#shua

Those bright brown eyes glimmer in the light outside, morphing into a lighter shade of brown in the sun. Puffy clouds litter the bright blue sky as they travel with the soft breeze that dances across your skin. A blanket is spread out underneath you, adorned with an open wicker basket. An assortment of finger foods and light snacks litter the space between you and him, your plates half empty—a quiver of arrows and a bow rest across a corner of the blanket. Champagne flutes stand in the middle of the spread, and a half-empty bottle peaks from the top of the basket. 

You lean back, propping yourself up on your hands, eyes closed, with your face to the sky. You smile, soaking in the warmth that the sun beams onto the two of you. It’s calm and peaceful. A moment of pure serenity and bliss amongst a life full of hustle and grind. These are your favorite moments. Joshua always plans the perfect dates for the two of you. Every one always feels like slipping into a small piece of time that he carves specifically for you. Nothing else matters when you're away together. 

The plates rattle, causing you to peek open one eye. Squinting in the sunlight, you watch Joshua reach across the blanket to grab your plate and glass and stack the dirty dishes together. You sit back upright, opening your eyes and quietly begin to help gather the remnants of your quaint picnic. The silence is comfortable as it usually is with the two of you. Sometimes just being in someone's presence is enough; you don't need words. 

With the two of you working together, your picnic is quickly picked up and repacked, with only the Champagne glasses and bottle left out. You lift your hands above your head and stretch softly before lying on the empty blanket, not ready to return to reality yet. You reach a hand towards him, then open and close it repeatedly—grabby hands. The “come here and lie with me” hands. Joshua laughs, almost giggles, with a smile so bright it's more blinding than the sun as he comes to lie beside you. You are supposed to let him show you what he has learned in archery classes after eating, but the champagne dancing in your bloodstream, paired with the sun's warmth, has you feeling light. You only want to lie here and soak up the peace instead. 

You shift to rest your head on his chest when he lies down on his back, hands behind his head. You rest a hand on his jacket-covered abdomen and instinctively begin to caress the area with your thumb. And you lie there for what simultaneously feels like forever, but not long enough when he brings an arm around you and squeezes softly. His fingers trail in a short path up and down your side. It tickles and also feels good. Your skin begins to prickle under his touch. He is always so gentle with you, from how he caresses your skin to how he cares for you. He never raises his voice when you argue. Even when angry, his anger never bleeds into his words and therefore never bleeds into you. He learned your likes and dislikes and never failed to surprise you. Acts of service, gifts, and quality time together. He’s a rock, and his calm and soft demeanor makes him so strong. 

You hum softly as he continues to trail fingertips up and down your side, eventually slipping his fingers under your top to touch your bare skin. You love how his skin feels against yours. It’s intimate, euphoric, and grounding. But today, with a clear head and some champagne, it’s igniting. The delicate way he grazes his fingertips up and then back down your side, over and over, is delicious. It starts small. The desire for his hands to move lower or higher. Then it gets bigger. Touch me softly here. Touch me softly there. Now his hands trail every part of your body they can as his lips dance across yours. It’s all so sickly sweet, which only fuels the desire building. Your hands trace and tease as well, down his chest to the top of his pants before slowly coming up again. Each downward trail you make, you get closer to the crotch of his pants. You can feel him shiver softly, feel the goosebumps when you finally sweep fingertips over the hardening bulge there. 

He shifts, angling himself towards you while he wraps his other hand around you. He squeezes you again, pulling you closer. Your fingers dance across his pants in a tease. His lips begin to crash against yours, tongue sneaking between them to explore your mouth. His fingers dig into your skin, but sit softly, even when you switch to palming him instead. You feel him sigh against you before he rolls to lie on his back, pulling you on top of him. Your stomach flutters as you settle with your legs on each side of him. Your mouths never separate, each pass of lips and tongue more needy than the last. The delicateness is wearing into a sloppy desire. His fingers toy with the edge of your top, and he lets out an inaudible moan when you roll your hips against him. You feel his body sag beneath you, and you smirk against his lips before he pulls away. You let out a soft whine in protest. 

You hover over his face as he leans up to press his lips against yours once again before he moves to kiss the corner of your mouth. You move closer, letting his lips reach your cheek as he kisses your neck. You nuzzle the crook of his neck as he places tender pecks into yours. Your body buzzes, almost vibrating on top of him at his touch. It was angelic, nearly torturous. His plush, pillowy lips danced around the area, and you hum softly. It's ecstasy. It leaves you feeling touchy, playful, and needy. He nips your earlobe again, a little less softly than the first time, sending another shiver through your body before he nips the crook of your neck. You moan quietly and lean into the touch. You waited for more, but all that came was another flutter of kisses. You rock against him a little, hoping to provoke him, but almost sigh in disappointment when it's only met with a tugging on your clothes and a hum. 

You begin your own assault on his neck. You kiss a little less gently up his neck to the corner of his mouth and back again. You stop to nip his earlobe and tug it lightly before letting it go. You give the sensitive skin right underneath it an open-mouth kiss. You flick your tongue against it quickly, feeling muscles tense under you. And then, you graze your teeth down to the crook of his neck, where you bite. Not gently like the fluttering touches that usually passed between you, but a little harder. With purpose. With intent. He inhales sharply and lets out a groan inside the exhale.

“Always so soft. Always so gentle. What if I'm tired of being the gentleman everyone expects me to be? What if I want to shed my mask and show you who I am underneath?” 

His voice billows across your ear as he whispers so faintly you almost don't hear him. His words shimmy, almost as if they fight to hold on to the gentleness they’re delivered in. You sit up, hands resting on his chest as you look at him.

“Then stop. Show me the wolf under the clothing.” You say under your breath, almost unsure if he was even speaking to you or just speaking his thoughts out loud. 

Joshua's eyes lock on yours, fingers playing absentmindedly with your clothes. His eyes begin to sparkle, mischievous just like the smile that's creeping across his face. You bite your bottom lip as you watch him, wondering what's happening in his head. He doesn't make you wait long to find out. 

“Let’s play a game.” He says as that honey-coated voice of his comes out coated in something thicker than usual. With a slight tilt of your head, you continue to look at him questioningly. His fingers slip to your hips, where he digs them into your skin firmly, holding you down before he pushes his hips up into you. He hums. You shiver, not just at the action but at him in general. Your soft, sweet cinnamon roll didn't look like himself in that moment. His eyes are dark, clouded with something you don't recognize. His hands are rough. His touch is slipping into something possessive, almost animalistic. The smile on his face isn't warm; instead, it makes your body shiver. Your stomach jumps. A tingle shoots down your body. Your usually soft, doe-eyed, baby face boyfriend suddenly seems almost unrecognizable. His jaw looks sharper. His gaze is damning, eyes clouded with something you have never seen in him before. Even his hands feel polished in the way they moved. Calculated.

Watching him is confusing because the darkness bleeding on his usual sunny disposition is attractive, but the near maniacal way it’s painted across his face and into his actions sets off the most miniature bells in your subconscious. He scoffs, his eyes watching you like a hawk. He misses nothing, almost like he could read your thoughts because he has always been in tune with your wants and needs. He brings his bottom lip into his mouth with his teeth and holds it there, his eyes flickering with something that felt dangerous. You watch as they flutter over you. Fingertips dig into your hips almost painfully before they release, and he drops them completely. 

“You should run,” he says. His voice is low, dripping with something almost heavy and husky. His fingers begin to dig almost painfully into your skin now as he drags them down your hips towards the top of your thighs. Your body shudders, and your stomach jumps and rolls. Your heart begins to beat faster, panic spreading like wildfire through your veins. Eyes wide, you sit still like you were frozen, and he lets out another chuckle. This time, it hits your ears like a siren's song. 

“I said, run,” he all but growls, the sound low and rumbling as it rolls from his lips to your ears, where it crashes into you like a wrecking ball. 

You scramble. You don't know why. Something about how Joshua’s words are laced with everything opposite of his usual demeanor has you moving. You push onto your knees and stand, walking backwards with his body between your feet. You don't take your eyes off him until he's no longer under you. With eyes glued to his now devilish face, you trip and stumble over the picnic basket and glasses. The champagne bottle makes a dull thud as the neck hits the grass on the edge of the blanket. The plates inside clash against each other, and one flute crunches as it cracks under your shoe. You turn around and begin to run, the tip of your shoe colliding with the quiver of arrows. 

He lifts onto his elbows and laughs, the sound echoing over the rattling of the arrows. Your brain and your body are on two different pages. Your instincts have your feet flying over the grass, heading into the wooded area ahead. Your body is on fire. To your surprise, heat radiates between your legs. It almost aches. Somehow, simultaneously turned on and terrified at the same time. Your brain is trying to process everything while instinctively seeking somewhere to hide. But hide from what? You don't have time to think about an answer because you hear him in the distance.

