking my cum… that’s so fucking hot.”

She whimpers, hips twitching. “Soobin… please.”

“Please what?” he asks, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her thigh, then another higher up. “Tell me. I want to hear you say it.”

“I want your mouth on me,” she breathes, cheeks burning. “Please lick me… make me come with your tongue.”

A low, satisfied sound rumbles in his chest. “Good girl. So honest for me.”

He doesn’t tease this time. He dives in, licking a broad, slow stripe from her entrance up to her clit, tasting the mix of their arousal. She gasps sharply, one hand flying to his hair.

“Oh god— Soobin!”

He hums against her, the vibration sending sparks through her body. “You taste so good,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak. “Sweet and a little salty from us… I could eat you for hours.”

His tongue circles her clit with precise, firm strokes, then flattens to lap at her entrance, pushing inside her as far as it can go. She moans loudly, back arching off the table.

“Yes— right there,” she pants. “Your tongue feels so good inside me… deeper, please.”

He obliges, fucking her with his tongue while his nose nudges her clit. Two fingers replace his tongue after a moment, curling upward to hit that perfect spot as his mouth latches onto her clit and sucks gently.

“Fuck, Soobin— I’m— I’m close already,” she cries, thighs trembling around his head. “Don’t stop… please don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he promises, voice muffled against her. He looks up at her, eyes dark and intense. “Come on my tongue, baby. Let me feel you fall apart. You’re so beautiful when you come for me.”

His fingers pump faster, curling perfectly, while his tongue flicks rapidly over her clit. She’s gasping, moaning his name like a chant, hips grinding against his face.

“Soobin— oh fuck, I’m coming—!”

Her orgasm hits hard, walls clenching around his fingers, a gush of wetness coating his tongue. He doesn’t pull away, riding her through it with slow, soothing licks and gentle thrusts of his fingers until she’s shaking and oversensitive.

When she finally slumps back, breathing hard, he rises to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His cock is rock hard again, flushed and leaking.

He leans over her, kissing her deeply so she can taste herself on his lips. “Did that feel good?” he whispers.

“So good,” she sighs, wrapping her arms around his neck. “You always make me come so hard… I don’t know how you do it.”

“Because I know you,” he says simply, nipping at her lower lip. “Every spot, every sound, every way you like to be touched. You’re mine to please.”

She pulls him closer, kissing him again. “Then please fuck me now. I need you inside me again.”

He smiles against her mouth, voice low and promising. “Not yet, baby. I still want to play with these perfect tits first.”

Soobin’s words hang in the air, low and heated, as he leans over her on the table. His hands slide up her sides slowly, cupping her breasts and lifting them slightly, thumbs brushing over her already sensitive nipples.

“These perfect tits,” he murmurs, eyes dark with hunger. “I’ve been dying to give them the attention they deserve.”

She arches into his touch, a soft moan escaping. “Soobin… they’re not that special.”

He shakes his head, leaning down to press a reverent kiss to the swell of one breast. “Don’t say that. They’re fucking gorgeous. Soft, full, and they fit perfectly in my hands.” He squeezes gently, watching her reaction. “See? Made for me.”

He lowers his mouth to her left nipple, sucking it into his mouth with slow, deliberate pulls while his hand kneads the other breast. She gasps, fingers threading through his hair again.

“Oh— that feels so good,” she breathes. “Your mouth is so warm… suck a little harder.”

He does exactly that, hollowing his cheeks and flicking his tongue over the stiff peak. “Like this?” he asks, pulling back just enough to speak before switching to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment.

“Yes— fuck, yes,” she whimpers, back arching off the table. “I love when you play with my boobs… it goes straight between my legs.”

Soobin hums in approval, the vibration traveling through her nipple. “Good. Because I could do this all night.” He switches back and forth, licking, sucking, and gently biting, leaving faint red marks on the soft skin. “They get so hard for me… look at them. So pretty and sensitive.”

His free hand continues kneading the neglected breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers, pinching lightly until she’s squirming beneath him.

“Tell me how it feels,” he says, voice rough as he looks up at her, lips shiny. “Talk to me while I worship these.”

“It tingles… everywhere,” she pants, hips rocking uselessly against nothing. “Every time you suck, I feel it in my clit. You’re making me so wet again, Soobin.”

“That’s exactly what I want,” he growls softly, sucking harder on one nipple while twisting the other. “I want you dripping for me. Want your pussy aching while I take my time with your tits.”

He presses them together, burying his face between them, licking and kissing the valley. “So soft… so warm. I love how they spill over my hands.” He nips at the underside of one, then soothes it with his tongue. “You have no idea how many times I’ve stared at you in those tight shirts, imagining doing exactly this.”

She laughs breathlessly, tugging his hair. “Pervert.”

“Your pervert,” he corrects, grinning against her skin before sucking a nipple back into his mouth. “Only yours. And you love it. Say it.”

“I love it,” she moans, voice breaking as he bites down gently. “I love when you’re obsessed with my body… love how you touch me like I’m yours.”

“You are mine,” he says firmly, switching breasts again, lavishing the same slow, filthy attention on the other. His hips press forward, letting his hard cock rest against her inner thigh, hot and leaking. “These tits are mine to play with, to suck, to mark. Every time you wear that blue dress, I’m going to remember how they look right now — all flushed and covered in my mouth.”

She whimpers louder, one hand reaching down to stroke his cock slowly. “Then mark them more… please. I want to feel you tomorrow when I’m trying to study.”

Soobin groans, hips bucking into her hand. “Fuck, baby. You’re going to kill me.” He sucks harder, leaving a visible hickey on the inner curve of one breast, then another on the other side. “There. So everyone knows who these belong to, even if they can’t see.”

His tongue swirls around her nipples again, alternating between soft licks and firm sucks while his hands squeeze and mold her breasts. She’s panting now, thighs clenching around his waist.

“Soobin… I need you inside me,” she begs, voice shaky. “I’m so empty… please fuck me.”

He pulls back slightly, lips red and swollen, eyes blazing. “Not yet. Turn over for me first. I want you on your hands and knees.”

Soobin steps back just enough to give her room, his hands steady on her hips as she turns over on the dining table. She braces herself on her forearms, arching her back instinctively, ass presented to him. The position makes her feel exposed and desired at the same time, completely open for whatever he wants.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes, voice thick with lust. One large hand smooths down her spine, then cups her ass, squeezing firmly. “So pretty like this. Bent over and waiting for me.”

She glances back at him over her shoulder, cheeks flushed. “Is this how you want me?”

“Exactly like this,” he replies, stepping closer until his cock rests heavy against her ass. He rubs the thick length between her cheeks slowly, teasing. “Ass up, back arched… my perfect girl. You’re dripping down your thighs. All that from me playing with your tits?”

“Yes,” she admits, pushing back against him. “Everything you do makes me wet. Please, Soobin… I need you inside me now. I’ve been waiting.”

He groans, gripping her hips tighter. “You beg so sweetly. How can I say no to that?”

He lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging her entrance, still slick from her earlier orgasm and his precum. With one slow, deliberate push, he sinks into her from behind — bare, deep, stretching her perfectly.

Both of them moan loudly at the feeling.

“Oh my god— Soobin,” she gasps, fingers curling against the table. “You’re so deep like this… I can feel every inch.”

“That’s right,” he says, voice strained as he bottoms out, hips flush against her ass. “Feel how well you take me? Your pussy was made for my cock bunny.”

He stays still for a moment, letting her adjust, one hand rubbing soothing circles on her lower back while the other grips her hip. Then he starts moving, slow, powerful thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside her.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, picking up a steady rhythm. “So warm and wet… gripping me like you never want me to leave.”

She pushes back to meet his thrusts, moaning with each deep stroke. “Harder… please. I can take it. I want to feel you tomorrow.”

Soobin’s grip tightens, and he gives her what she asks for — snapping his hips faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the apartment. “Like this? You want me to fuck you like I own you?”

“Yes— yes, just like that,” she cries out, head dropping forward. “You do own me… fuck, right there— don’t stop!”

He angles his hips, hitting that perfect spot over and over, one hand sliding around to rub her clit in tight circles. “That’s my good girl. Taking my cock so well in this position. Your ass looks incredible bouncing against me.”

He leans over her, chest pressing to her back, and presses open-mouthed kisses along her shoulder. “Tell me how it feels, baby. Tell me you love getting fucked like this.”

“I love it,” she moans, voice breaking with every thrust. “I love when you fuck me from behind… so deep, so rough. Your cock is hitting everything— I’m gonna come again if you keep going.”

“Then come,” he growls against her ear, thrusting harder. “Come on my cock while I’m buried inside you. I want to feel you squeeze me.”

His fingers move faster on her clit, and his pace turns punishing — deep, relentless strokes that make the table creak beneath them. She’s whimpering and moaning, pushing back desperately.

“Soobin— I’m close— fuck, I’m coming—!”

Her second orgasm crashes over her, walls clenching hard around his cock. Soobin curses, slowing his thrusts to ride her through it, but not stopping completely.

“That’s it… good girl. Milk my cock with that tight pussy,” he praises, voice rough. He keeps moving through her spasms, drawing it out until she’s shaking.

When she starts to come down, he straightens up, hands gripping her hips again. “I’m not done with you yet. I want to fill you up one more time… but first, turn over. I need to see your face when I come inside you.”

Soobin doesn’t let her catch her breath for long. He slides his arms under her, one beneath her knees, the other around her back, and lifts her effortlessly off the dining table. Her legs wrap around his waist instinctively, arms looping around his neck as he carries her through the apartment. His cock, still hard and slick with her release, brushes against her ass with every step, making her whimper softly against his shoulder.

“Where are we going?” she murmurs, pressing lazy kisses to his neck.

“To bed,” he answers, voice low and rough. “I want you spread out properly under me. I want to look at you while I fill you up one more time.”

He kicks the bedroom door open with his foot and lays her down gently on the center of her bed,  their bed now, really, the sheets already rumpled from the night before. The room is dim, only the soft glow from the hallway light spilling in, casting warm shadows across her body.

Soobin climbs over her immediately, settling between her spread thighs in missionary. He braces himself on his forearms, caging her in, his broad frame hovering just above hers. His cock nudges her entrance again, hot and insistent.

“Look at me, baby,” he says softly, one hand brushing damp strands of hair from her face. “I want your eyes on me the whole time.”

She meets his gaze, her own eyes glassy with lingering pleasure and fresh need. “I’m looking… I always look at you.”

He smiles, that small, secret smile, and slowly pushes back inside her in one smooth thrust. They both moan at the familiar stretch, the wet heat, the perfect fit.

“Fuck… still so tight,” he groans, bottoming out and grinding his hips in slow circles. “Even after coming… your pussy keeps pulling me back in.”

She wraps her legs higher around his waist, heels digging into his lower back. “Because I need you there. Deeper, Soobin… please. I want to feel you everywhere.”

He starts moving — long, deep strokes that press her into the mattress. Unlike the rough pace, this is slower, more intentional, every thrust deliberate and grinding. His hips roll against hers, pubic bone pressing against her clit with each downward motion.

“So good,” she gasps, hands sliding up his back, nails lightly scratching. “This position… I can feel all of you. Your cock is so deep… hitting everything.”

“That’s the point,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss her deeply, tongue sliding against hers in time with his thrusts. “I want you to feel every inch. Want you to remember exactly who’s inside you, who’s taking care of you.”

He breaks the kiss to trail his mouth down her neck, sucking lightly at the marks he left earlier. One hand slides between them to cup her breast again, thumb circling the nipple while he continues those deep, steady rolls of his hips.

“Tell me how it feels now,” he whispers against her skin. “Being in your own bed, legs wrapped around me while I fuck you raw.”

“It feels… safe,” she breathes, then moans as he hits a particularly sensitive spot. “And dirty. And perfect. I love having you on top of me like this… love how heavy you are, how you fill me completely.”

Soobin groans, pace faltering for a second before he steadies again. “You have no idea what you do to me when you say things like that.” He thrusts a little harder, making the bed creak. “Your pussy is clenching around me so nicely… you’re going to make me come soon if you keep squeezing like that.”

She tightens her walls deliberately around him, smiling breathlessly when he curses. “Then come inside me. I want it. I want to feel you spill deep… want you to stay there after.”

His eyes darken. “Yeah? You want me to breed you tonight? Fill this pretty cunt until it’s overflowing?”