“Ready or not, here I come.” The words dance like a melody to a song only he knows, and they die as quickly as they’re spoken. And then there's silence. Your body jumps again, a thrill surges through you that you don't expect at all. You keep running until the woods finally greet you. You barrel into them as fast as you can. It's quiet. Too quiet. But you also can't hear much aside from the sound of your heart as it drums in your ears, paired with the vegetation as you pass by it. It feels like you have been running for eons when it has only been minutes. 

You slow down just enough to let air into your lungs and to let the pounding in your ears calm. You don't stop; your body immediately goes off at the mere thought of standing still. You listen again, as best you can, to see if you can hear anything. The breeze around you works in your favor but also against you. While it feels good against your heated skin at your slowed pace, you know it carries any sound everywhere, including any noise you make. 

Almost immediately, a whistle carries on the wind in the distance. The sound makes your insides shudder. It’s close, closer than you anticipated. Your legs already burn from exertion, and your lungs ache from the amount of oxygen they're using. Your heart pounds maniacally against your ribs like a wild animal trapped in a cage, determined to escape. You weren't a runner, but the adrenaline that burned in every cell of your body won't allow you to slow down. Not yet. 

The trees are thin here, barely wide enough to hide behind. There are too many open spaces between each one. The bushes are thin, sickly looking as they sway in the breeze. Leaves and twigs snap under the soles of your sneakers as your feet pound against the grass, and if you had the breath, you'd curse them for it. The only grace you have been given besides the clutter of grey clouds blocking the sweltering summer sun is the head start. You try your hardest to breathe through your nose and run blindly in a straight line, eyes skimming for a place to hide, just for a second to catch your breath. Another whistle echoes off the trees—a chuckle, sickening sweet. And then words follow,  softly sung from a voice almost angelic in form. 

“Baby, you need to get away from me….

….I'm poison…

I know I can't take it no more…”

Your entire body leaps as if trying to escape itself. The sound is much closer. He is so fast, and yet his voice is steady. There is no hint of exhaustion in it.  You push yourself to move faster. Your sides begin to burn as well. At some point, tears start to pool at your waterline. Through clouded vision, you scan the blurring vegetation around you. Everything looks the same, and you’re about to give in to the feeling of defeat when you see it. The trees begin thickening off to the right, not too far away. They are big enough to sit behind, and a diversion from the path you have been running. 

You don't look back when another chuckle floats across your ears, but instead begin to run to your right. This one sounds further behind you, like Joshua has stopped and is changing directions. You bolt as fast as possible towards the trees, not stopping until your back is flat against the second or third one you passed. You rest your head against the rough bark and close your eyes briefly before carefully leaning to check around the trunk. You scan your right before leaning around to your left. The leaves on the trees swayed; the sound would have been calming, but now it feels ominous, almost as if they’re telling him where you are. Seeing nothing, you turn to face forward and begin to plot your next move. Which way do you run next? Do the trees get thicker from here? Are they climbable? Where can you hide? 

Your stomach flips as you try to think. Your breathing is still coming in small, rapid pants, and you take a deep breath in and then exhale through your nose. Once you have emptied your lungs, you inhale and repeat this. On your third inhale, you heard him again. So close. Too close. 

“Princess,...where are you?” He says in a singsong voice. 

“I can hear you breathing, baby.” Another soft chuckle, the kind that usually makes you melt inside.  

“You forget that I know you, that we're connected. In sync. A duo. But, if you want to hide, that's okay,"  he muses.

You clap a hand over your mouth in hopes of quieting your breathing. You can feel your heart rate picking back up again, fear dancing across your nerves as you listen, noting the emphasis on the word “okay”. You roll it around your brain in the sudden silence. It almost sounds out of place coming from his mouth, like a taunt. It’s a normal thing to say, but nothing about Joshua is normal. And that's when it hits you. 

Oh-kay. 

Oak-ay. 

Oak

Somehow,... some-fucking-how he knew that you’re here behind this oak tree. You didn’t choose the first tree you saw, but one after. The second one, if declaring you two a pair, is another hint of knowledge he was dangling in your face. Your eyes widen to the size of saucers, and as if on cue, he chuckles. Like he knows exactly how long it will take for you to figure it out. You stare out into the forest before you, ears straining to hear his every move. With each step he takes, a crunch echoes, and that’s when you shift slowly to your feet, then fully upright, back against the tree trunk. And with the next footfall, you run again. 

You don’t know where you’re going. You only know the trees in this area are thicker and closer together—more coverage. Your body buzzes as you push forward, turning your head just enough to get a glimpse behind you. When you see nothing, you sigh. But then a noise passes your ears, almost like a buzz—a woosh. Then a solid thud draws your head to where it came from. You see it just ahead. An arrow. A fucking arrow. You obviously aren’t very good at staying hidden, but it didn’t matter. He’ll find you eventually, and the thought gives you a rush. You push your legs to carry you faster, your body on such high alert that if he were to nick you with an arrow, you’ll bleed adrenaline instead of blood. 

You can feel the exhaustion threatening to settle into your bones, but your mind and the occasional woosh of an arrow keep you going. You weave through the thick tree trunks, foliage brushing your legs as you dash like a madman. Occasional sticks and twigs catch your skin, only grazing enough to leave red welts in their wake. You can feel yourself slowing down, and your speed is not as high as it was initially. You need to sit or even stand still for just a bit. Just enough to catch your breath. Maybe stretch your legs. Something. There haven’t been any more arrows in a few minutes, and surely that means he isn’t close, right? You aren’t daft enough to believe he’s lost you, but hopeful that maybe you got far enough ahead to breathe for a second. So you dip behind the next big oak tree and press your body against the trunk. Your hands shake against it, the exertion mingling with the rush in your veins. 

You lean your head back against the bark, eyes closed, and take a deep inhale and focus to control the exhale, hoping to calm your system before you combust from adrenaline. You take another inhale, holding it for a small count this time, and then slowly exhale again. You already feel your heart rate lowering, but you also feel the effects of running. That exhaustion that was settling? It’s getting heavy. The ache in your legs burns less, but your legs are starting to feel like lead. Being still allows your body to feel the effects, and you are starting to get hot. Your skin starts to feel almost sticky for a few moments as it tries to adjust before your body begins to sweat. You sink slowly down the tree trunk until you sit against it. Your legs thank you immediately for the break from being used. You sit there with your eyes closed, listening, always listening. Birds chirp, rustling the branches above you as they land and take off. The wind brushes against the leaves, causing the tops to sway. Occasionally, the light will brighten the darkness behind your eyelids from the shifting branches overhead. Everything else is silent. No footsteps. No arrows. No taunting. 

You sit for too long, obviously having dozed off for just a few seconds, because the loud snap of a twig sends your eyes flying open and your heart into your throat. You pry yourself back up, your back pressed firmly against the tree, and, with eyes wide, listen again. You hear nothing. Your mind immediately begins to panic, and you fight against it. You’ll just run again, but opposite to where you heard the snap. If only you could remember where it came from. All you can think about is how close it is. Deciding not to give it too much more thought, you get ready to make a break for it when you hear it. That whooshing of an arrow and then a thud. A deafening thud and a tug at your shirt. And then a chuckle. That beautiful cocktail of excitement and fear buzzes through you at the sound, and you step forward to run again, only to feel pressure around your waist. That’s when you look down and notice the arrow pinning your shirt to the tree. 

You stare at it momentarily, a hundred thoughts tumbling in your brain. Your eyes are wide as you gawk at it piercing the fabric just inches from your side. In your fucking side. All the ways this could have gone wrong fight to win the forefront of your mind, because how long has Joshua been taking these lessons? You hear a scoff and look up, taking a minute to find him. You watch him like a deer in headlights. You want to rage about how fucking dangerous what he did was, but your body is short-circuiting at the fact that he’s caught you. Panic floods every molecule in you as he steps closer. You tug against the arrow, but are so tired you don’t have enough strength to rip the fabric. You haven't figured out why you want to run like you’re in danger because it was Joshua, but your mind keeps telling you to run, go, escape. It feels like it takes him ages to reach you, with everything moving in slow motion, when realistically, it takes mere seconds. He chuckles as he watches you tug at your shirt and the arrow, which was surprisingly hard to get out of the thick bark. The sound was low and husky, sending electric jolts through you. He places a hand on the tree next to your head, causing you to shrink.. 

“Look at you, princess, just a wee lamb caught in the wolf’s claws. Watching you squirm…” he sucks in a deep breath, leaning in closely. “I can’t wait to show you everything I have imagined doing to you.” 

His teeth graze your earlobe, and your body reacts two different ways at once. Heat pools between your thighs, a reaction you have yet to try to understand, not that you have had time. Your body also freezes, tensing in preparation to fight or flee. You grip the tree trunk, feeling your nails bend as they run across the rough bark. You jerk involuntarily, and you don't know which side of you causes it. 

“Mmm, look at you, baby.” A hand runs down your chest, trailing to your stomach before sliding around to come down your side and rest on your hip. 

“Seeing you like this,...” he draws in a breath before pressing himself against your body. You can feel the hardness of him pressing against your stomach. You squeeze your thighs subconsciously, your body craving more of what that bulge promises, but your brain keeps you on your toes. You know he notices all of it. He never misses a thing with you, so you aren't surprised when he chuckles in your ear. 

“The chase got to you that much? Your heart is still pounding. I can feel you trembling….trembling for me.” He teases, an underlying strain in his voice. 

“My pretty, perfect princess.” His eyes graze your body, gaze lingering on your lips for a moment too long before his eyes finally snap away. 

“You look so good, sullied like this. I can't wait to fucking devour you.” He rasps as he leans in and presses his lips against yours. It isn't soft like usual. It’s rough. Claiming. All tongue and teeth, despite your non-participation, as you stand frozen. He rolls his hips against you, pressing against you again, and you stutter, a moan fighting its way up your throat. You begin to return his kiss, nipping at his lips before sucking the bottom one into your mouth and biting hard.

He winces as he pulls away abruptly, his fingers running across the mark you left. It's cracked slightly, and he hisses at the pain, scowling when his finger returns with a red dot on it. His eyes flick to yours, and you shudder at the darkness behind them. He scoffs, wiping his hand on his pants. 

“Are you playing with me, princess? Don’t fan the flames if you can’t handle the wildfire that will follow.” His voice rumbles like thunder across the space between you, knocking the air out of your lungs. You know you would do it again because your brain is in flight mode despite your body begging for whatever storm he’s brewing. So when he kisses you again, you bite the same spot. You can taste the tinge of iron as the blood that dribbles from it drifts to your tongue. Instead of hissing, he growls and brings a hand to your throat. You can’t tell if he’s genuinely angry because the aggression oozing from him blends either way. 

“You want to play it that way?” he asks, words sharpening as he continues. “Fine.”

He squeezes your neck, just enough to cut the amount of oxygen you can breathe in slightly. Enough to make your already panicked body panic more. 

“And if I just left you here battered and bruised after I had my way with you, hmm? This reminds me of something…” he pauses for a second, another taunt no doubt. 

“What if,...I just left you pinned to this tree. How long do you think it would be before someone accidentally ran across you and freed you?” he gives another cheeky, low chuckle, his tone switching to something more emotionless. His taunting rises. “Unlucky for you, there are no wells around here. Maybe if I pull this arrow from the bark, a priestess will appear and cast a spell to give me more control?”  

Joshua doesn't move back, his lips still hovering at your ear as he yanks the arrow from the tree trunk in one swift motion. He twirls it between his fingers like a pen, then slaps it against your calf. 

“Sit boy,” he whispers with a scoff before pulling back enough to look at you. He fakes a pout, his bottom lip jutting out. 

“Aww, it didn't work…..” He taps the arrow tip against his pursed lips as if in deep thought.

“Hmmm… maybe it's because you're missing the necklace. I left my pearls at home, though. A shame.” 

He takes the tip of the arrow and runs it from the outside of your thigh slowly to your chest, where he lets it sit over your heart. Your eyes widen, lightheaded from the decrease in oxygen. You try to keep your breathing even so as not to hyperventilate, but the arrowhead presses against your skin enough to bite, and everything in your system erupts. You don’t remember thinking about moving, but you do. Your motions are limited, and you lift your foot and bring it down on his as hard as possible with the strength you can muster. It isn’t enough to injure him but enough to make him drop the arrow and move back enough to bend over to reach for his foot. A small window that you don’t waste. As soon as the arrow drops from his hand and the other leaves your throat, you bolt. You know he let you get away. There’s no way he wouldn’t have grabbed your arm as you passed. You don’t think about it, not caring about the logistics. You’re slower now. Your body is heavy and tired from all the adrenaline, and you hear him behind you as he growls out towards your running figure. 

“You’re going to regret that, baby.” 

You have no idea where you are or where you’re going anymore. You just run in another straight path through the trees before remembering that straight means Joshua can see you. You shift and change directions. It’s useless because you can hear rustling behind you, the kind that makes your stomach jump like you're fucking giddy. It gives you a slight boost, and you pick up speed slightly. The trees clear ahead, and you burst through their edge, finding a shallow stream. You run through it, water spraying around you as you hastily reach the bank a few feet away. The water is cool on your ankles, a slight relief against the heat of your skin. You don’t hear him come barreling behind you. And you don’t notice him as he dives at your waist, arms wrapping around you as you both fall. It takes your brain a moment to register what's happening when you connect with the ground. Your body makes a thud as it lands on the slick bank. You try to move, only to realize there's a body on top of you- that Joshua is on top of you after fucking tackling you from behind. You wiggle and writhe in attempts to get out from under him.  His breathing is heavy, and you can hear the anger in each ragged pant. He turns you flat on your back, coming quickly to straddle you. Using his thighs to pin your hands to your side, he settles on top of you. You try to fight even though you know it's a losing battle, and he smirks at your attempts.

His hand moves to his back pocket and returns with a knife. A well-crafted, wooden-handle hunting knife that glistens in the sunlight. Your eyes widen at the sight of it, the curve of the blade and handle fashioned to gut game. You know it’s sharp. You want to fight to get free, but the sight of the blade causes you to go still. He brings it to your body, pressing the tip softly into your skin right over your heart. He begins to drag it under your chin, using it to tip your chin up and head back, exposing your neck. You shudder involuntarily as he brings the blade to your throat, pressing just enough to make it bite. You can feel it bob when you swallow hard. He chuckles again. 

“Gotcha again, princess. We're about to have so much fun.” His eyes light up as they stare down at you, and something akin to fear and excitement passes in an electrical-like current from your head to your toes.

Before you can think, the knife moves in a blur. You wait to feel the burning, the pain, the warmth of blood, but nothing comes. Instead, he sits with another grin, blade pursed between his fingers as he slowly drags the handle down your body. Over your chest, between your breasts, down your stomach. Then he stops just under your navel. He trails his opposite hand down your hips, fingertips teasing the bottom of your skirt before he uses both hands to bunch it up around your waist. The cool air hits the inferno between your legs, and you gasp slightly. He brings the knife in view again, flipping it quickly, and slides it under the side of your light blue lace panties. The metal is cool but harsh against your skin as he swipes up, slicing through the fabric before doing the same to the opposite side. 

He tugs at the now-shredded pair of panties, pulling them from your body and setting them to the side. His hands dance across your bare skin, fingers dipping gracefully between your folds. He scoffs when greeted with a pool of slick, wet arousal. His fingers continue to slip up and down, coating them thoroughly as he teases you. 

“You're so wet,” he hums, bringing a finger to your clit. “Wetter than you usually get. Do you like this, princess?” He begins to make slow, soft circles as he speaks. 

“Do you like being hunted like prey? Do you like it when your little lamb turns out to be a wolf?” He grins, the hand still holding the knife skillfully flipping the blade between his fingers. He drags the handle down your folds and then back up. Using his other hand, he spreads you apart and presses the handle against your clit. He makes circles again, using more pressure. You try to clench your legs together as your hips lift instinctively, reaching for more of the friction. He doesn't give it to you for long. Instead, he slides the handle down slowly, letting it gather all the wetness on its way down before slipping it right into you. 

You gasp at the intrusion. The shape and girth aren't equivalent to anything you usually have between your legs. Joshua doesn’t give you time to adjust before he pulls it out and then pushes it back in. Once more. Twice more. He sits on his heels, leaning back to watch the handle slide in and out of you. His eyes fixate as he pulls it out once more before ramming it back in. You let out a soft cry, but it does nothing to stop him. Instead, he picks up the pace and finds a rhythm. It's not tender like you are used to, but so aggressive that it borders on violent. He tilts the handle upward as he thrusts, searching for that sweet spot. His free fingers brush over your clit before they begin to roll and pinch it. 

The sensations are overwhelming. It almost hurts, but that small pain bleeds into pleasure as he continues. Pressure has started to build somewhere between the roll of his fingers or maybe a thrust of his hand. Rapidly. Your hands ball into fists, nails scraping along the wet ground, dirt caking underneath them. 

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he praises you as he continues to push and pull the handle in and out of you. You whimper through a clenched jaw, brain swimming as you roll your hips into his hands. He leans forward, bringing his lips to your stomach, pressing them against the fabric of your shirt softly. Your body shudders at the kiss, a contrast to the way he's fucking you with a handle. He places another on and then another, making a small trail to your breasts where he stops with his lips right underneath one of them. The tension coiling inside you begins to snap, little by little, with every kiss. 

He knows your body, so he knows the signs, and when he feels you shake softly, the way your thighs clench a little, how frequent your whimpers and soft moans are becoming, he begins to work your clit faster. He starts by drawing soft circles before pressing firmer, circling faster. He syncs his fingers to the thrusts of the knife. You buck your hips against his hand almost wildly, running after the release you're barrelling towards. 