The word “breed” makes her whimper loudly, hips bucking up to meet him. “Yes… do it. Fill me up, Soobin. I’m yours.”

That seems to snap something in him. He kisses her hard, messy and desperate, while his hips pick up speed, still deep, but faster now, chasing his release while making sure she feels every thrust. His hand stays on her breast, squeezing and playing with her nipple as he drives into her.

“Come with me,” he pants against her mouth. “One more time, baby. Come on my cock while I come inside you.”

She nods frantically, one hand slipping between them to rub her clit in quick circles. The combination — his thick cock pounding deep, his weight pressing her down, his mouth on hers, his hand on her breast — pushes her over the edge again.

“Soobin— I’m coming— fuck!”

Her third orgasm hits her hard, walls fluttering and clenching rhythmically around him. Soobin groans loudly, burying his face in her neck as his own release crashes over him. He thrusts deep one final time and stays there, cock pulsing as he spills hot and thick inside her, filling her completely.

Soobin stays buried deep inside her, his weight a comforting blanket as their breathing slowly evens out. He presses soft, lingering kisses along her collarbone, her jaw, the corner of her mouth, never pulling out. The feeling of him still thick and warm inside her makes her hum contentedly, legs still loosely wrapped around his hips.

He shifts carefully, keeping them connected, and rolls them both until she’s on top, straddling him. But instead of letting her ride him hard, he pulls her down so her chest is flush against his, arms wrapping around her back to hold her close. Their faces are inches apart, breaths mingling.

“Like this,” he murmurs, guiding her hips into a slow, rolling grind. “Nice and deep. I want to feel every little movement.”

She rocks gently against him, the new angle letting him press even deeper. A soft moan escapes her as the head of his cock nudges that sensitive spot inside with every subtle shift.

“Soobin… you feel so good,” she breathes, eyes half-lidded as she looks down at him. “So full…”

His hands slide up and down her back in long, soothing strokes, one eventually cupping the back of her neck while the other rests possessively on her ass, encouraging her slow rhythm. “That’s it, baby. Just like that. No rush tonight. I want to make love to you until you forget everything except how we fit together.”

He lifts his head to kiss her, slow, deep, unhurried kisses that match the lazy roll of their hips. Their tongues slide together gently, savoring, tasting. Every time she sinks down fully onto him, he groans softly into her mouth, the sound vibrating through both of them.

“You’re so warm inside,” she whispers between kisses, forehead resting against his. “I love feeling you throb like this… like your body is telling me how much you need me too.”

“I do need you,” he replies, voice husky but soft. “Every day. Every night. This — being inside you, with nothing between us… it’s everything I’ve wanted.” He thrusts up gently to meet her next roll, grinding deep. “Feel that? That’s me loving you. Slow and deep, just like you deserve.”

She whimpers quietly, clenching around him as the pleasure builds in a warm, steady wave rather than a sharp peak. “Soobin… it’s so intimate like this. I can feel your heartbeat inside me.”

His arms tighten around her, one hand slipping into her hair while the other traces her spine. “Good. I want you to feel all of me.” He kisses her again, slower this time, then trails his lips to her ear. “You’re my safe place. My home. Let me stay right here and love you like this for as long as you need.”

They move together in a gentle rhythm — not frantic fucking, but something softer, deeper. Making love. Her breasts press against his chest with every roll, nipples brushing his skin. His hands never stop touching her: stroking her back, squeezing her ass lightly, cradling her face so he can look into her eyes.

“Kiss me again,” she murmurs.

He does, pouring everything into it — the years of quiet longing, the careful way he’s built this life around her, the overwhelming tenderness he only lets show when they’re like this. Their hips keep that slow, sensual grind, his cock sliding in and out in long, luxurious strokes that make her toes curl.

“You’re clenching so sweetly around me,” he whispers against her lips. “Squeezing me like you never want me to leave your body.”

“I don’t,” she admits breathlessly, nipping at his lower lip. “Stay inside me forever if you could.”

Soobin lets out a low, pleased sound, thrusting up a little deeper on the next roll. “One day I will. But tonight… just feel me loving you. No ending yet.”

He flips them once more with careful strength, settling back on top of her in missionary without ever fully pulling out. Now he’s the one setting the slow pace, hips rocking in deep, unhurried circles while he holds her gaze.

“Tell me you feel it too,” he says softly, brushing his nose against hers. “Tell me how much you love having me inside you like this.”

“I love it,” she gasps, legs tightening around him. “I love you inside me… making love to me. It feels like we’re the only two people in the world.”

“We are right now,” he murmurs, kissing her deeply again as their bodies continue that slow, intimate dance.

He doesn’t chase his orgasm. He simply savors her — every flutter of her walls, every soft moan, every time her fingers dig into his shoulders. The pleasure builds gradually, warm and overwhelming, like sinking into something endless and safe.

In the quiet of her bed, with the last semester pressing in from outside, they make love like time has stopped — slow, deep, and dangerously close to something far more permanent than either of them is admitting.

They stay locked together for a long time, bodies still joined, hips moving in that same slow, lazy rhythm. The pleasure has built into something warm and endless, a gentle wave rather than a crash. Soobin’s forehead rests against hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet dark of the bedroom.

“I’m close,” he finally whispers, voice rough but tender. “Been holding it for you… but I need to come now, baby. Need to fill you one last time.”

She nods, legs tightening around his waist, fingers stroking the back of his neck. “Come inside me. Please. I want to feel it… all of it.”

He kisses her deeply as his pace shifts — still deep and intentional, but with a little more urgency now. One hand slides between them to circle her clit with slow, perfect pressure while he thrusts. Their mouths stay connected, soft and open, sharing every moan and gasp.

When her fourth orgasm finally washes over her — slow, rolling, and devastatingly sweet — she clenches hard around him, whimpering his name into his mouth. That’s all it takes.

Soobin groans low and broken, burying himself as deep as he can go. His cock pulses inside her, spilling hot and thick in long, rhythmic waves. He keeps rocking gently through it, pushing every drop deeper, like he’s sealing something between them.

“Take it all,” he breathes against her lips. “That’s it… good girl. All for you.”

They stay like that, trembling and connected, until the last aftershocks fade. Only then does Soobin carefully pull out, a thick trickle of his release following. He doesn’t let the mess bother either of them. Instead, he rolls onto his back and pulls her on top of him, wrapping both arms around her body like he never plans to let go.

The aftercare begins without words at first.

He strokes her back in long, soothing lines, fingertips tracing her spine, then her shoulders, then down to the curve of her ass. His other hand cups the back of her head, threading gently through her damp hair. Soft kisses land on her forehead, her temple, the tip of her nose, quiet, reverent presses of his lips that say everything he doesn’t voice yet.

“You okay?” he murmurs eventually, voice low and warm in the darkness.

She nods against his chest, ear pressed over his heartbeat. “More than okay. I feel… floaty. Safe. Like nothing bad can touch me when I’m with you like this.”

A small, satisfied sound rumbles in his chest. “Good. That’s exactly how I want you to feel.” He presses another kiss to the top of her head. “You were perfect tonight. Took everything I gave you so beautifully. I’m so proud of you, baby.”

She smiles sleepily, nuzzling closer. “You always take such good care of me. Even when we’re… like that. Especially when we’re like that.”

“Because you’re mine to take care of,” he says simply, one hand continuing its slow strokes down her back while the other reaches for the nightstand. He grabs a soft towel he’d left there earlier (always prepared) and gently cleans between her thighs with careful, tender wipes. “There… better?”

“Mhm.” She sighs contentedly as he finishes and tosses the towel aside, then pulls the blanket up over both of them. “Stay like this? Don’t move away yet.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises, shifting them so she’s tucked perfectly against his side, head on his chest, one of her legs thrown over his. His arm curls protectively around her waist, hand splaying wide over her lower back. “I’ve got you. Sleep if you want. I’ll be right here.”

She traces idle patterns on his chest with her fingertip. “You always know what I need before I even ask. The towel… the way you hold me after… everything. How do you do that?”

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating under her ear. “I pay attention. To every little thing about you.” His fingers keep stroking her hair, slow and rhythmic. “You’ve been carrying so much with the thesis and finals. You deserve to be taken care of like this. Deserve to feel loved and safe every single night.”

The word “loved” lands softly between them. She doesn’t pull away from it — just lets it settle in her chest like something warm and familiar.

“I do feel loved,” she whispers after a moment. “With you. Even if we still call this… whatever it is between best friends.”

Soobin’s arms tighten around her just a fraction. His voice stays calm, but there’s a depth of satisfaction underneath. “Then keep feeling it. Because I’m not stopping anytime soon.”

He reaches over and turns off the small lamp on the nightstand, plunging the room into comfortable darkness. The only sounds are their breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. He keeps holding her close, one hand never stopping its gentle caresses, down her arm, across her back, along her hip, grounding her, soothing every last bit of tension from her body.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs. “I’ve got the whole night. Tomorrow I’ll make you breakfast, run you a bath if you’re sore, whatever you need. But right now… just let me hold you.”

She yawns softly, already drifting. “Love you, Soobin… thank you for always being here.”

He presses one final, lingering kiss to her forehead, eyes closing as he breathes her in.

“I love you too,” he whispers, so quietly she might not fully register it. “More than you know. Sleep now, baby. I’m right here.”

In the quiet afterglow, with his cum still warm inside her and his arms wrapped securely around her body, she falls asleep feeling completely cherished, completely safe, and completely his — even if she still believes it’s all harmless.

Soobin stays awake a little longer, listening to her breathing even out, one hand resting possessively over her lower stomach.

He smiles into the dark.

Everything was going exactly as planned.

The notebook gets a new entry around week six of the semester, written in the bathroom of her apartment while she's in the shower, his handwriting smaller than usual like he's containing something:

*Ovulation window opens Thursday. She has a seminar until 6. I'll have dinner ready. She always relaxes after eating. Be patient. Let it happen naturally. It always happens naturally with her.*

*She took the vitamins again this morning. Third week. She thinks they're the same ones.*

*She said I don't know what I'd do without you last night when I fixed her laptop. She said it like it was nothing. She doesn't know it's everything.*

He closes the notebook. Listens to the shower running. Thinks about the Eevee onesie and the tiny paw shoes and the annotated map of the city with the good school district circled in blue pen.

He thinks: we're so close.

He thinks: she just needs a little more time to catch up.

He puts the notebook back in the bag where it always lives — deep, under folded clothes, the corner just barely visible if you know to look for it — and goes back to the kitchen to finish dinner.

She comes out of the shower in his hoodie twenty minutes later, hair damp, smelling like her shampoo and a little like him, and the sight of her in his space, in his clothes, building a life in the shape he's been quietly constructing around her for years — it lands in his chest the way it always lands, like coming home.

"Smells good," she says, dropping into her chair at the table.

"Chicken," he says. "You said you were craving it."

She said that Tuesday. Offhand. In the middle of a different conversation.

She doesn't remember saying it.

He does.

It happens on a Thursday afternoon — late sun cutting through the crooked blinds in narrow gold strips, the apartment carrying the stale-coffee smell of a day spent working at home, the ceiling fan doing its slow whining rotation. She's curled on the couch in his hoodie, phone face-down on the armrest, something unresolved sitting between her shoulder blades that she can't quite name.

He's on the floor with his back against the couch, textbook open across his lap, thumb tracing the edge of page 187 the way he does when he's reading but also thinking about something else.

She drops the phone onto the armrest and exhales through her nose.

"So," she starts, and stops. Tries again. "Have you ever — been with a girl and a guy, like, at the same time in your life? Overlapping?"

His thumb stills on the page. He tilts his head two centimeters left — that listening posture she knows — and lifts his eyes slowly.

"Why now?" he asks, voice soft with a tiny hook at the corner of his mouth.

She shrugs inside the oversized sleeves, pulling both cuffs down until her hands vanish. "Just thinking. You talk about hot guys the same way you talk about hot girls. It feels easier for you. More natural."

He closes the book carefully. Sets it beside his thigh, edges aligned.

"Easier with what?" His torso shifts toward her; his knee brushes her calf where she's curled on the cushion above him and stays there, warm.

She doesn't move her leg. "With bodies. Touch. Everything. You don't flinch. Guy or girl — it's the same to you."

He rests his elbow on the cushion by her knee, face tilted up toward hers. "Does that bother you?"

"No." She shakes her head, a loose strand falling across her eye that she pushes back with a sleeved knuckle. "I think it's nice. You just exist like that. No categories."