“That’s it, princess. Chase it. You're almost there,” he coaxes, his honey voice dripping with lust. 

And that's when it snaps. His soft voice, so husky, floods your senses and every cell in your body. You clench around the handle, back arching as much as it can while being pinned underneath him. You moan loudly, fingers digging deeper into the dirt. He keeps his rhythm, trying to draw out the pleasure, eyes heavy with hunger as he watches you come undone underneath him. 

“So fucking pretty when you fall apart for me,” he practically growls as you feel the last lingering bits of your orgasm fading. His hands stop, and he removes the knife handle slowly. He begins to knead your thighs softly, knife in one hand, before bringing the tip of the blade to the inside of one. He grazes it up and down slowly, sending chills up your spine. Your skin prickles with each pass of it, and the smile on his face widens with every new wave of them that appears. 

“You like that?” he asks, and you nod. You did like that. The chase, being pinned, being threatened, and even the sting of the blade against your skin. He grins before adding pressure to the knife, pulling it down your skin. It burns, but it also feels so, so good, and you let out a soft groan. 

“Use your words, princess. I asked if you liked that?” He cocks an eyebrow as he glares down at you. You take in a shaking breath before you let out even shakier words. 

“...y-yes.” 

“Yes, what?” His voice is firm and demanding, something you've never heard from him before, and it activates every cell in your body. That familiar ache begins again in between your legs, and you fight not to squeeze them together, especially with the knife blade dragging down the inside of them. 

“I like it. All of it. Being chased, being helpless, the way you fucked me with the knife, the way it feels when you do that…” you trail off, words tumbling around and around in your brain. He lets out a laugh, small and smoky. The sound of it makes you gasp. 

“Such foul things coming from such a pretty mouth…” His knifeless hand kneads your thigh roughly, and you gasp. 

“Should make it filthier,” he muses. He begins to shift, keeping your arms between his legs. In the process of it all, the tip of the knife he has pressed into your skin slips just enough to cut when he drags it forward to sit down next to your side. You feel the warmth and the burn, but think nothing about it as you watch him come to rest close to your mouth. His knees cage your head, arms movable behind his thighs. His zipper slides down over the hardness in his pants smoothly and quickly. He reaches in to free himself, and, with one hand wrapped around him and the other bracing himself against the ground above you, he begins to rub the tip over your lips softly. 

You know what he wants, and your mouth opens before your brain can consider protesting. He taps himself against your tongue, the contact making a wet smack with each repetition. It was filthy, especially for him, and it fans the flames rising in you. You don't waste any time. The second he leans forward, sliding the tip inside your warm, wet mouth, your lips close around it and begin to suck teasingly. Your tongue flicks over the tip before swirling around it. If he weren't riding your face, you would have pulled his tip out against the suction before diving back onto it. But instead, given your position, you tilt your head back as far as possible to try to let him fall from your lips. He catches you before you can finish doing just that, and he leans down even further, his upper body moving closer to your forehead. He pushes back into your mouth, slipping further into the warm, wet space with a slight groan. 

“You have an apology to make,” he says as he pulls back, bringing the tip to the edge of your lips. 

“You bruised my lip and now I plan on bruising yours,” he mutters with a cheeky smirk before slipping himself back into your mouth, pushing himself as far in as he can. You feel the head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and you work to not gag around the intrusion. He holds himself there, a long, drawn-out moan floats from his closed mouth like a hum. He places his other hand parallel to the one already above your head, his chest resting on your forehead. Your body shivers softly as he begins to roll his hips. He starts gently at first, that small glimpse of your sweet little gentleman making itself present before he picks up speed and strength. He begins to thrust fast, then harder, fucking your mouth like he was rabid. 

You work to hollow your cheeks and try to swallow around him when he holds himself deep in your throat, but you gag more often than not. He doesn’t give you the room to move off his cock when you gag, only giving you temporary relief and a few seconds to collect yourself before he’s ramming into the back of your mouth again. Tears pool and then ultimately fall from your eyes with every gag, each one more violent than the last. He begins to rut against your face when he’s holding himself in your throat. Oxygen is cut as he does, unable to catch a breath around him. Your hands instinctively come up to his thighs, grabbing the back of them. You dig your fingers into the skin, and he shifts back, removing himself from your mouth. You gasp and cough at the sudden flood of air, more tears falling down your face. 

He groans at the sight of you, a hand guiding himself back into your mouth to ram into the back of your throat and hold again. You grasp his thighs tightly to anchor yourself as he pulls back again. This time, a small sob escapes, and you see him shudder before he dives into your mouth again. His hands cradle your face as he fucks your mouth more. His fingers are rough, holding you almost possessively, but a hand caresses your hair even though he keeps plunging as far as he can go and holding himself against you until you feel like you might suffocate. You gag again around him, this time so hard it hurts, and he pulls back with a low groan. You cry softly as you suck in air. You know you’re a mess. Your eyes are undoubtedly red from crying, cheeks stained with the ghost of tears from before that the fresh ones follow. Spit has pooled in the corner of your mouth and slipped from the corners. And when he looks at you, he lets out a moan. Something that feels barely contained. His chest rises and falls rapidly. His pupils are blown, eyes clouded with lust. He looks one second away from coming undone. 

“Fuck,” he groans softly, “You look so fucking pretty when you cry.” 

And then he’s thrusting back into your mouth roughly. You try to suck as much as you can, to keep up with the rhythm, but it’s too much. His strokes are sloppier, less controlled, and the restraint he was holding snaps. He bucks at your mouth almost wildly, soft moans spilling from his lips and onto you like wine. Sweet and intoxicating. You can hear the quiver in his breathing, feel the slip in his grip, and see the way he twitches in your mouth. 

“Mm, baby, gonna fill this dirty little mouth up and you’re going to swallow all of it like you’ve been dying to have a drink of me.” 

With the next few rocks of his hips, he does just that. He thrusts into the back of your mouth, holding himself there, rutting softly against your lips as he cums. The warm, sticky ropes sting your raw throat as you gulp every drop he gives down obediently. Once the last waves reside, he pulls back and pulls out, a hand coming to pat your cheek roughly. 

“Good girl,” he says slyly, shifting back down your body to straddle you once again. “You’re doing so well..” 

His eyes still gleam with something mischievous, and you know he’s not through with you just yet. You watch as he reaches over and grabs the hunting knife again before slipping the blade under the edge of your shirt and pressing upward, then forward towards your face. The fabric makes a smooth ripping sound as it cuts in half, exposing your bare stomach and lacey light blue bra. He hums at the sight of it. 

“You know this is my favorite color on you,” he says with an igniting hunger. “Did you already plan for something today, baby? Did you match just for me?” he groans as he slips the knife under the middle of the bra. You open your mouth to protest, but he cuts you off. 

“I’ll buy you another one,” he whispers, voice low as he watches the knife cut through the fabric of the bra with ease. He pushes it aside to expose your breasts before roughly pulling it from your body. You watch as he tosses it and hear the thick, wet thud when it hits the water in the stream. Your nipples harden at the cool air that hits them suddenly, and he runs the tip of the knife gently down one. You shiver, hips moving up towards him ever so slightly, and he smirks before doing the same thing to the other one. You let out a small gasp when his fingers clamp around your nipple. He squeezes one, tugging it before rolling it between his thumb and finger. He leans down and takes the other into his mouth, he suckles softly, flicking his tongue up and down over it teasingly. He sucks it again, bringing it between his mouth before he pulls back, tugging it with him, then diving back on it. He repeats the sequence a few more times: sucks, flick, suck, tug. The last tug on your nipple, he lets it pop from his mouth before switching sides to give the other one the same treatment. You moan softly, back arching softly to push your breast into his mouth. Your hands ache from being pinned to your side with his legs. You want to touch him and tease him, but he doesn’t move to free them. Instead, he continues to tease your chest repeatedly to the point you want to explode. Your pussy aches with need. You want him inside you so bad it hurts, and tears are beginning to form at your waterline. He was teasing and teasing and teasing, and it’s too much. You squeeze your legs together and arch into his mouth again with a whimper. You feel him smile against your chest. 

“So pretty when you whine too,” he murmurs against your breast, tongue still flicking and swirling around your sensitive nipple. He grazes his teeth against it, and you let out a gasp that morphs into another whimper. He hums in satisfaction before giving your breast one last peck. His mouth comes to yours in another rough kiss. He nips and tugs your already swollen lips, and you moan into his mouth. He pulls away and begins kissing a trail down. Your chin, under your neck, your chest, your stomach. He stops right below your navel, leaving a lingering kiss. Your stomach rolls as do your hips, but his lips stop there. He sits up, much to your disappointment, and you watch as he unbuttons and then unzips his pants and pulls them down just enough. He wedges a knee between your thighs, pushing it out before doing the same with the other to settle between them. His hands grasp the underside of your thigh, right at the back of your knee, before he pulls you closer, placing your legs on his shoulders. Then he dives in. He bottoms out in one swift, hard thrust and a hiss. You cry out, your now freed hands coming to grasp his forearms. He pulls back and slams into you again, setting an almost punishing pace. His hands come to sink roughly into the tops of your thighs, using them as leverage to pull you towards him with every upward thrust he makes. 

Your nails dig into the skin of his arm as your eyes roll closed. Sex with Joshua had never been anything but pleasurable, but this side of him was different. All the feelings and thoughts running through your head and body are overwhelming. The ground is gritty under your back, his hands hold you tighter than he dared to touch you before, the adrenaline,.. It all mixes in a cocktail of sensations you have never tasted before. Moans flow from your mouth freely, much like the water babbling in the stream near you, and you make no effort to contain them. The world begins to fade, and all you can feel or hear is him, but before you can get lost in it, you feel his touch, a slight caress that keeps you from floating away completely. The sound of his groans dances around you as he pounds into you. That familiar warmth settles in your stomach with every thrust he makes. He leans forward, slipping further, hitting even deeper as he brings his mouth to yours, nipping your bottom lip. 

“You feel so fucking good, princess,” he moans softly, the echo of it crashing into your lips. “So tight, so wet. You clench around me so right. Like you were made just for me.” His words fall over you, laced in that dangerously deep, husky tone that has your head spinning.

Hearing him is bringing you closer and closer to the orgasm, building dangerously fast, but also about to send you period. He has never spoken to you in any other way than gently before, and to hear him so rough and raw is overwhelming your system. He places a soft kiss against your lips, disrupting the spiral you’re about to go on as he ruts almost wildly against you. A hand comes to your throat, his mouth still hovering over you. If your eyes hadn’t been closed, they would have fluttered at the pressure. Your back arches up towards him, hands gripping whatever part of him you can, desperately. His name falls from your lips in a low, sob-like moan, and he growls like a rabid animal at the sound. His lips crash against you, all tongue and teeth, while a hand tangles in your hair, almost gentle. A contrasting touch.  He nuzzles his face into your neck, nipping along it. It makes you shiver, sending little shocks through you. The warmth building gets brighter, an ember fanning into a fire with each aggressive snap of his hips. Every sound he makes drifts into your ear so you don’t miss the whispered praises and confession. 

“My good girl.”

 “...doing so well”

 “...sucking me in so good”

“Wanna stay buried in you forever.” 

Your moans have turned to sobs; everything is too much but also just right. Joshua pounds into you, pace relentless, strokes slowly becoming more sloppy as his hands roam your body, gripping painfully at your skin—no doubt leaving bruises in their wake in the morning. You can feel it get tighter, getting brighter. Pleasure was running towards you, ready to tackle you off the edge he was pushing you towards. His name falls from your lips like a whispered prayer when you feel it snap. Over and over as you shake under him. You clench around him, nails digging into whatever skin of his you can find. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, but keeps fucking you through it. His calculated strokes begin to falter. His moans and groans are more frequent, louder, and deeper. You can feel it as he twitches inside you. He’s so close to the edge, and you also want to send him flying over the edge. And so you begin to plead softly.  You ask for it. Beg for it. Desperate. 

“Baby, please, “ you whisper in his ear, voice laced with need. “I need you. Cum for me. Please, fill me up.” 

You can feel it all as he empties inside you. The shudders, the warmth of the sticky ropes as he cums, his body tense as pleasure holds him in a chokehold. He stops shortly after it starts and rests his forehead on yours. Then, as if coming from under a spell, he shifts back. No longer a wolf but now the lamb. He kisses your forehead softly. His hands immediately begin to stroke your bare skin softly. His voice is back to being soft and sweet like honey. His eyes shine like amber in the sun again. 

“Princess,” he whispers against your forehead while placing another tender kiss on it. “Talk to me. Tell me how you are. Are you okay?” 

You can’t speak, too spent from the entire escapade: the chase, the aftermath. You just nod with a hum. 

“Can you tell me with words?” he asks, leaning back to look in your eyes. His hands begin to stroke your hair gently as he watches you. And you answer him in a soft, shaky voice. A quick yes as you gaze into those familiar eyes that feel like home. You let out a shuddering sigh and lean your head slightly into the hand petting your hair. He smiles at you and slips out of you slowly. You gasp almost inaudibly at the emptiness, feeling the cool air hit the absolute mess in between your legs. He slips a hand under you to tug you up. Once upright, he removes his jacket and wraps it around your bare shoulders, then sits back and fixes his pants. When he finishes adjusting his clothing, he comes back to you. He helps you thread your arms through his jacket and buttons it up. His fingers snap the last button together, his hands cup your face, and he kisses you softly. He wraps you in his arms, pulling your face into his chest. Your arms instinctively come around him, and he holds you, rocking slightly as he gives you soft touches. 

“You did so well, baby,” he whispers and kisses the top of your head. “So proud of you. You took it all so well. I love you so much.” 

You smile into his chest, body relaxing against him as he continues to whisper praises. He lets you hold him as he holds you, giving you time to return from everything. When you shift and look up at him with loving eyes, that’s when he suggests going home. He helps you up, a hand around your waist to let you steady yourself on your feet. When your legs buckle slightly, he doesn’t hesitate to sweep you up and carry you back to your picnic blanket. He sets you down next to it and gathers everything himself, not letting you lift a finger to help. Once everything is packed up, he slings his quiver and bow over his shoulder and threads his hand through the picnic basket handle before picking you up. He carries you to the car and places you in the passenger seat with such delicacy that you would think you were fragile. He buckles your seatbelt around you, tosses everything else in the backseat, and slides into the driver’s side. A hand immediately comes to your thigh and never leaves it the entire drive home. His thumb traces idle circles on its inside while he promises you a complete look over when you get home, a warm bath, and being tucked into bed. 

He does just that. Joshua sits you on the edge of the bath and gently peels his jacket and your skirt off, hands roaming your skin tenderly as he checks every inch of you. When he dips past your stomach, he finds a scrape from the knife. His fingers graze the already forming scab as he begins to apologize profusely. His eyes are soft, with a hint of regret that tells you just how bad he feels about accidentally hurting you, despite it being superficial. He apologizes more when he catches sight of the welts from the twigs scratching you as you ran. He frowns as he lifts you slowly into the warm bath, taking time to wash your hair and body. His fingers massage your scalp thoroughly, and his hands are gentle when he washes you. He lifts you from the tub and wraps you with a soft towel before carrying you to bed. He sits you on the bed's edge and disappears, returning with a first aid kit. Once satisfied he’s cleaned and covered every mark you sustained, he pats your body and hair dry. He dresses you in your favorite, most comfortable pajamas, and then Joshua tucks you into bed. His warm lips press softly against your forehead, and watch him disappear into the bathroom. 

You notice him on a Tuesday.

Which is strange, because Tuesdays are usually your most half-hearted gym days. Mondays are for fake enthusiasm. Wednesdays are for convincing yourself you're halfway through the week and therefore invincible. But Tuesdays? Tuesdays are for regretting all your life choices while trudging on a treadmill and pretending not to hate everyone around you.

But then he appears.

Tall. Built like someone who owns multiple foam rollers and actually uses them. His hair is tousled in that “I totally woke up like this but in an expensive shampoo commercial way,” and his eyes—oh God, his eyes—are these wide, soft things, like they were stolen from a Disney deer. If Bambi decided to bulk up and develop a jawline.

You try not to stare. You fail.

He doesn’t look like a brooding gym type. No aggressive grunting. No primal chest thumps. No mirror selfies. Instead, he quietly sets up at the far corner near the free weights, earbuds in, hoodie on despite the heat. Private, maybe. Or shy. Or both.

You spend longer than you'd like to admit trying to figure out if he's intimidating or just doesn’t like people.

There's a difference, you think. Intimidating guys usually flex unnecessarily and wink at you when you’re just trying to do lunges without dying. This guy? He barely makes eye contact with anyone. When someone walks too close to his bench, he politely scoots over without making a fuss.

It's almost disappointing.

Because if he was a jerk, you could just write him off and move on with your life.

But no. Instead, he has the audacity to stretch quietly in the corner with perfect posture and soft eyelashes and forearms that look carved out of daydreams. Who even looks like that at your local gym? This isn’t Hollywood.

And you, meanwhile, are pretending to know how to deadlift properly while sneaking glances like you're trying to memorize the periodic table. You are not slick.

At one point, he catches you mid-glance, and for a brief, painful second, you both hold eye contact.

Your brain short-circuits.

You do the only logical thing and immediately look away like you've just remembered an urgent errand in the opposite direction. Possibly in another country.

You spend the rest of your workout way too aware of his presence. Like he’s gravity and your body is betraying you by orbiting around him.

You leave the gym sweaty, confused, and very annoyed with yourself. You don’t even know his name.

But you’re definitely going to find out.