The fan whines once. A gold bar of light slides across the bridge of his nose.

"So what do you think I am?" he asks, barely above a whisper.

She swallows. "Someone who likes people. In different ways. At once, or one after the other. Doesn't matter."

His thumb traces a slow circle on the book cover. His gaze flicks to her mouth for half a second.

"Would knowing change anything for you?"

Her stomach executes a slow, rolling flip. "No." Fast, then softer: "I mean — it wouldn't change what we're already doing."

He lifts his right hand. The backs of his fingers brush the inside of her wrist where the hoodie sleeve has slipped — dry, warm, almost accidental. Almost. His thumb settles over her pulse — no pressure, just resting, feeling the quick rhythm underneath.

"Good to know," he murmurs.

She feels the last piece click into place in the back of her mind and slide a drawer shut: bi. Of course. That explains the way he talks about bodies, the way he's never had a label that fit, the way he dated that one guy in high school and then no one seriously after. That explains all of it. She's not his girl — she's his safe person, his most trusted body, the one constant in a life that keeps its real desires in a quieter room.

She breathes out slowly.

"You're really good at being human," she says, trying for playful, landing somewhere rougher.

He smiles sideways — small, secret. "And you're really good at letting me be."

His thumb stays exactly where it is over her pulse.

The light shifts from gold to orange and neither of them moves and she settles into the version of him she's just constructed — bi, complicated, hers in the way that doesn't require explanation — and feels the relief of it, the neat click of a label that makes everything make sense.

She doesn't see him watching her settle.

She doesn't see the small satisfied thing that moves across his face when he feels her relax.

He was never bi.

He was never gay.

He is a man who has been in love with one specific woman for four years and has been willing to be anything she needed him to be in order to stay close enough to matter.

He keeps his thumb on her pulse a little longer.

Feels it slow.

Feels her trust him completely.

March.

The period tracker app on his phone — the one synced silently to hers since September, the one she has no idea he has — shows a seven-day window starting the fourteenth.

He doesn't change anything about how he acts during those seven days. That's the discipline of it, the thing he's practiced and refined over months of quiet watching: he doesn't become different during the window, he just becomes more of what he already is. More present. More warm. More inclined to touch her without reason, to pull her into him from behind in the kitchen while she's reading something on her phone, to end evenings by pulling her into the bedroom instead of letting her drift to the pull-out, which she almost never uses anymore but still theoretically could.

The fourteenth falls on a Friday. She has a seminar until six. He has dinner ready at six-thirty. She comes through the door already half-unraveling from the week — bag dropped, shoes kicked, the exhale of someone who has been holding herself together through a long day and can finally let the seams loosen — and walks straight into the kitchen where he's plating food and leans her forehead against his shoulder blade without a word.

He reaches back and puts his hand on her hip without turning around.

"Hard day?" he asks.

"The worst," she says into his shoulder.

"Sit down. It's ready."

She sits. He brings everything over. They eat with the window cracked, the early March air just beginning to smell like something other than winter, and she talks about the seminar and he listens the way he always listens — fully, with his eyes on her face, asking the questions that extend what she's saying rather than redirecting it. This is one of the things she tells Lia about him when Lia asks — he actually listens, like, actually — and she doesn't know that she's describing something he cultivated deliberately over years because the research he did on emotional connection in long-term partnerships said that attentive listening was the highest-rated quality in relationship satisfaction across all studies.

He did the research.

Of course he did the research.

After dinner she ends up on his lap on the couch — not because she made a decision, just because the gravitational pull between them at this point is essentially physics — and his hand finds the back of her neck and she closes her eyes and his mouth finds her ear and it proceeds the way it always proceeds from here: inevitable, warm, without ceremony.

She doesn't think about protection.

She doesn't think about anything except the warmth of him and the weight of the week leaving her body and how this, right here, is the only place in the world where everything quiet down.

He thinks about the window.

He thinks: this is how it was always going to happen — naturally, warmly, in the middle of an ordinary evening, without her knowing what it is.

He thinks: she'll understand later. She'll choose this later. She always chooses me eventually — I just have to be patient enough to let her arrive.

He pulls her closer.

She melts into him without question.

Outside, early spring comes in quietly through the cracked window, carrying the smell of something new beginning.

April arrives and the thesis is submitted and the relief of it is enormous and clean and she screams in the apartment at 11:47pm when the portal confirms receipt and Soobin picks her up from the floor and spins her once, laughing, and she's laughing too and the apartment smells like the celebration dinner he started at ten in case it finished early — because he knew it would finish around now, because he checked her submitted draft schedule three days ago and calculated the revision time she'd need — and everything is warm and good and full of the specific joy of something enormous finally being done.

They're drunk by one. Not sloppy-drunk — happy-drunk, the kind where everything is funny and the music is too loud and she ends up on the kitchen counter while he dances extremely badly in front of her and she's laughing so hard her stomach hurts, and he grabs her hands and makes her dance with him standing on the floor while she's on the counter so they're almost the same height and she cups his face and kisses him — sweet this time, soft, grateful — and feels the whole weight of this year, of this person, of this strange warm life they've built in the space between what she thought he was and what he actually is.

"We're going to graduate," she says against his mouth, the fact of it landing new each time she says it.

"We're going to graduate," he agrees, hands on her waist, steady.

She leans her forehead against his. Thinks about May. Thinks about the families coming and the gowns and the photographs and what comes after and the particular terrifying freedom of after.

"Are you scared?" she asks.

"No," he says, which is true. He has been building after for years. He knows exactly what it looks like. "Are you?"

"A little," she admits.

He pulls her closer. "I'll be there," he says. "Whatever comes after. I'm there."

She believes him completely.

She has no idea how literal he means it.

May arrives in three weeks and leaves a month of chaos in its wake — final presentations, departmental dinners, the strange suspended quality of last things, last lectures, last times walking routes she's walked four years of mornings. She takes photos of things she never photographed before: the library window. The bench near the science building where she ate lunch a hundred times. The coffee place two blocks over where he introduced her to the order that's been hers for two years now.

She texts one to him with the caption: this is because of you.

He texts back: all the good ones are.

She screenshots it and doesn't tell him.

He already knows.

The families arrive the Thursday before graduation.

It's been planned for weeks — both sets of parents, a restaurant in the city, the kind of dinner that requires a reservation and actual shoes and the specific performance of adulthood that comes with presenting your life to people who remember when you were smaller. She spends an hour getting dressed and changes twice and Soobin sits on the edge of her bed watching her with the patience of a man who genuinely does not care which dress she wears as long as she's in the room.

"The blue one," he says, when she holds up two options.

"You always pick the blue one."

"Because you always look best in the blue one." Flat. Obvious. Like this is not a compliment but a fact, which is exactly how he always delivers compliments, which is exactly why they land.

She puts on the blue one.

The restaurant is warm and candlelit and the tables are close enough together that everything feels intimate whether you want it to be or not. Her parents are already there when they arrive — her mother standing up immediately, arms open, the specific warmth of a hug from a woman who has been waiting to see her daughter for months and is not going to underdeliver on the reunion. Her father shakes Soobin's hand — firm, measured, the handshake of a man who is taking stock — and Soobin meets it evenly, which her father notices, which is the first point in Soobin's favor.

His parents arrive five minutes later. His mother is warm and effortlessly elegant in the way of women who have been comfortable for a long time. His father has Soobin's height and Soobin's quality of stillness and the specific observant quiet of a man who built something and would like to see who his son is becoming.

The table settles. Wine is poured. The conversation finds its feet.

She watches it happen without fully understanding what she's watching — the way the two sets of parents orient toward each other with a comfort that feels less like strangers getting acquainted and more like people who already have an opinion and are spending the evening confirming it. Her mother laughs at something Soobin's mother says and touches her arm and the gesture is too warm for first meeting, like they've been in the same orbit before and simply haven't occupied the same room until now.

She goes to the bathroom midway through the main course and comes back to find her father and Soobin in the corner of the conversation, the rest of the table temporarily occupied with something else, her father leaning forward slightly — not hostile but focused — and Soobin meeting every question with the easy confidence of a man who prepared for this meeting long before it was scheduled.

She watches from across the room for a moment before they see her.

Her father nods once. Deliberate.

Soobin catches her eye over the table — quick, barely a flicker — and she can't read it from here, except that it's warm.

She sits back down. Her mother squeezes her hand under the table.

"He's wonderful," her mother says quietly, very close to her ear. "He's always been wonderful."

She thinks: she means as a friend. She means it the way she always means it — Soobin is wonderful, what a good friend, what a lucky thing you found him.

She doesn't think anything more careful than that.

After dinner — families separating, hotel directions exchanged, hugs distributed — she and Soobin walk back to the apartment in the cool May evening with the city noise low around them. He has his jacket over her shoulders because she was cold three blocks ago and he took it off without being asked, which is, she thinks distantly, so completely him that she doesn't even think of it as remarkable anymore.

"My dad asked you about your plans," she says.

"I know. I told him."

She glances at him. "What did you tell him?"

"The truth." His hands are in his pockets, step unhurried. "That I have a position with my father's company starting in July. That I'm looking at apartments in this city. That I plan to be around."

She absorbs this. The position she knew about. The apartments — she hasn't heard about apartments. "Looking at apartments?"

"Casually," he says, which is not true at all, but he says it so evenly that it lands as true. "Just thinking about the next step. It makes sense to stay near campus for a while. We both have reasons to stay near campus."

She nods slowly. She doesn't ask why he's framing it as we — it just sounds right, it slots in beside all the other things that have started sounding right without her consciously deciding they should.

"He seemed to approve," she says.

"He asked good questions. I respect him." A pause. "He loves you. Wants to know you're taken care of."

The phrase lands softly and she doesn't examine it. Just walks beside him with his jacket over her shoulders and the city lights turning everything amber and thinks: this is what after looks like, maybe. This warm ordinary thing. This person walking beside her who knows her schedule and her coffee order and her worst fears and her best jokes and who has made himself so completely necessary that she stopped being able to locate the seam between where she ends and where he begins.

She hooks her pinky through his — the old habit, the childhood reflex, the one that means crowds and closeness and I don't want to lose you in this.

He hooks back.

They walk the last three blocks in comfortable silence.

The night before graduation she can't sleep.

This is not unusual — she's been a bad sleeper before big things her whole life — but the particular shape of this restlessness is different. It's not the thesis anxiety or the seminar-deadline 4am alarm-heart. It's something lower and stranger, something in her body rather than her mind, a low-grade wrongness she can't locate precisely. She's been a little off for the past week. Not sick exactly — nothing she could point to and name — just slightly not herself, a degree or two off her usual temperature, a faint nausea some mornings that she blames on stress and then forgets by afternoon.

She chalks it up to the enormity of tomorrow.

Soobin is asleep behind her — arm over her waist, face close to her shoulder, breathing slow and even. He fell asleep fast the way he always does after she stops moving, like her stillness is the signal his body was waiting for.

She stares at the ceiling.

She thinks about four years. She thinks about the girl who arrived at this school with a perfectly organized planner and a very clear idea of what the next four years would look like, and looks for the seam between that girl and this one — lying in a bed that has become shared so gradually she couldn't tell you which night the pronoun changed from his bed to our bed — and finds the seam is very thin. Almost invisible. The kind that a good tailor makes deliberately so you can't see the work.

She thinks: I'm really happy.

The thought arrives simply, without the guilty hedging she might have expected. She's really happy. This is her life and she likes it and tomorrow she's going to wear a gown and her parents will cry and Soobin will be right there the way he always is and after after comes and she'll figure it out — they'll figure it out, the we that has become natural — and everything is going to be fine.

She doesn't think about the slight wrongness in her body. She's tired and stressed and tomorrow is enormous and everything strange is explainable.

She turns over. Faces him.

In the dark his face is soft the way it gets in sleep — the careful composure he carries through waking hours gentled down to something younger, the boy inside the man, the person who has apparently been in love with her since they were nineteen and showed it in every way except the most obvious one.

She thinks: I love you.

The thought arrives without fanfare. Not a revelation — just a recognition, quiet and deep, like something that has been true for a long time finally being acknowledged in the right language.

She doesn't say it out loud.

But she tucks it close.

Closes her eyes.

And finally, finally, sleeps.

The next morning she wakes up to the smell of coffee and the sound of him moving quietly in the kitchen and the pale particular light of a May morning that is going to be a beautiful day. She lies there for a moment — ceiling, light, the distant sound of campus beginning to wake — and notices, without urgency, that her stomach feels faintly wrong again.

She ignores it.

Gets up. Gets dressed. Puts on the earrings he picked out last week when she held up options — simple silver ones he said would catch the light under the ceremony tent, because of course he thought about that.

He appears in the doorway with two mugs. "How do you feel?"

"Good," she says, and mostly means it. "Nervous. Ready."

He hands her the coffee. His thumb brushes her wrist when she takes it — just a second, just contact — and she feels it move through her the way it always moves through her, warm and sure and impossible to locate properly because it's everywhere now, woven into the whole fabric of her days.

"You're going to be great," he says.

"We're going to be great," she corrects.

He smiles — small, real, the one with the dimples — and it's a smile she doesn't quite have the context for, layered with a satisfaction she can't fully see.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "We are."

She drinks her coffee.

Outside, the May morning opens up clear and warm and full of beginnings.

And in her body, very quietly, something has already begun.

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🩷 𝓊𝓅𝒹𝒶𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒾𝓀𝑒𝓈

𝓊𝓅𝒸𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓃𝓰 ꒰ა𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒲𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒶 𝒞𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇-𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓂໒꒱ 𝒸𝒽𝑜𝒾 𝓈𝑜𝑜𝒷𝒾𝓃 × 𝒻𝑒𝓂!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 ໒꒱ Hogwarts AU

The first thing Paige saw when she entered was someone mid dance with big headphones on and a phone in a tripod pointing around the big indoor court.

“Hello?”

Nothing. Oh yeah, the headphones. 

Slowly, as if she was approaching a wounded animal, Paige made her way over to you, softly tapping your shoulder. But her careful try was useless as you let out a yelp, stumbled over the tripod before it fell over and ripped off the headphones mid fall. But like in a cheesy rom-com you never hit the ground as the pretty blonde in front of you caught you by the elbow, keeping you up.

“Uh… hi?” she tried again.

“You can’t just sneak up on people like that! I think you gave me a heart attack!” your chest moved up and down rapidly, trying to work through the initial shock.

“You’re fine,” she grinned, “didn’t even fall. Thanks to me.” The wink was too much to comprehend as you were still trying to catch your breath. “I thought this place was locked anyways.” She continued.

Finally you got a grip back on life, standing straight and picking up the tripod, “Yeah, but I work here, one of the media girls.” As if to get your point across you motioned to the phone, checking for cracks. “I’m allowed to be here. You on the other hand...” The teasing smile on your face was a stark contrast to the panic Paige saw before. 

“Guess we’re both rule-breakers.” You nod in agreement before coming to your senses and rapidly shaking your head, “Nuh uh, I’m allowed to be here!” The blonde laughed,” You know who would say that?” 

“Who?” 

“Someone that’s not supposed to be here.”

An offended gasp filled the empty court, as you crossed your arms over your chest and eyes narrowed in mock betrayal. “I’ll have you know I’m very professional. I only enter empty gyms in artistic circumstances.”

Paige hummed, a smirk on her face “Mhmm. Artistic. Sure.”

“What, you don’t think my danc-” Your personal phone buzzed in your pocket - loud, urgent. Paige notices the furrow in your brows and how your smile slips for just a second as you glance on the screen. 

[6 texts from: Jared]

➤ Where the hell are you ➤ Answer me ➤ You said you’d be back 30 mins ago ➤ I’m not playing with you rn

“Uhm. Sorry I gotta go.” Paige blinked at you, “What, already?”

“Yeah. Got what I needed.” You shoved your phone into your bag, rushing to pack up your tripod without looking at her. “Court’s all yours.”

She tilted her head, long hair swishing gently to one side, “Are you okay?”

“Oh yes, no worries!” The smile on your face seemed… off. “I’m just on a very tight schedule of mild chaos.”

You started backing away, already halfway to the tunnel exit.  “Oh, and Paige?” She perked up, still watching you carefully. “Yeah?” 

You gave a weak little grin. “Next time, bring coffee. Scaring people earns you caffeine tax.”

Then you turned and walked off, your steps a little faster than before. Paige stood frozen, her gaze trailing you until you disappeared around the corner.

She frowned.

Something didn’t add up.

And for the first time since she got to Dallas, Paige Bueckers wasn’t thinking about basketball.

–

Meeting Paige for the second time was a lot more like you had originally planned it. First day of training camp. The entire facility was buzzing like a hive, excited, nervous - especially the rookies. They already had a press conference the day before, as well as a photoshoot, so now the fun could begin. This was also your first day with the full, new team, the last few functions had been covered by your colleagues. 

Sneakers squeaked and whistles echoed through the big indoor court as coaches yelled instructions and teammates tried to communicate with each other over the music. 

It was day 1 and you were already sweating, obviously not from playing basketball but from running around the gym trying to get shots of everyone. It was way too warm to wear a hoodie, but you couldn’t change that now. 

“Sunshine!” Maddy Siegrist called out to you across the court, she was entering her third season. “You get a shot of me doing that sick reverse layup or do I have to redo it?”

The smile on her face was cheeky enough to get a laugh out of you. “Got it in burst mode, Maddy,” you said, adjusting the camera around your neck, the strap getting uncomfortable after a time, “I even got your ugly concentration face if you wanna see it again?”

“Rude,” Maddy said, grinning. “See if I let you get my good side again.”

“You have a good side?” DiJonai chimed in, drawing a laugh from the group.

Paige couldn’t stop staring, not in a creepy or weird way, she was just... Observing. She saw how you zipped around the court like you belonged there, bantering with her new teammates as they called out ‘sunshine’ to get your attention on them, hoping you’d get a good shot of them attempting something.

You were cracking jokes and all smiles, you were - on. But she couldn’t stop thinking about the way you bolted out of the gym just a couple of days ago, the way your entire demeanor had drastically changed at one look at your phone.

“Alright, grab some water, catch your breath for a second!” Chris, the head coach yelled out. Naturally the blonde drifted over to where you stood on the sidelines, two water bottles in her hands. 

Let me guess,” she said casually. “You’re gonna post the worst picture of me, huh?” You didn’t jump this time—but your eyes flicked up in surprise, not expecting anyone to come up to you as you reviewed shots on your camera.

“Well, you did come into the league with a reputation. Gotta keep expectations realistic,” you teased, your camera already swinging up toward her, getting a horrendous angle on her as you crouched down to put a lens away.

“I literally just got here,” Paige said flatly, not impressed at all at the flash that went off.

You grinned. “Exactly.”

She smirked. But then your phone buzzed — three short, sharp vibrations in your pocket. You didn’t even look at it this time. Just silenced it with a practiced thumb swipe and tucked it back into your bag like it didn’t matter.

But your shoulders had gone tense. And Paige caught it. Of course she did. "You alright?" she asked quietly, not joking anymore.

You looked at her a beat too long, then blinked and smiled. That same, slightly-too-sunny smile.

“Yup. Golden.” You gestured vaguely toward the team. “Now hydrate, Rookie. You’ve got a whole training camp to impress me.”

“Me impress you?” Paige’s eyebrows shot up as she opened one bottle and handed it to you before opening her own and taking a big gulp.

“Exactly.” You winked and took a sip. “I’ve got the camera. That means I control the legacy.”

With the back of her hand Paige wiped her mouth while chuckling. “So I gotta earn your approval and try not to look stupid on the internet?” 

Your head tilted as you shrugged. “Basically, yeah. High-stakes game. Emphasis on not looking stupid online.”

She gave you a glance as she nudged your water bottle, telling you to take another sip before closing her own. “And what do you get out of this?”

Your mouth opened for another sarcastic answer but you got interrupted by new buzzes of your phone. These seemed louder, more intense, more persistent. 

“I get to make magic,” you shrugged before lifting the camera again and pointing it at her face. “Now go stand near the hoop and look natural.”

Paige didn’t move right away. She just watched you. Watched how quickly you slipped the mask back on. Then, finally, she turned and jogged off toward the baseline, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t make me look short.”

You laughed, the sound carrying across the court. “Better grow an inch then, Bueckers!”

Before Paige could fire something back, a voice called her name from the free throw line - “P! We need a fifth!”

She lingered just long enough to catch the way your smile dropped before jogging back onto the court.

–

Game days have always been hectic, stressful and chaotic. But not the bad kind of chaos but the kind that makes your blood rush with adrenaline and the smile stay on your face for so long that it hurts. The exciting kind of chaos, where you felt your heart in your throat - you lived for days like this, camera in one hand, press badge around your neck, running on caffeine and nerves.

The first game of the season was against the Las Vegas Aces at Joyce Center Notre Dame, Indiana. The Pavillion was already buzzing with fans and students as you slipped past security and into the tunnel. Today's fit was all black, trying to be as much in the background as possible. Comfortable, invisible. You liked it that way - a photographer's uniform.

Players were warming up on the court. Media circled like sharks. Lights were blinding. Music thundered. It was all familiar.

And still—your hands were a little shaky.

“Sunshine!” NaLyssa jogged over, her warm-up jacket half on half off. “Tell me you’re getting my walkout? I want tunnel footage that looks like I’m about to drop 30.”

You grinned. “Only if you do drop 30. I have integrity, Smith.” She threw a quick ‘I gotchu’ in your direction before running off again. In her stead, Paige emerged from the locker room in full uniform, earbuds in, head low. The rookie buzz was thick around her. She was trying to look calm. She wasn’t and you knew it.

Your eyes met. And for a second, neither of you moved. She gave you a tiny nod. Not a smile. Just... acknowledgment.

You lifted your camera. Snapped one quiet photo. Caught her mid-stride, jaw set, spotlight just catching her cheekbone. It would be a great shot. Her shots always were. 

Then it happened again, your phone buzzed. No subtle ping just sharp, angry vibrations again. You checked the screen, instinctively.

[3 texts from: Jared] ➤ Where are you. ➤ I saw your story. ➤ You think I’m fucking stupid?

Your fingers clenched so tight around the phone you nearly cracked it. The heat drained from your face. You backed up into the tunnel. Just for a second. Just to breathe.

“Hey.”

Paige’s voice cut through the noisy atmosphere, shutting it all out. She must have put down her bottle, headphones and towel on the bench before following you the few steps into the darker tunnel. Her brows were furrowed, and she looked like she wanted to say something. Same look she wore at camp. Like she knew something.

“You good?” she asked. You nodded too quickly letting out the fakest laugh she had heard from you as of yet. “Yeah. Just... bright lights. Low blood sugar,” you waved it off, “You know, media girl problems.”

She didn’t laugh. She just watched you. And then, like she couldn’t help it, she leaned closer, keeping her voice low.

“Is someone messing with you?”

The question felt like a slap — not because of the words, but because it was the first time someone asked it out loud.

You blinked. Then smiled — brittle and brilliant. “Nope. Just showtime jitters.” You raised your camera again, angling the lens so she couldn’t see your face. “Now go be a star, Bueckers.”

You didn’t see her eyes stay on you. Didn’t see the way she lingered. Didn’t hear her whisper to herself as she walked back toward the court: “Liar.”

–

The hotel room was quiet, almost too quiet after the loud crowd at the game. Due to an odd number of staff you had gotten your own room while most others were paired up. It was quiet like before a storm. Your gear bag was still packed next to the door, you hadn’t even taken your shoes off or changed out of your outfit.

The game ended with a loss for the Dallas Wings but that wasn’t too bad, it was only the first of the season with an entirely different team. For you it had been a good game, the footage was clean and you can feel the energy in them. 

And yet here you were, sitting on the edge of the hotel bed like a glitch in the system.

The only light came from your laptop, halfway open and flickering with edits of the night’s media dump. You were supposed to be uploading clips. Sending previews. Drafting captions.

Instead, you were staring at a single photo - Paige mid-drive, focused, powerful. You had caught her in perfect motion, backlit by the bright lights.

Your phone buzzed again.

[5 texts from: Jared] ➤ You think I don’t know where that hotel is? ➤ I’m not an idiot. ➤ Answer me. ➤ I said ANSWER ME. ➤ You think this little game makes you better than me?

You watched the messages roll in, but didn’t answer. You sat your phone down on the nightstand, the screen down, but it kept buzzing. You could feel the angry vibrations through the cheap wood like a second heartbeat. 

Instead of checking it you stared straight ahead in the dark room, jaw locked and chest feeling way too tight. You kept swallowing. But it didn’t work. 