=

A few days later and you’re at the gym again..

You're not proud of it, but you're here standing in front of a very complicated-looking machine that has too many pulleys and not enough labels. You've never used it before. You don’t even know its name. 

Chest press? Lat pulldown? Mid-life crisis simulator?

Honestly, you just got bored of the StairMaster. Your usual routine suddenly felt repetitive… or maybe it just felt less interesting now that he’s become part of your peripheral gym experience.

And hey, maybe it’s time to switch it up. Be spontaneous. Try new things. Be mysterious and well-rounded.

You immediately regret it.

Because you’ve been standing here for a full minute pretending to “study the mechanics” of this cursed contraption, while mostly just staring at the diagram like it’s written in ancient Sumerian. There are straps. Levers. Pins. Maybe even a hidden booby trap?

You tug at one handle, and it clonks loudly against the frame, echoing across the gym like the sound of your pride imploding.

And then—

“You, uh… planning to fight it or use it?”

The voice is soft, warm—teasing without being mean. Like maple syrup with a smirk.

You freeze. Your brain goes completely silent.

Because it’s him.

And God, he’s even better up close. There’s this effortless softness to him, like he’s not trying to be charming but it just… leaks out of him naturally. Like an accidental flirt. A boy-band heartthrob doing errands.

You laugh, but it comes out weird and high-pitched, like you’ve swallowed helium and regret all your life choices.

“I’m, uh. Studying it. For science.”

He grins, bright and immediate, like you’ve said the most charming thing ever. “Well, if you figure out how to make it time travel, let me know. I think it's supposed to be a row machine. Or a medieval torture device. Could go either way.”

“So,” he continues, still smiling, “want a hand? Or do you prefer to risk dislocating something for the thrill of it?”

You blink. “I mean… I do like to live dangerously.”

He chuckles, then steps closer. “Dangerous is not knowing which pin to pull and just yanking stuff randomly. Let me show you.”

You do your best to stay calm while he casually leans over, adjusting the weights, pulling one of the pins like it’s nothing. His arm brushes yours and it’s electric. Not in a dramatic, soul-bonding way—just enough to make you forget your own name for a second.

“There,” he says. “Now you just sit here, pull this toward your chest. Keep your back straight, don’t yank.”

You nod, fully intending to listen.

You will absolutely not remember a single word of that.

He steps back, giving you space, but that soft smile lingers like a secret between you. “You got this. I’m Joshua, by the way”

You quickly mumble your name back, then look at the equipment again

“Damn,” you say. “Guess I’ll have to actually work out now.”

He starts to walk away, then glances over his shoulder. “If you survive this thing, I’ll be impressed.”

You don’t say anything back. Mostly because your brain still hasn’t rebooted.

But your heart is definitely doing wind sprints.

After the brutal set you tried to finish, you grab your water bottle, stealing one last glance his way. He’s still watching.

You take a long sip of water, trying to ignore the way your pulse is very much not calming down. It’s not the workout. It’s not the row machine. It’s definitely not the totally casual conversation with the gym’s most charming human.

You glance back at him, and that teasing glint is still there, like he’s waiting for a comeback.

So you give him one.

“I’m gonna get you back,” you say, capping your bottle. “Just you wait until you try the StairMaster.”

He snorts. “Is that a threat?”

“Oh, absolutely. That thing humbles even the cockiest of men.”

He groans dramatically, head dropping back against the bench. “Ugh. Not the StairMaster. That thing is evil in mechanical form.”

You gasp, mock offended. “You take that back.”

“I won’t. It’s unnatural. No human should ever climb stairs endlessly to nowhere. It's a trap.”

You grin, arms crossed. “Spoken like someone who’s never reached the top.”

He squints at you suspiciously. “There’s no top. That’s the whole scam. It just keeps going until your legs give out and your soul leaves your body.”

“That’s where the character-building happens.”

“That’s where the near-death experience happens.”

You walk past him toward the water fountain, tossing a smirk over your shoulder. “Someday, Joshua. I’m gonna catch you on it. And when I do, I’ll be right there. Watching.”

He laughs, low and warm. “If that day comes, I expect emotional support. And probably an ambulance.”

“Nope,” you call back. “Only judgment.”

“Brutal.”

You glance at him again as you turn the corner. He’s still looking, shaking his head, that smile spreading slow like he’s already thinking about what he’s going to say next time.

And you? You’re definitely planning what machine to “accidentally” use wrong next.

=

A few days later, you’re back.

Same gym. Same playlist. Same questionable protein shake sloshing around in your stomach.

You’ve already stretched, done your usual warm-up, and for some reason—maybe it’s the memory of a certain pair of bambi-eyes watching you flirt with death on the row machine—you find yourself standing in front of the pull-up bar.

Just staring.

It stares back. Cold. Unforgiving. Judgy.

You’ve never really attempted it. You know you have the upper body strength of a sleepy cat. The last time you even tried, you managed one and a half reps and pulled a muscle in your neck that made it look like you were perpetually trying to dodge an awkward hug.

But today… today you’re thinking about it.

And thinking about it is basically halfway to doing it, right?

You clap your hands like you’re about to do something epic. Then you hop up, grab the handles, and immediately regret all your choices.

You get one. One clean pull-up, arms shaking, face doing things that definitely aren’t attractive.

The second one? You try. God, you try.

Halfway up, your arms begin to betray you. Your legs flail in a pathetic attempt to help. Your body says “absolutely not” and your pride goes down with you. You hang there, a weird little noodle of a human, wondering if there’s a graceful way to descend without collapsing completely.

“Alright,” a voice says behind you, amused. “Now that’s bravery.”

You don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

“Don’t,” you groan. “Don’t you dare say anything.”

Joshua’s laugh is warm and merciless. “I wasn’t gonna say anything! Just… observing. You know. For science.”

You drop down from the bar and turn to face him, breathless, cheeks burning, arms already sore.

“You’re stalking me,” you accuse, pointing a finger at him.

He raises both hands in mock surrender. “Hey. You were the one declaring StairMaster vengeance. I came to see if you were plotting.”

“Plotting,” you huff. “Right. Clearly I’m too busy being an upper-body icon.”

“Iconic,” he nods solemnly. “In the way baby goats are iconic for trying to jump and immediately falling over.”

You glare, but it’s only half-hearted. “Wow. First, sarcasm coach. Now personal trainer and comedian.”

“I contain multitudes,” he says, then glances up at the bar. “You almost had that second one though.”

You raise a brow. “You’re lying to make me feel better.”

“I’m lying to make me feel better,” he grins. “Because if you get better at this stuff, you’re gonna be way too powerful.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “Well, if I mysteriously vanish, check under the StairMaster. That’s where I hide all my victims.”

Joshua tilts his head, considering. “Dark. Unexpected. I like it.”

You’re just about to make some kind of witty escape when Joshua says it.

“Come on,” he nods toward the pull-up bar. “I’ll spot you.”

You blink. “You’ll what now?”

He’s already walking over, casual like it’s no big deal, like this isn’t a defining moment in your emotional history.

“Spot you,” he says again, glancing back at you with that stupidly gentle smile. “So you don’t fall to your dramatic death after one and a half pull-ups.”

You try to laugh. It comes out as more of a nervous wheeze.

“Very heroic of you,” you manage, eyeing the bar like it personally wronged you.

He shrugs, standing just under it now, hands flexing like he’s warming them up. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive.”

You stare at him. At the way his shirt clings to his shoulders. At the veins in his arms. At the way he’s looking at you like this is casual. Normal.

It is not normal. You try to be cool. You try to be composed. But your body? Your body has completely abandoned the plan.

Because now you’re walking toward him. Slowly. Automatically. Like some magnetic force is pulling you in.

You step under the bar. He’s standing right behind you now, close but not too close. His hands lift, hovering for a second like he’s giving you a chance to back out.

You don’t.

And then—

His hands land gently on your waist.

It’s a soft, grounding touch, not too firm, but very present. Your breath catches.

This is fine, you tell yourself.

This is so not fine. Your brain screams.

“You good?” he asks, voice quiet now. There’s something softer in his tone, like he knows exactly what he's doing to your internal system and is pretending he doesn’t.

You nod, eyes fixed on the bar above. “Yep. Good. Great.”

“You're gonna pull up, and I’ll just support your hips a little. Let you push through it without dropping.”

You manage a strangled “cool” and grab the handles, arms already shaking from the sheer adrenaline surging through you.

You pull.

It’s not perfect. Not clean. Your arms scream and your legs do a weird little kick at the end. But you make it. Higher than before. Controlled.

His hands steady you the whole way up—and then guide you gently back down.

“See?” he murmurs near your ear. “Told you. You got this.”

You’re pretty sure your heart is doing backflips. Loud, panicked backflips. You let go of the bar, drop to the floor, and immediately step away like physical distance might help your brain reset.

Spoiler: it does not.