Then—like some dam had quietly cracked - you reached up and wiped your eye. Just once. Then again. And suddenly, tears spilled fast, like they had been waiting their turn all day or even longer.

You didn’t sob. You didn’t scream. That would require energy you didn’t have. You just leaked, silently, as your shoulders folded in and your shaking hands pressed to your face.

The kind of crying that didn’t look dramatic. Just tired. Just… done. The ugly kind. Your laptop screen timed out. Darkness flooded the room. Still, the phone kept buzzing.

Eventually, you turned it off. Not silenced. Not ignored.

Off.

You slipped on your team issued hoodie, grabbed your room-key and left the dark room. 

The stairwell was stuffy and dim, lit by one flickering bulb, but you kept climbing.

One flight. Then two. Then the heavy metal door to the roof gave way with an eerie creak, making your bones shudder.

Cool air hit your face, sharp and quiet.

Up here, the world felt a little farther away. Just lights in the distance, the hum of AC units, and a faint breeze that tugged at your sleeves. You needed a moment before pulling your phone out and dialing while leaning on the metal railing.

The line rang once—then connected.

“Finally,” Jared’s voice snapped through like a blade. “You screen me all night just to call me now?”

You didn’t say anything. Not right away. You stared out into the blur of headlights and halos. And all of a sudden the air wasn’t refreshing anymore. It was just cold, metallic and heavy. 

“Well? You gonna speak or just breathe heavy?”

“…Hi, sorry I was working,” you murmured. Your voice was so soft it barely reached your own ears.

“Working. Sure. Where the fuck is my money?” You winced and curled up in your hoodie, pulling the hood over your head trying to shield your face from the cold wind. Tears stinging in your eyes.

“It was supposed to be yesterday. You promised me yesterday.”

“I know,” you said quickly, automatically. “I tried to move it early, but-”

“I don’t want your excuses. You think I’m just sitting here waiting around while you play dress-up with basketball Barbies and your little media job and feel all important?”

You didn’t even hear the door creak behind you, as it opened further than you had left it open. You just lowered your voice even more, barely above a whisper. “Please don’t do this right now.”

Jared didn’t even hear it. Or maybe he did and didn’t care. “You made a commitment. You’re not just gonna flake because you got a new backdrop for your sad little life. You owe me.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”

A pause.

“I’ll get it to you. I just… I need a little more time.”

He laughed - that hard, bitter kind of laugh that made your blood feel cold.

“You’re always saying that. You always ‘just need time.’ I should’ve known better than to count on you. You always act like you’re doing me a favor - you should be grateful I haven’t shown up and taken it myself.”

Something behind you shifted. A soft scuff of sneakers. But still, you didn’t turn, didn’t hear it or just didn’t care.

“I’ll fix it,” you said. Quiet. Small. Mechanical.

There was silence on the line for a beat. Then Jared spat, “Yeah. You better,” and the call went dead.

You stayed frozen. Just stood there, phone still in hand, like it might ring again.

From the shadows near the exit, Paige had stopped mid-step. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop - she was just looking for air, same as you. But now she stood still, watching your hunched figure against the skyline.

She didn’t interrupt. She just looked. Saw. She saw the real you.

And after a long moment, she turned and slipped quietly back down the stairs.

–

The restaurant looked warm and inviting - bright but not in the blinding way. Bright in a golden way, that made everyone look a little softer than the harsh lights on the court. The team had taken over the back of the place, pushed 2 long tables together to fit everyone semi-comfortable. After all, basketball players do need a bit more space than ‘normal sized’ humans. 

You were late, not fashionably late, but a hurried late. 

It was NaLyssa that had texted you earlier “You’re coming, no excuses. We’re family now.”

It took longer to get there than you had expected or wanted. Without a car you depended on Jared in that department. But he was already irritated that you were going out, so why would he drive you? He only accepted after you offered to pay for his gas at the nearest station. So after getting gas he had dropped you off  two blocks away. After watching his car (which was really yours but that’s a different story) drive off, you walked the last bit fast, heart pounding the whole time like it might outrun your nerves.

Slipping through the door of the restaurant you felt a bit out of place in some jeans and a hoodie, so you tried to blend in with the shadows. 

“Heyy, she made it!” Maddy shouted, lifting her glass. A small round of cheers rose up.

Bye bye shadows.

DiJonai waved you over, patting the empty seat beside her. The one opposite Paige.

You smiled tightly and offered a quick, “Sorry, sorry. Hope I didn’t miss dessert.”

“Please,” DiJonai said, sliding a menu in front of you. “You missed the world’s slowest appetizer order. Sit. Eat.” You sat. Your hoodie still smelled faintly like the car. You didn’t take it off.

The waiter came over, and when he asked what you wanted, you barely looked at the menu. “Just the… house salad, no dressing. Thanks.” There was a beat - just long enough for someone to notice. “You sure?” NaLyssa asked gently. “They’ve got good pasta here. You love pasta.”

“I’ll steal bites from all of you,” you deflected with a small smile. “Professional moocher.”

They laughed. The tension moved on. But Paige didn’t.

Her sharp eyes stayed on you as you made good on your promise, eating a fork full of someone's Carbonara and stealing a piece of garlic bread. Laughing at DiJonai’s commentary on wine snobs. Listening as Maddy tried to impersonate the head coach and nearly choked on her soda, sending the whole table into a fit of laughter. 

A laugh so good it made your stomach hurt and eyes well up with tears as you tried to get some air.

At some point, Paige leaned forward to pass you a piece of steak from her plate without saying anything. Just set it on your bread plate and kept talking to JJ beside her. Some roasted potatoes followed soon after.

You didn’t look up. Just ate it. Quietly. Gratefully.

When the others started to order dessert you had excused yourself to the bathroom, quickly freshen yourself up and opened your hoodie for once, all the laughing and good food had warmed you right up. 

The others were just finishing up their main course when you got back to eat your salad. “You’ve seriously been here for thirty minutes and haven’t checked your phone once,” Paige said across the table, a teasing edge to her voice. “You’re not even pretending to look bored. Didn’t even take it with you to the bathroom.”

Your brows shot up as you lifted your fork with some arugula on it pointing it accusingly at the blonde across from you. “What, are you timing me? It’s getting a little creepy, Bueckers.”

She shrugged, a smirk playing at her lips. “I notice things.”

That made your smile twitch into something crooked. You swallowed. “Maybe I’m just trying not to look like the chronically online media gremlin.” Maddy leaned in from two seats down. “Too late. You were posting game reels before tipoff.”

“Exactly. I earn my gremlin status.” You tapped the edge of your water glass. “But this? This is sacred. Food is sacred.”

Paige’s brow rose as she pointed at your sad little side salad. “That’s what counts as sacred now?” You gave her a flat look. “I’m taste-testing my way across the team’s orders. It's a curated sampler.”

“She’s scamming us,” DiJonai said, shaking her head. “I lost half my truffle fries five minutes ago.”

“Don’t let her near the steak,” Arike warned. “She does this thing where she’s like, ‘Oh, just a bite’, and then it’s gone.” You threw your hands up, mock-offended. “I’m being framed. You’re all just bad at food security. God forbid a girl just has a big palette.”

That earned another round of laughs from the table, loud and joyful - the kind of sound that made you forget to flinch.

Across the table, Paige was still looking at you. Chin resting on one hand, her strikingly blue eyes sharp and unreadable - until she smiled, softer this time. “Still,” she said. “No phone. Proud of you.” You tilted your head at her. “Why’s that worth a merit badge?”

She shrugged, but didn’t look away. “Just nice to see someone here. Not halfway gone.” You shifted slightly in your seat, trying to keep it light. “So what’s your excuse? You haven’t checked yours either.”

Paige tapped the screen of her phone on the table - dark. “I don’t have anyone blowing it up.” Her tone was too casual, like it didn’t matter. “Guess I’m not that interesting.”

“Or you have bad reception,” Maddy offered, ever helpful.

Everyone laughed again, and Paige finally looked down, brushing her fingers over her phone. Then she flicked her gaze back up to you.

“Okay - picture time before anyone leaves.” Quickly you got up, digital camera in hand before DiJonai pulled you back down again. “Sunshine, you’re in this one.”

Groans echoed from around the table as everyone shuffled closer together, pulling faces, leaning in. DiJonai tugged you into the shot and Paige leaned just close enough to bump shoulders over the table.

You managed to smile for the photo - a real one. And when you finally glanced at your phone after dinner?

No new messages.

–

The streets were quieter now, dark and cold. The happy buzz of the restaurant laid behind you. You’d waved everyone off with a smile, a joke, a “see you tomorrow,” and started toward the nearest bus stop like it was just routine.

But it wasn’t routine, at  least not for someone having a death grip in a camera bag and a press badge stuffed deep in your handbag. You missed your car in moments like these, but you’re getting used to it. 

You’d barely made it to the corner when a car pulled up alongside the curb. The window rolled down.

“Get in.”

You turned - a little too fast - only to see Paige in the driver’s seat of a black rental. One hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the door.

You blinked. “I’m good. I like public transport. Very... civic. You wouldn’t understand, superstar.” She gave you a flat look. “It’s 11:30. The next bus is in 20 minutes and you have your holy camera with you.”

You shifted your bag higher and just looked at her.

“Get in the car, Sunny,” she said, a touch of amusement threading through the firmness, you could see it in her eyes.

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to, but because it was too easy. Too kind. Too close. Still, your legs betrayed you, already moving before you gave yourself permission. You slid into the passenger seat and closed the door.

You swallowed, “Well, uhm, thank you for saving me from my death march,” your voice was too dry to be funny.

“Someone’s gotta keep your freeloading ass alive,” she quipped while glancing at you but quickly going back to concentrating on the road.

You smiled, lips twitching. “You’re getting funnier. Is that part of the rookie training?”

“Only the advanced course.”

She parked when you gave directions, easing into the curb in front of your building. It looked a little smaller than usual under the yellow streetlight. You hated that. It looked… weird. With the passenger door open and one foot already on the pavement you thanked the blonde, ready to head in.

“I’ll walk you up!” Her seatbelt was already unbuckled and her hand on the door handle. “Oh no, you won’t,” you caught yourself and went a bit softer, your eyes not as wide anymore, “it’s okay, really. I got it.”

Paige turned to you, one eyebrow pulled up “Why wouldn’t I walk you up?”

You exhaled, trying to convince yourself of your reasoning. “Because it’s a six-flight walk-up with a buzzer that doesn’t work and a neighbor who thinks I’m growing weed because I own succulents. Trust me, it’s not a vibe.”

She didn’t laugh this time. Just looked. A beat passed.

“You sure?”

You nodded. “Thanks for the ride.”

Paige leaned back slightly. “You always like this when someone’s nice to you?”

You glanced over. “I’m fine with nice.”

“Are you?” You paused, hand still on the door. Another silence. Then, finally, she said, “Text me when you’re inside.”

That stopped you. “I don’t have your number.”

“It’s in your DMs.” You turned to look at her. She gave you a small, unreadable smile. “Good night, Sunshine.”

But before you could finally leave you starting digging in the pockets of your hoodie and came up with a small wad of bills, hastily smoothed out in your palm, desperately trying to ignore the blonde's confused face.

“Here,” you mumbled, trying to press it into her hand. “Gas money.” Paige blinked, looking at the crumpled twenties like you’d handed her a live bird. “What?” she said, equal parts amused and confused.

“For the drive,” you insisted, pushing it toward her. “It’s a rental. And gas is, like, criminal now.” She leaned back in her seat, both hands up. “You’re not paying me to drive you home. I’m not an Uber.”

“Still,” you said, your voice a little too sharp, “just take it.” She shook her head, a soft, incredulous laugh escaping her. “You really hate owing people, huh?”

You didn’t answer.

She didn’t push. Just gently closed her hand around yours and pushed it back toward your lap.

“You can pay me back by not acting like I'm doing you a favor.”

You hesitated. Then, reluctantly, stuffed the money back into your hoodie. Sort of.

And once you were out of the car and inside the building, she waited until you had unlocked the very front door and entered the building, then drove off.

The building door barely hit the lock before you pulled out your phone. She hadn’t been lying. The message was already there.

[3 texts from: @paigebueckers] ➤ Just in case the bus ghosts you again (xxx) xxx-xxxx. ➤ Or you need someone who doesn’t talk loud on rooftops. ➤ 🕶️☀️

You stared at it for a moment. Then hit “Save Contact.”