Joshua’s grinning again, hands back at his sides, like he didn’t just ruin your ability to form coherent thought.

“Thanks,” you say, trying to sound chill and not like you’re about to collapse into a puddle.

“Anytime,” he says easily. “You let me know when it’s StairMaster Day. I’ll be there.”

You almost say something flirty. You almost say you already are.

But instead, you toss him a half-smile and mumble, “Better start working on your cardio.”

And then you walk away. Quickly. Before you combust right there in front of the pull-up bar.

The second your front door closes behind you, you're already pulling your phone out of your bag with shaking hands. You don’t even kick off your shoes. There are more important matters at hand.

Like the fact that Joshua Hong just touched your waist and told you you got this in a voice that should be illegal in public gyms.

You hit Nayeon’s contact. She picks up before the second ring.

“What.”

You skip hello entirely.

“GUESS WHAT.”

A beat of silence.

Then: “Oh my god. Did you finally throw a dumbbell at that guy who grunts like a mating walrus?”

“What? No—focus. I—Joshua. Joshua was at the gym.”

A dramatic gasp. “Bambi guy?!”

“Yes. And he spotted me. Like, hands-on-me, spotted me.”

“You’re lying.”

“I wish I was lying. He offered, I blacked out emotionally, and then I walked toward him like some possessed gym siren. And then—wait for it—his hands were on my waist.”

Nayeon lets out a long, satisfied scream that you have to pull your phone away from your ear for.

“I’m sorry,” she says breathlessly. “You touched souls and you’re casually calling me like it’s a weather update?! How was it?! What did it feel like?! Did your body leave your spirit plane?!”

You collapse onto your couch, still not fully recovered. “It felt like… like my brain stopped working but in a good way? Like the kind of malfunction where you’re aware something deeply unprofessional is happening to your heart rate?”

“I’m so proud of you. You’ve officially entered RomCom Phase Two: The Accidental Intimate Contact.”

You groan. “It wasn’t even that intimate! It was… I don’t know. Friendly. Gym-friendly.”

“Did he look you in the eyes like he knew you were about to internally combust?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“Did he say something in a voice that made you question your ability to speak?”

“...Yes.”

“Then congratulations,” Nayeon says smugly. “That boy is flirting. Lightly. Respectfully. But definitely.”

You flop backward, one hand over your eyes. “I said you better start working on your cardio and then walked away like I didn’t want to collapse in a corner and scream into my towel.”

Nayeon howls. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. I’m putting it in my will.”

You’re quiet for a second, smiling up at your ceiling like it just told you a secret.

“He really is nice,” you murmur.

“I bet he is,” Nayeon says. “But let me know when he touches your waist again. I’ll bring confetti.”

=

You’re half-awake, phone in one hand, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, and every ounce of your remaining energy focused on surviving the Monday morning café line. The air smells like roasted beans and too much cologne, and you’re two seconds from ordering the largest iced americano known to man.

The barista gives you the tiniest smile and asks, “What would you like?”

“Iced americano, please,” you say in a daze, already pulling out your card, head down, ready to tap and shuffle off like every other caffeine-dependent adult.

But then—

A hand slides in next to yours. Card first.

And a voice, soft but teasing: “I got it.”

You freeze. Look up.

Joshua.

In a hoodie and cap pulled low, like he’s trying not to be recognized—but there’s no mistaking him. Not when he’s standing right there, grinning like this is normal. Like this is not the second time he’s absolutely obliterated your nervous system in public.

Your brain short-circuits.

“Wait—what—are you—what are you doing here?”

He tilts his head. “Getting coffee. What are you doing here? Practicing your dramatic gasp?”

You blink. “How did you even—?”

“I saw you through the window,” he says, gesturing casually over his shoulder. “Recognized the tragic posture.Thought, hey, she probably needs caffeine and emotional support.”

“You didn’t have to pay for me.”

Joshua shrugs, already sliding his card back into his wallet. “Consider it a reward. For surviving the pull-up bar. And for not actually passing out while I spotted you.”

You squint at him. “So this is payback.”

“Exactly,” he says, eyes crinkling. “Also, I owed you for the StairMaster threats. This is safer.”

You step aside so the next customer can order, taking your receipt with numb fingers. “You are dangerously charming, you know that?”

“I’ve heard rumors,” he says, walking with you to the pickup counter.

You eye him sideways. “Do you come here a lot?”

“Not really,” he says, then glances at you. “Maybe I will now.”

And just like that—there it is again. That look.

The light, flirty, annoyingly smooth look that says he’s enjoying this way too much. That he’s already planning his next move.

You press your lips together to keep from smiling like an idiot. Your name gets called. You grab your drink. He grabs his.

And then he leans in just a little, low enough that you can feel the warmth of his voice when he says, “You still owe me one StairMaster session, by the way.”

You take a long sip of your coffee just to avoid answering.

But the blush creeping up your neck?

Yeah, he definitely sees it.

You both step out of the café, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft ding. The morning air’s brisk but not cold, sunlight just beginning to slip between buildings, painting the street in soft gold.

Joshua falls into step beside you, sipping his coffee like this is some everyday thing. Like the two of you didn’t just share a casual rom-com scene inside a café.

He glances at you. “Heading to work?”

You nod, clutching your cup a little tighter. “Yep. You?”

“Yeah,” he says, then gestures down the opposite sidewalk. “That way.”

You look in the direction he points. Opposite of yours.

Of course.

You both pause on the corner. People stream around you—students in uniforms, office workers, ahjummas with shopping bags—but there’s a strange little pocket of quiet that hovers around you two.

You shift your weight. “So… different directions.”

Joshua nods, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Tragic.”

You laugh lightly. “Life’s tough.”

“For now,” he says, watching you over the rim of his cup. “But hey, I still owe you cardio humiliation. I’ll find you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You sure you’re ready for that?”

“Emotionally? No. Physically? Also no. But for you?” He leans in just slightly, eyes sparkling. “I’ll suffer.”

You snort, trying not to let your entire face betray you. “What a romantic.”

He grins. “It’s in my nature.”

The crosswalk signal chirps. You both glance at it, then back at each other.

You step backward slowly, toward your side of the street. “Okay, go be mysterious and productive or whatever it is you do.”

“And you,” he says, pointing with his cup, “go be chaotic and competitive. Just… don’t fall off anything.”

You flash him a final grin, walking backward a few more steps. “No promises.”

=

It’s been a week. Seven full days. Four gym sessions. Not that he’s counting. (He is absolutely counting.)

Joshua had figured maybe you were switching up your schedule. Or taking a break. Or plotting your next slow-burn attack on his cardiovascular endurance. But by day five, when you still hadn’t walked through the gym doors in your usual comfy hoodie and defiant energy, he started to feel… something.

Nothing dramatic. Just… He kind of missed seeing you.

Not in a we should talk about our feelings kind of way. More like a where did the chaos go? way. The gym felt weirdly quiet without your teasing, your grumbling, your almost-impossible pull-ups.

So when he drags himself to the café after his morning run the following week, hoodie damp with sweat and music still playing in one earbud, he’s not expecting much more than caffeine and maybe a bagel if the world is kind.

What he doesn’t expect is to hear the bell chime behind him and your voice.

“Ugh, finally. I swear this place is the only thing getting me out of bed lately.”

He turns before he can even stop himself. There you are—messy bun, oversized sweater, tired eyes, and all. You don’t see him at first, too busy mumbling something to yourself about how oat milk better not be sold out again.

He smiles. And waits.

Then you glance up, catch him standing near the pickup counter, and blink like your brain needs a second to register.

“Oh—hey!”

Joshua raises an eyebrow. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the girl who ghosted the gym.”

You smirk, stepping into line. “Excuse me. I did not ghost. I was temporarily out of commission.”

He leans an elbow on the counter, coffee in hand, grinning. “So mysterious.”

You sigh dramatically. “Cramps were killing me. Girl things. War zone. You wouldn’t survive.”

Joshua chokes a little on his sip.

You laugh at his expression. “What? You asked.”

“I didn’t ask for that mental image,” he says, shaking his head, amused.

“I gave it anyway,” you say brightly, stepping up to order. “That’s what I do. I give.”

He watches you place your order, then swipes his card before you can reach for your own.

“Again?” you protest.

“Call it a welcome back gift.”

You squint at him. “You’re trying to train me like a puppy. Every time I show up, you give me treats.”

“Is it working?”

You pause. Then grin. “Maybe.”

You both wait for your drinks at the end of the counter, shoulders brushing just slightly in the morning rush.

He tilts his head toward you. “You coming back to the gym this week?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Tomorrow, probably. I’ve got rage to burn and stairs to climb.”

His smile widens. “Music to my ears.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Missed me, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just looks at you over his coffee lid.

“Wouldn’t survive a war zone,” he says. “But yeah. I kinda did.”

You swear you played it cool.

You smiled. You sassed. You walked out of that café with your dignity intact and your coffee in hand like someone who has not been emotionally steamrolled by a boy in a hoodie.