Back at her place Paige went to grab her water bottle and get out of the car when she saw it - the money.

Still crumpled, still soft from your hand. Shoved into her center console cup holder. She stared at it for a long second, then sighed. “Jesus,” she murmured to herself. 

She didn’t move it right away. Didn’t throw it out.

Just… left it there.

Like it meant something.

—

The gym was emptying out fast, and it wasn’t long before the only thing you could hear only the hum of the lights and the bounce of a stray ball. You’d already packed all your gear together and carried it over your shoulder. Jelly, was the best way to describe the way your body felt.

You hadn’t even planned on joining the girls in the locker room, just ducked your head in to ask Maddy what shot she wanted sent to her phone - but next thing you know you got dragged in, the camera bag nearly slipping from your shoulder. 

“Come on, Sunshine,” she said with that mischievous grin, “you’re basically one of us now.”

You gave a weak protest, laughing quietly. “Pretty sure staff isn't supposed to be in here.”

“Guess you’ll have to report yourself, then.”

That’s how it started. A two-minute question turned into sitting on an overturned crate near someone’s cubby, camera bag still on, hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes heavy. No one bat an eye at you being in there, letting you relax a tad, until your stomach grumbled - loud enough for Maddy to raise an eyebrow.

“Damn. Did you eat today?”

You hesitated. Big mistake.

“Hey!” Maddy called out to the room, turning in her seat. “She didn’t eat today.”

“What?! Are you serious?” That was Nai, halfway through braiding her hair. “Girl, it’s like 4PM.”

“I had a bar earlier- ”

“Was it a real bar or one of those pressed sadness bricks you always pull outta your bag?” The team mobilized like a tactical unit, or at least something close to it. In seconds, there were protein bars, drink bottles, and packets of fruit snacks being thrown your way like offerings to a minor deity. You blinked at the pile forming in your lap and the mess around you.

“You guys don’t have to- ”

“You work for us,” DiJonai said, tossing you a chocolate peanut butter bar. “You’re part of the machine now. The machine stays fed.”

You gave a grateful smile. Small, but real as you didn’t fight it further, just too damn tired. Cheeks warm with quiet gratitude as you tore open the first wrapper. 

Across the room from you in her cubby was Paige, towel thrown around her neck as she took off her knee pads, she looked busy but her eyes never escaped you. You looked so small.

You didn’t see her clock, how your hands shook slightly when you tried to open a bottle. You didn’t notice her chewing her lip when you blinked a little too long between bites.

But she noticed.

Eventually, she walked over, lightly brushing a loose bottle cap off the bench beside you. She nudged an open water bottle your way. “That one’s mine. Cold.”

You took it with a grateful nod and looked up at her, “I’m good, I swear.”

She raised a brow. “You look like you’re about to fold like a lawn chair. Drink it.”

You did.

“So,” Arike drawled. “Your boyfriend let you starve all day, huh?”

The room went still. A beat too long.

Your face snapped up, but your mouth stayed shut. You let out a breathy chuckle, like it was funny. “He’s not- It’s fine. He’s just… busy.” You didn’t make eye contact with anyone.

The older players shared a look. Maddy opened her mouth to shift the mood, but Paige cut in first, casually. “Her boyfriend doesn’t work for a W team. We win. We feed people.”

The others whooped. Just enough distraction to deflect the heat, letting the girls hype each other up one last time for the day. You smiled, forced but functional. You took a bite of the bar Paige gave you. It tasted like cardboard and warmth.

She sat beside you on the edge of the bench, just close enough that your elbows brushed.

She didn’t tease you, just handed you another wrapper, already peeled slightly open.

—

A week later the weight room was buzzing a day before the next game - clanks of plates, low grunts, and the dull thud of medicine balls against the far wall. Lights buzzed overhead, bright but not clinical. Music thumped from a corner speaker, rhythmic and bass-heavy, but muffled by the girls chatting.

You were framing a shot, trying something different seeing as the weight room gave you different possibilities than the practice court, crouching to capture JJ’s silhouette as she lifted. None of you heard the door creak open, no one paid him any mind as he made his way through the room.

“Hey Babe.”

Jared. He was too close, you could feel his breath in your ear, uncomfortably warm as it sent shivers down your spine.

When did he get here?

Once you could finally move you were able to turn around and face him. Jared stood just behind you, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets like he belonged there, like this was a casual drop-in. He even smiled, that crooked, boyish grin that used to make your knees weak and now just made your stomach turn.

The room had gone quiet. Not silent, the music was still going but the girls stopped chatting and subtly tried watching the interaction out of the corner of their eyes. Except Paige, who was full on staring at the train wreck directly in front of her.

“Jared! Uh, hi! What are you doing here?” Your voice was tight, but quiet.

He looked around the room, ignoring the curious looks he got, “This is where you’ve been hiding all day?” He nodded towards your camera equipment in the corner, “Saw your little video earlier. On their Insta? Real artsy, baby.” What was supposed to be a petty compliment just sounded sarcastic instead.

“I, uh, thanks. But, uhm, you can’t just walk into the team areas like this.” You had pulled him in closer by his arm, so close that your bodies nearly touched as you quietly tried to suggest that he should get lost.

“I tried calling.” He shrugged, stepping closer before he continued, voice sweet again, soft. “Look, I get it. You’re busy. I just...” He scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t want to make a scene. I just... kinda needed to talk for a sec.”

Your throat tightened as Paige watched you like a hawk.

“Can’t it wait? I’m working?” Your voices had gotten really quiet now, neither Jared or you noticed how one of the girls had stopped the music, now silencing the room to listen in as they pretended to workout, most of the other staff had already left.

“I wouldn’t be here if it could.” His voice had turned quiet. Sharp. “I, uh… I just left my doctor’s office. They wouldn’t run the test without the co-pay.”

Your stomach dropped. “What test?”

He shrugged like it didn’t matter. “It’s probably nothing. Just chest stuff again. Tightness. They said I should’ve come in sooner, but you know how it is…”

Your face went cold.

“I didn’t want to freak you out,” he added quickly. “I almost didn’t say anything at all. But now I’m sitting outside Walgreens trying to figure out how to cover the lab work, and I thought... if you could spot me, just one more time…”

You nodded, and when your hands didn’t move fast enough, he reached for your purse like he always did. “I’ll pay you back Friday,” he said, a little softer as he took out all the bills that were left. “You know I always do.”

You didn’t notice Paige until she was a few steps closer, towel slung over one shoulder, a water bottle in her hands. “Everything good?” she asked casually, but her eyes flicked between the two of you.

“All good,” you said too fast, taking your purse back from his hands. “He was just, just on his way out.” Jared offered a smile. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Sorry about that.”

He lingered a second longer than he needed to, brushing a hand over your shoulder. “You’re still the best, you know that?”

Then he turned and left. You didn’t even breathe until the door clicked behind him and he was finally, really gone from the space you had once felt safe in.

Paige was still watching you. “Lab work?”

You looked down at your camera, fiddling with the lens cap. “He’s been feeling off for a while now. Chest problems are scary, he’s been to a lot of Doctors for it.”

“And they don’t take insurance?” You swallowed, your eyes desperately trying to avoid making eye contact with the blonde. “He said they wouldn’t run it without him paying up front.”

A long silence passed.

Then Paige said, without looking at you, “You always pay when he says it’s urgent?” You didn’t answer. Not really.

Just said, “It’s easier.”

—

The place wasn’t even on google maps, one of those bars that looked like it might have once been a gas station or a tire shop. Squat brick, single red neon sign humming a half-lit “OPEN,” and windows so fogged over they might as well be painted black. Inside, the floor was sticky and the music was classic rock on shuffle.

It was perfect.

Maddy pushed the door open with her hip, DiJonai following close behind. “I swear to God,” she muttered, “if I get tetanus from the pool table, I’m blaming you.”

“You can’t get tetanus from felt,” Arike deadpanned.

“That sounds like a challenge," Maddy said.

Paige was the last to walk in of the small group that had decided to grab some cheap drinks and greasy food after a gruelling late film session. She hadn’t even looked up until Maddy elbowed her in the ribs and nodded toward the bar.

And there you were.

Behind the counter. In a low cut black T-shirt and jeans, hair pulled into a messy ponytail. Your forehead was a little sweaty from the heat, or the pace, or both. You moved like someone who had done this a thousand times - pouring, swiping, dodging elbows and flirting with drunks just enough to earn better tips.

That top certainly helped for the tips as well.

For a while none of the girls said anything. Just stood there in stunned silence as they watched you shake off an uncomfortable customer.

“Wait,” DiJonai blinked. “Is that sunshine? Like, our sunshine?”

“Yup,” Paige said quietly as her eyes locked with yours. You didn’t freeze, didn’t drop anything, didn’t run, but the smile you gave was practiced. Not fake, exactly. Just... careful.

“Hey,” you said over the bar as they approached. “Didn’t know you guys knew this place!” Your voice was loud over the loud music.

“We’re versatile,” Lyss grinned. “Athletes by day, dive bar connoisseurs by night.”

You laughed, and it was real enough. “What can I get my favourite girls?” They placed their orders, teased you a little, tipped heavy despite your protests.

You stayed in motion, but Paige watched you closely. The way you rubbed your eyes between orders. The slight limp in your left leg. The silence between your words when you thought no one noticed. At one point, you ducked under the bar to grab a case of beer and came up too fast, smacking your shoulder on the counter. You didn’t even wince. Just kept moving.

The team stayed for maybe an hour. They didn’t push. Didn’t ask why you were working a second job, or why you never mentioned it, or why you looked like you hadn’t slept in days. They just let it be.

But Paige didn’t leave. Of course she didn’t. 

The other girls had eventually paid (and tipped even more, ignoring your refusal) and left, laughing about their sore stomachs and how they would regret the bad pizza tomorrow. Paige stayed, told them she’d uber home in a bit and no one questioned it - because they all knew.

DiJonai patted her arm with a smirk whispering a “Get our girl home in one piece, will you?” in the rookie's ear before filling out.

At first you didn’t notice her lingering gaze, too focused on the new barback who stocked the cooler wrong, and a regular who tried to play Journey for the 3rd time on the jukebox. But when you glanced up from drying a pint glass, she was still there, alone at the end of the bar, half-finished drink in hand, eyes on you like she’d never really stopped watching.

The crowd started thinning out now, just a few stragglers playing darts and a couple on their third round of something brown and bitter while staring into each others souls. It was the kind of hour where everything slowed down, the volume dropped just enough to hear your own thoughts. Which was worse most days.

You walked over and leaned on the bar. “Still here, huh?”

She raised a brow, her eyes challenging you. “You’re surprised?” All you did was shrug. “Most people don’t find this place worth staying.” Paige tilted her head with that annoying, cocky smirk. “I’m not most people.”

You huffed a tired laugh. “So I’ve heard.”

It was quiet between the two of you for a second as she watched you fiddle with your hair, annoyed by the loose strands. “Your eyes were too sharp for someone that tired. This wasn’t new.”

Then, quietly she asked, “How often are you here?”

You leaned back, wiped your hands on a rag that had long lost its purpose, way too stained to really be any use. “Depends. Weekends are the worst. But I fill in when someone flakes.”

“And after media days? Practices?”

You gave her a smile, soft and vaguely apologetic. “Turns out passion projects don’t cover rent.” Paige didn’t laugh at your weak attempt at a joke. She just looked down at her drink, then back up at you.

“You could’ve said something.”

Before you could answer, your manager called from the back office, saving you (because really, what were you supposed to say?). “Closing time! You’re good to clock out.”

You gave Paige a quiet look and gestured toward the front door. “Wait by the door? It’s quieter there. I’ll walk with you.”

-

Ten minutes later you came out with a hoodie pulled on. Paige’s hoodie. Backpack on one shoulder, your camera bag slung over the other. The rookie had to grin, you really didn’t go anywhere without that bag, huh?

Paige stood near the dumpster, hands in her pockets. When you reached her, she noticed the envelope in your hand: plain white, thick.

You didn’t try to hide it.

Instead, you peeled it open, quickly counting bills with practised ease. You shoved a few twenties into your worn wallet, then glanced around before lifting the false bottom of your camera bag and slipping the rest inside.

When you looked up again, Paige wasn’t staring. She was just... waiting.

Patient. Steady. Like she always was.

“It’s not what it looks like,” you said, even though you both knew it was. She let you grasp at your excuses before she gave a small nod. “Is it enough?”

That caught you off guard.“What?”

“The cash. The extra hours. All of it. Is it enough?”

You paused, still stunned by the question. “It has to be. I’m getting there.”

She let the silence settle between you, “You always take care of everyone else.”

You tried to make it a joke. “Bad habit.”

“Yeah,” Paige said softly. “But who takes care of you?”

You didn’t hesitate to say “I do” but your voice was shaky. Sometimes yourself just wasn’t enough. But that’s all you had.

You just looked at her, like really looked at the blonde, and for the first time in a while, you felt the weight of someone holding your gaze, not demanding anything from you, not draining you.

Just... being there and seeing you. 

“Come on. I’m getting us an uber.” There was no room to protest, so you accepted with a small smile and thankful nod.

—

The Laundry room was brightly lit by those annoying buzzing tube lights that keep flickering like in a bad horror movie. A window was cracked near the ceiling and let in stale air and the sound of distant traffic, but not much else.

Your back already started hurting after the first load of laundry, now at the third it was even worse. Why is this damn table so low?? Your hoodie sleeves were pushed to your elbows, fingers numb and stiff from folding the third load of team jerseys on that way too low table. Your camera bag sat nearby on a stool, always close. Your phone buzzed again. 

You didn’t check it.

Well not on purpose but you still saw the messages pop up.

[3 texts from: Jared] ➤ Just remember who helped you get in. ➤ You’d be nowhere without me. ➤ You’re welcome, by the way.

The screen dimmed. You exhaled slowly through your nose and turned back to the pile of laundry. Towels. Practice shirts. Warmups. More to do. Always more, just like at home the laundry was never ending.

“Jesus, Sunshine.” You hadn’t heard her come in, so to no one's surprise you flinched so hard that the stack of freshly folded towels was knocked over again.

Once your head snapped up you could see the blonde leaning in the doorway, still in sweats and damp hair from a post-practice shower. A protein shake in one hand, towel slung over her shoulder. Her expression shifted the moment she saw you: confusion, then concern.

“It’s so late already, what are you still doing here?”

You tried for a joke. It barely made it to your lips. “Look who’s talking. You’re still here too.”

She didn’t laugh. Or react at all, except for a raised brow that you knew meant she wasn’t in the mood, so you gave your real reason up. “Couldn’t sleep.”

That made Paige smirk, much to your enjoyment. “So you decided to cosplay as laundry staff?”

You laughed softly. “Someone’s gotta do it. Lord knows how many towels you guys go through in a single practice day.”

She looked around at the mess of fabric and unfolded towels. Then back to you as she stepped into the room.

“Sit somewhere real.”

“What is that even..? I’m sitting-” With an eye roll she ignored your protest before she pulled you up, “Not on a crate like a goblin. Come on,” and unzipped her jacket, shook it out, and spread it carefully across the folding table like a blanket, then patted it once.

“Sit here.”

“You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

No. No she didn’t.

Realizing you wouldn’t move on your own she dragged you down to her chosen place by your shoulders. The second your legs dangled off the table, Paige was already grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. She handed it over (already opened of course) with a raised brow. “Drink.”

“I’m fine, I really don’t need-”

“Not what I asked. Drink.”

You took the water. Drank. Because something in her voice and something in her eyes made it impossible not to.

She picked up your fallen stacks of towels and sorted them into the shelf where they belonged, before picking up the next basket and sitting it down on the floor next to the table and started folding. No comment. No lecture. Just calm, methodical movements. She made neat stacks. You watched, still clutching the water bottle with both hands like it was keeping you upright. And maybe it was.

She didn’t ask questions. Just moved around you, efficient and silent.

It was strange. Not in a bad way. Just unfamiliar. Like watching someone speak a language you used to know but forgot to speak after not hearing it for so many years.

Eventually, she dug out a protein bar from her pocket and tossed it toward you without looking. You didn’t catch it. Nope. It hit you straight in the face before falling in your lap - and even though Paige tried really hard not to laugh, she failed miserably as she giggled into her fist. 

“Stop pouting and eat. You didn’t today.”

You looked at her, brows furrowed. “That’s a bold assumption.”

“Not an assumption, I know it’s a fact. I notice things.”

Your chest tightened, painfully. You looked down at the bar in your lap, thumb running over the wrapper. You didn’t move as your traitorous brain wandered. 

To Jared.

To his messages. To his tired voice on the phone the other night, telling you his chest was tight again. That the doctors still didn’t know what it was. That the stress was making him worse. That you working too much didn’t help. That he needed rest, not drama. That he was doing his best, even without a job, even when you made it ‘so hard.’

He was always tired. Always hurting. Always needing you. Needing your money.

So you stayed. Paid the bills. Covered his medications. Told yourself it was temporary. That when he got better, things would change.

He wasn’t cruel. Just sick.

And sick people lash out sometimes.

Right?

You hadn’t even noticed Paige sit beside you until her voice broke your cruel thoughts, “You still in there?”

“Mhmm, where else would I be?”, you hummed and nudged her shoulder with yours. 

“Somewhere happier, maybe?”

It was silent as you fiddled with the protein bar in your lap, before the blonde took it, opened it and held it to your mouth - refusing to take it away until you took a bite. The silence returned.

Your throat burned.

You looked down. “He said I should be grateful.”

A pause.

“That I’d be nothing without him. That he puts up with a lot.”

The words were quiet. Flat. Like you were repeating something you’d memorized a long time ago.Paige didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. Just listening, her eyes focused solely on you. “He’s not well,” you added quickly, like it was a valid reason to be hurting all the time. “Always at doctors. Can’t work. He’s just… dealing with a lot.”

Paige stared ahead for a long beat.Then: “That’s not love.”

You exhaled, shaky. “He’s honest. He says I make things hard.”

“No,” she said. “I’m being honest. He’s being cruel.”

You looked at her, startled by the bluntness, not harsh, just firm. Anchoring and honest, not cruel.

“Someone who loves you doesn’t make you earn kindness,” she said. “They don’t twist things so you feel lucky to be hurt.”

You looked away.

“I didn’t think I was allowed to expect more.”

“You are.”

Silence. Heavy.

Then, barely above a whisper:

“How do you know?”

Paige’s smile was soft and sure, not smug. Just true.

“Because I’ve seen the way you take care of people. The way you show up. That’s what love looks like. And you deserve to be treated at least the same way.”

You blinked hard, eyes burning. Your shoulders curled slightly, not to hide, just to stay upright. Paige didn’t touch you. She didn’t need to.

She just kept folding.

—

You came home from a late night editing session at the Dallas Wings Staff rooms. It had been a good night, truly. Someone had ordered pizza and the whole evening was spent gossiping while trying to work. But something was off when you came home.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

There was no music, and no TV that played some dumb show Jared was melting his brain with. The only thing you could hear was the buzz of hallway lights even through the shut door. 

You shut the door behind you, softly, mindful of the other residents and the late hour. At the hallway bench you shrugged off the camera bags and clawed your way out of the damp hoodie from the walk home. 

You were late. Not by much, maybe an hour, and you didn’t have plans for the evening, but you were late nonetheless.  It was just too fun, and the editing crew had lost the feeling of time.

Stepping into the cold living room, you froze in place. The lights were off, the only thing giving light was the dull blue glow of a laptop on Jared's lap, casting shadows across his face as he sat on the couch.

Wait.

That was your laptop. Open on his lap.

And that… that was your journal doc he was reading.

The heart in your chest stopped, at least you were pretty sure of it. 

“Hey,” he greeted, voice too calm. Not even on good days he was this calm. Jared didn’t look up right away, he just kept scrolling through the document. Reading more and more of your thoughts.

Your legs turned to concrete, or fused with the ground. Either way, something rooted you in place. “What.. uhm, what are you doing?”

Now he looked at you.

Smiled.

The blue light from the laptop illuminated him from below. Making him look even scarier than he usually does. 

“You’ve been real busy in here, huh?”

His voice was even as he tapped the side of his temple. You knew he meant busy in your head and the document he was reading. His voice was measured. No heat. That was worse.

“Didn’t know I was such a fucking villain in your head.”

You opened your mouth. No sound came out.

He stood and you were still rooted in that same damn place.

“I’ve marked some quotes I really liked,” held the laptop with one hand, and with the other, gestured like he was reading aloud on a stage “You don’t mind, do you? I’ll read them out to you.”

“I keep telling myself it’s not that bad, but I don’t know what ‘bad enough’ even looks like anymore.”

“I miss who I was before him, but I don’t remember what she looked like.”

“He doesn’t hit me. That’s the bar I’ve been setting my worth to.. he doesn’t hit me.”

After every sentence he read out loud he sent a pointed glance in your direction before finally snapping the laptop shut, the sound echoing through the dark living room.

“So that’s what we’re doing now?” he said, voice sharp, finally cracking. “You run off and play house with those girls, and then come home and write about how abused you are? Is that it?”

“I.. I didn’t mean..”

“No, say it. Come on. Say it to my face. You think I’m the fucking monster in your sad little Netflix drama?”

You shook your head quickly. Too quickly. “No. No, Jared, it’s not like that. I was just, just writing. I didn’t think you’d see it.”

“Of course not,” he spat. “Because I’m just the idiot you unload on when you’re not getting your ego stroked by Paige-fucking-Bueckers.”

Your breath caught.

He laughed.

“You think she gives a shit about you? You’re her project. Her pet. You think she’s not saying the same shit about you behind your back?”

“Stop.” Your voice cracked as tears started building in your eyes.

“Or what?” he said, stepping forward. “You gonna run away? Call Paige? Have her come rescue you like a good little golden retriever?”

He was close now.

Too close.

And suddenly your body remembered every red flag you’d buried under guilt and excuses. Every apology that felt like pressure. Every “you owe me” that bled into your spine. 

Your knees shook but you still managed to turn and walk out the door. Leaving him in the dark living room.

—

You couldn’t remember much of the run there, not how you grabbed the keys or how you got into the rehab room of the Dallas Wings training facility. The lights were dim, just barely peeking in through the window of the hallway.

The phone barely had any battery left as you sat on the padded table, hands still shaking. 

You already had opened her contact card. Paige. And you stared at it too long.

Not once had you called her first, never. Not even after those really hard days you just wanna cry about. Not even after Jared’s last big blow-up. But now? It was different.

You were shivering, scared and there was no one else you could call that would just.. show up. So finally you pressed call.

It only took two rings for her to pick up, even at 1a.m. 

“Sunny?”

You didn’t mean to start crying, you really didn’t want to but it just happened. Her voice was calm, steady and a little tired.

“Can you come get me?”

You could hear rustling on the other side, a blanket being tossed aside, “Where are you?”

“Training facilities, like in the, uh, the rehab area.”

“I’m on my way. Don’t move.”

She didn’t ask anything else.

Didn’t need to hearing your sniffles through the phone was enough to tell the blonde everything she needed. You sat there in the silence, breathing in short bursts, knuckles white around your phone.

And for the first time, you didn’t feel ashamed of needing someone.

So you waited.

Curled into yourself on the therapy table, shaking like a leaf. Running through rain in only a shirt might not have been a good idea… Your phone vibrated once. Just a soft, meaningless hum, but you didn’t check it, just stared at the ground and waited.

Until the door creaked open and then somehow, the room got even colder.

Jared.

“There you are.”

You slid off the table, heart in your throat, feet stumbling backwards before you even realized you were moving.

“How did you...”

“Come on, babe. This is your hideout? Thought you’d at least pick somewhere I hadn’t seen before.”

“Jared, leave.”

“No. You don’t get to run and then make me the villain I get to defend myself.”

He stepped forward. You stepped back.

“You’ve been whining in your journal about how sick I am. Poor you. Poor little girl carrying her broken man.”

He laughed. Cold and sharp like he always did. But this time it was even scarier.

“You ever wonder why none of those doctors ever called you back? Why you never saw a single goddamn bill?”

You froze mid motion, arms up trying to build distance between you both.

“I’m not sick,” he said simply, smiling now. “Never was.”

The world slowed and time stopped.

“Then… what, uh, what..” You were speechless. It couldn’t be.. Right? Surely this was just another really bad joke.

“You were useful. You paid for shit. Got me stuff I couldn’t get on my own. Covered rent while I took care of other things.”

Your throat closed. “What things?”

He tilted his head, cruel and casual. “Couple girls I was seeing needed help. You’re not the only one who likes to take care of people. I’m a real generous guy.”

That landed like a punch to the chest.

“You- you used me,” you whispered, tears stinging in your eyes.

“Call it sponsorship,” he said. “Me and the girls like to call you my ‘scholarship fund’.”

Just silence.

And then another voice. Low, flat, furious.

“Get. Out.”

It was Paige. You couldn’t say for sure, but the look on her face made you think that she’d been waiting outside the door for a bit, listening to what Jared had to say. Her voice was like stone as when she stepped into the room. Taking up the space between you and Jared.

You could see her body still trying to catch her breath, and she was a little sweaty. She ran here. For you.

“You don’t talk to her again. You don’t come near her again.”

Jared gave her a look like he was bored already. “You think she’s gonna stay with you? You don’t know her. She needs someone to fall apart on.”

“No,” Paige said. “She needs someone who won’t break her.” She took another step forward. “And you already did.”

For the first time (maybe ever), Jared didn’t have a comeback.

He looked at you. Maybe expecting you to flinch. To cry. To chase him. But you only looked right back at him and said, “I don’t feel sorry for you anymore.”

He left after that. Just turned and walked out. No apology. No second look.

And you stood there shaking, tired, cold, but breathing.

Then Paige was beside you.

She didn’t speak right away. She just stood close, quiet, until you could bring yourself to look up and meet her eyes. She didn’t look at you with pity, no this was admiration.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered, cupping your face in her warm hands. “None of it.”

You didn’t know what to say.

“You don’t ever have to go back.”

This might have been the first time that you realized that she was right. You didn’t have to go back. Not to him. Never.

—

The car ride was silent, not the uncomfortable ‘I don’t know what to say’ silence, just quiet. Tired. Paige hadn’t asked questions, Just dragged you out to her car, pushed you down into the passenger seat and gave you a blanket from the back of her car.

When she finally pulled over into her apartment lot she glanced over at you. “You good to come in?”

“You sped there.”

You didn’t really reply to her question but the blonde took you opening the door as answer enough. “I wouldn’t say ‘sped’ just, in a slight hurry,” she winked at you, your camera bag in hand.

Paige led the way inside, everything was low-lit and calm. There were no overhead lights that blinded you, and the hallway didn’t echo in that creepy way it did at your apartment complex. As she opened her own door a citrus-y smell wafted towards you, she must have let a candle on before she came.

She locked the door behind her and set your camera bag gently down on a chair by the door, and then asked, “Hungry?”

You could only nod, too busy looking around.

“Good,” she said, already heading toward the kitchen. “Sit. Shoes off. You’re home now. For as long as you need.”

That last part hit harder than you expected. Home.

You sat at the edge of the couch while she pulled out pots and ingredients like she did this all the time. Not just for herself, but for people she wanted to keep warm and full and okay, friends and family.

“Fair warning though, I am no master chef, but we won’t starve!”

Your phone buzzed again, even though you thought the battery had died when you were still at the training facility.

Your stomach dropped.

You didn’t even have to look. You knew it was him. No one else messaged you, especially not at this time. Not after Jared convinced you to cut contact with your family over a year ago.

Paige glanced over from the stove.

“That him?”

You nodded once, throat too tight. She walked over, hand out. “Can I?”

You didn’t hesitate to hand it over. Jared asked for your phone all the time, to look through it. But the basketballer didn’t read it. Didn’t scold. Just silenced it, powered it down, and set it face-down on her kitchen counter before plugging it in.

“You don’t need to hear from him tonight. Or ever again, if you don’t want to.”

You blinked quickly, looking away. “He’s going to be so angry.”

“He already is,” she said softly. “And it’s not your fault, and it’s also not your job to soothe that.”

You didn’t reply. Just pulled your knees to your chest and let your eyes roam around her apartment.

It was warm, and well lit.. cozy. Shoes were stacked by the front door, sweaters thrown over the couch, shelves filled with random books, picture frames and trophies. A photo on the fridge, next to a note with a date on it ‘pasta night - 06/28 :)’. That was a team night.

“Okay, uhm, water is cooking, might still take a while. Bathroom’s down the hall, if you wanna shower. The door locks and I set out fresh towels and some clothes. We need to get you out of the wet ones.”

You were halfway to tears again, and she hadn’t even done anything dramatic. Just kept giving you space. Kept choosing not to demand anything. And she kept being so incredibly nice.

You stood under the hot water until your skin went pink and you smelled like her body wash and expensive shampoo.

When you came back out she was sitting on the couch, two plates of food in front of her. She had also changed into a different hoodie, a dry one.

“Food’s still warm, there’s more in the kitchen if you want.”

You sat beside her, plate balanced on your lap, and took a bite.

It was the best thing you’d eaten in weeks. Not because of the recipe, because of the way it made your shoulders drop. She didn’t say anything further, just started to dig in. Not a single comment about how you should watch your portion size, or if you really wanted to eat ‘all that’.

You glanced over at her.

Paige, who had taken your phone without making you feel helpless. Paige, who gave you clothes, a bathroom, her bedroom if you wanted it. Paige, who never made you beg.

Jared would’ve sulked. Would’ve asked why you weren’t grateful. Would’ve asked for something back and even more in return.

You looked down at your plate, swallowed hard, and whispered: “Thank you.”

She didn’t make it a thing. She just said, “You’re safe now.”

—

Warm sunrays made their way through the window, gently waking you up in warmth. Gone was the grey sky and rainy clouds from the last couple of days. The bed was so comfortably and warm that you didn’t even want to get up, but ultimately the small of eggs, bacon and toast managed to get you out of the bed.

You’d slept.

Not fitfully. Not half-alert. Not with one ear trained for footsteps.

Just... slept.

When you finally sat up and stretched, the couch groaned softly beneath you. Your muscles ached in that gentle way that meant you’d actually rested. No buzzing phone. No tension in your neck or jaw.

Just peace.

You padded toward the kitchen, the hoodie sleeves dragging past your fingertips, hair a mess, mouth dry and eyes still sticky with sleep.

Paige was already at the stove, moving around in socks and some old basketball shorts, humming something low and tuneless. She glanced over her shoulder when you appeared in the doorway.

“Morning.” Her voice came out rough, low and a bit gravely, still laced with sleep. 

“I think I died.”

That made her grin. “Was it peaceful?”

You rubbed your face with both hands, then dropped into the nearest chair. “Mhmm.”

A minute later, she slid a plate in front of you: eggs, toast, something sweet on the side. Real food. A proper breakfast, not just a hurried protein bar like you usually had. She poured coffee into a second mug and set it gently in front of you.

You stared at the food for a beat before saying, “I thought you didn’t like coffee.”

“I don’t, but I know you love it.”

You snorted, but you could feel the heat rise to your cheeks, and just desperately hoped that the blonde didn’t notice.

After a few bites, you glanced at her. “I’m not used to this,” you admitted. “Being taken care of like this.”

She didn’t flinch.

“Well,” she said, “get used to it. ‘Cus I’m not going anywhere.”

You ate in silence, just a couple of giggles at how much she disliked coffee at every grimace.

Eventually, your voice dropped to a whisper. “I had enough saved to leave for a long time. I could’ve moved out, gotten my own place, months ago.”

Paige didn’t push. She just looked at you, steady and open. “Why didn’t you?”

Your gaze dropped to your plate. “Because I was scared. Not of him... not really. Just of what it would mean if I left and he didn’t even try to stop me. If he just let me go.”

You paused, shoulders curling in.

“I was scared of what that would say about me. That I gave so much to someone who never gave a damn back.”

Paige’s voice was low, certain. Her eyes told you she was being honest and not just trying to comfort you.

“It wouldn’t say anything about you. It would say everything about him.”

You looked up.

She hadn’t moved. Still steady. Still soft. Still here.

“You stayed because you cared,” she continued. “Because you loved him the way you wished he would love you back. That doesn’t make you weak.”

Your chest tightened.

“It made me feel stupid.”

“It makes you human.”

Your eyes burned. You blinked fast and stared hard at your coffee.

“I don’t know how to do this alone.”

She reached across the table. Not to take your hand, just to set hers down, palm up, close enough if you wanted it. “You’re not alone,” she said. “Not anymore.”

You hesitated. Then slid your hand into hers.

Her fingers closed around yours. She was warm, steady, grounding. She always had been. And that’s when it felt real. Like maybe you could actually begin again.

But this time not alone.

This was... something. Let me know what you think of this fic, it's a lot heavier then I usually write but I quite liked doing it.

You always knew Denji loved too hard.

Not in the romantic sense. It was the way he latched onto scraps of kindness like a starving mutt, the way his face lit up if you offered him food, or let him crash on your couch after a mission. 

He had a hunger that went beyond his stomach, a gnawing emptiness you couldn’t fill no matter how many late-night conversations or cheap dinners you offered him.

But tonight, you realized that hunger could turn on you.

…

The Devil had been grotesque, a stitched-together thing of wires and eyes. It had slaughtered two rookie Hunters before you and Denji cornered it in a rain-slick alley. 

You’d done your duty, but it was Denji who ultimately tore it apart, chainsaws screaming, blood splattering the brick walls until the whole street looked painted in red.

When it was over, he didn’t turn his saws off right away. He stood there panting, drenched head to toe, eyes glowing with adrenaline. Then he looked at you, and smiled.

“See that?” he shouted over the rain. “That was all for you.”

You stiffened. The way he said it, as if the now slaughtered Devil had been nothing but a bouquet he’d plucked for your amusement, made your stomach knot. The gratuity of it all was something you were never able to fully stomach.

“Denji…” You tried to keep your voice even. “We should report in.”

But his smile faltered, twisting into something jagged. The saws retracted with a shuddering screech, leaving wet chains dripping from his arms.

He stalked toward you suddenly, steps splashing in bloody puddles. You backed up instinctively, hands raised.

“Don’t,” he said, voice low now. “Don’t say it like that. Like I was just…working.”

You frowned. “What are you talking about—?”

The chain shot out before you could finish, wrapping around your wrist with a sharp, wet clatter. You yelped, stumbling as it yanked you forward into his chest.

His eyes were wild. “You don’t get it, do you? I ain’t fighting for them. I ain’t fighting for money, or food, or none of that crap. I’m fighting because you’re here.” His grip trembled, desperate. “And if you leave…”

You tried to pull free, but the chain dug deeper, biting your skin. He winced as if it hurt him too, but didn’t loosen it. Even as it punctured your skin and drew fresh blood, he didn’t let you go.

“…If you leave,” he whispered, “I got nothing.”

You stared at him, rain running down both your faces. He looked half-insane. Bloody, trembling, eyes rimmed red, but behind all that was something worse. Sincerity.

“Denji, you don’t mean that—”

“I do!” His voice cracked. “You’re all I got. You…you’re better than any dream I ever had. You look at me like I ain’t garbage. Like I ain’t just some dog waiting for scraps. If you go…” His breathing hitched. “I’ll die. I swear I’ll die.”

You froze. He wasn’t bluffing. He believed it.

He leaned his forehead against yours, chains rattling as he drew you tighter. His smile was trembling, pitiful. “So I can’t let you go. Okay? Just stay. Stay with me, and I’ll make it worth it. I’ll kill a thousand Devils, I’ll rip the world apart if I gotta. Just don’t leave.”

The bag of flesh in the alley twitched, the Devil’s dying nerves spasming, and Denji turned on it with a snarl so feral you barely recognized him. The saws roared out again, tearing the thing into pulp long past the point of death. 

He didn’t stop until nothing was left but steaming chunks sliding into the gutter. When he turned back to you, his chest heaving, the chains tightened like a leash between you.

You could see the toll in his shaking limbs, the glassy edge in his eyes. He was terrified. Not of any Devil he had to face, but of you, slipping from his grasp.

“Please,” he murmured, voice raw. “Don’t make me be alone again.”

You thought of Pochita. Of how Denji had given up everything once already just to keep a piece of love alive inside him. And you realized with horror that he wasn’t bluffing when he said he’d die without you. He’d make it true.

The chains slackened just slightly, enough for him to brush his hand against your cheek. He smiled softly this time, trembling, almost human.

“See? Fits perfect,” he whispered. “Like you were made to stay right here. With me.”

And standing in the ruin of the alley, bound by blood and rain and steel, you understood the truth:

This wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a joke.

This was Denji’s love. Messy. Bloody. Unbreakable.