But the second you slid into the booth across from Nayeon at lunch, all bets were off.

You didn’t even wait for her to finish her first bite.

“I’m losing it,” you whisper-shriek, leaning across the table like you’re confessing a federal crime.

Nayeon blinks. “Hi? Good to see you too?”

“No, listen. He was at the café again. Joshua. After his run. Sweaty. Hoodie. Smiling. Paid for my coffee again.”

She gasps, already putting down her chopsticks. “Did he say something flirty?”

You nod, wide-eyed. “He said he missed me.”

Dead silence. Then Nayeon slaps the table so hard the metal chopsticks clatter. “YOU’RE DATING.”

“We are not dating,” you hiss, glancing around to make sure no one’s listening. “We’re flirting. Lightly. Slowly. Like… like an air fryer setting.”

“Okay, so when’s the wedding?”

You groan, sliding down in your seat. “I panicked. I made a girl-things joke and then elbowed him. Elbowed. Him.”

“I mean, that is your version of affection.”

You cover your face with your hands. “And now? Now I have to go back to the gym. Where I used to look like a sleep-deprived raccoon. And now I have to… I don’t know, try.”

Nayeon grins like the devil. “Oh? Someone’s thinking about their gym fit now?”

You peek through your fingers. “I literally bought new leggings this morning. I googled cute-but-functional ponytail styles.”

She clutches her heart. “You’re in deep.”

You nod solemnly. “Drowning.”

“You know what this means, right?” she says, sipping her soda. “You’re officially entering RomCom Phase Three.”

You raise a brow. “Which is?”

She smirks. “The ‘oh no, I actually care how I look around him’ phase. It's fatal.”

You sigh dramatically and stab a piece of kimchi. “Send flowers to the old me. She didn’t contour for cardio.”

Nayeon lifts her glass in salute. “To gym crushes and unexpected motivation.”

You clink her glass with yours, already plotting tomorrow’s playlist and wondering if there’s a subtle way to make “accidentally” run into Joshua without… you know… trying.

=

You walk into the gym like it’s just another day. Just another normal, totally-not-overthought, not-at-all-strategically-timed workout.

You’ve got your hair up in a ponytail that took two tries, a matching set you absolutely didn’t panic-buy during a midnight scroll, and your face set in what you hope is a calm, effortless expression.

Internally? Screaming.

You head over to the mats to warm up, muttering to yourself like you always do. It’s kind of your thing. Mostly because talking through your workouts distracts you from the sheer indignity of physical effort.

"Okay. Back. Finally. Time to prove I can still do a crunch without crying. Just twenty reps. Or ten. Or like... four. Let’s not be ambitious."

You drop into a stretch, huffing as your hamstrings scream at you.

"See, this is what happens when you let your uterus bench you for a week—your body turns into string cheese."

Then a voice behind you, smooth and slightly smug. 

“String cheese, huh? That’s a new one.”

Your soul leaves your body. You whip around, nearly falling sideways out of your stretch.

Joshua is there. Hoodie slung over his shoulder. Hair a little damp. Sweaty in the way that looks criminally good on him. And smiling, like he’s been standing there for longer than you’d like to think about.

You blink at him. “How long have you been there.”

“Long enough to hear your motivational speech,” he says, stepping onto the mat next to you.

You groan, covering your face with your towel. “God. I was doing bits. I was mid-rant. You can’t sneak up on a person during that.”

He chuckles, sitting down to stretch beside you like this is routine. “You talk to yourself a lot when you work out?”

“Only when I’m trying not to die.”

“Well,” he says, reaching forward with ease that makes you regret your whole existence, “it’s entertaining. I’ve missed the commentary.”

You peek at him through your fingers. “Don’t make me regret coming back.”

“You regret it already,” he says, nudging you gently with his knee. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

You try to scoff, but it comes out as a smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“Tell that to your string cheese arms.”

Then Joshua stretches, stands up, and says it so casually you almost miss it.

“Come on. I’ll spot you.”

Just like that. Like he didn’t just turn your heart into a meteorite. Like it’s normal to say things like that with his hair all messy and his shirt clinging to his back like a sin.

You pause, blinking up at him from your sad little mat. “Spot me where?”

He nods his head toward the weights section. “Pull-ups.”

You immediately shake your head. “Nooooi. No, no, no. We’re not doing that. My arms are still in recovery. Mentally.”

He grins, totally unfazed. “One rep. I’ll help.”

“You say that like I won’t dramatically collapse and cause a gym-wide scene.”

“I say that,” he replies, holding a hand out to you, “because I want to see if string cheese can fight gravity.”

You squint at him. “You really like testing your luck, huh?”

He just wiggles his fingers. Still waiting. You groan, roll your eyes, and slap your hand into his like you’ve just signed a very bad contract with a very cute devil.

“Fine. But when I fall, I’m haunting you.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

He leads the way, and you follow grumbling the whole time, of course. Loud enough that a few people glance over, but you’re too focused on not combusting to care.

And when you reach the bar, he steps behind you, hands automatically ready at your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You hesitate. Just one second. Long enough to register how close he is. How warm his hands are. How your brain is already trying to malfunction.

Then you huff, grab the bar, and mutter, “This is bullying disguised as fitness.”

And he, as expected, laughs. “Welcome back.”

You take a breath.

Hands on the bar. Shoulders tense. Joshua standing behind you, hands already hovering at your waist, warm and steady and—God. Focus.

“You ready?” he asks, voice low near your ear.

“No,” you answer flatly.

“Perfect. That’s the spirit.”

You suppress a groan and pull. Immediately, your arms are like, absolutely not, but then his hands are there—gently guiding, lifting just enough for you to move, your body rising in a way that’s technically assisted but still feels monumental.

Halfway up, your brain forgets how to form thoughts. Mostly because his hands are still on your waist and you are 98% sure he’s smiling. You can't see it, but you can feel it. That smug little smirk of his radiating off his face like heat.

You grunt. “I hate this. I hate you. I hate physics.”

Joshua chuckles. “You’re doing great.”

You manage a shaky pull, then drop with a dramatic gasp, limbs jelly.

He steadies you as you land, laughing. “That was almost one and a half.”

“I demand a trophy. And an ice pack. And maybe a wheelchair.”

“I’ll start a GoFundMe.”

You turn to him, still breathless, hair sticking to your forehead, and jab a finger at his chest. “You’re having way too much fun with this.”

“I really am,” he admits without shame.

You both stand there for a second, grinning like idiots, way too close for two people pretending this is just a casual gym friendship.

Then he adds, softer this time, “I meant it though. You did good.”

You glance up at him. He’s not teasing now. Not entirely. Just watching you with those warm eyes, a little out of breath himself.

And okay. Fine. You definitely need to leave before your knees give out for reasons unrelated to exercise.

“I’m going to the treadmill,” you say, turning abruptly.

Joshua calls after you. “What happened to hating cardio?”

“I hate being perceived more!”

You climb onto the treadmill with the grace of someone who just survived emotional warfare. You press a few random buttons, pretending to focus, when really you’re just trying to calm your entire nervous system.

And of course. Of course he follows you.

You glance to your side, and there he is, casually stepping onto the treadmill next to yours like he’s not the reason your soul left your body fifteen minutes ago.

“Please. Let me breathe.”

“I would, but I’m trying to flirt with you.”

Your feet nearly miss the belt.

You turn slowly, narrowing your eyes. “Trying?”

He shrugs, smirking. “Well, not very hard. You’re kinda doing all the work just existing.”

You make a noise—half choke, half laugh—as your brain trips over itself.

“That’s the line you’re going with?” you say, mock-scandalized.

“I didn’t plan it,” he says, grinning. “But I stand by it.”

You shake your head, biting your lip, heart pounding in your ears more than your feet on the treadmill.

“You know you’re not supposed to flirt while I’m exercising. I’m vulnerable. My dignity’s compromised.”

Joshua taps the speed up on your treadmill by 0.2 just to be annoying. “Dangerous territory. Anything could happen.”

You gasp. “Are you trying to get me to trip?”

“Trying to impress you with my multitasking.”

“Impress me by not getting kicked out for harassment.”

He raises a brow. “So flirting with you is harassment now?”

You glance at him, cheeks flushed, heartbeat wild, but your mouth still knows exactly what to say.

“Only because it’s working.”

He stares at you for a second. A beat. Then he grins wider, a tiny laugh slipping out as he looks back at the front of his treadmill.

And that silence between you? Buzzing. Effortless. Dangerous.

A few minutes pass. You’re both running now, side by side, music low, heart rates up, bodies warming into that steady, breathy rhythm. Joshua’s quiet for a while, eyes forward, jaw sharp in profile, the kind of focused that should not look as attractive as it does.

And then—casually, almost like he’s commenting on the weather—he says, 

“So… no boyfriend, or…?”

You glance at him, startled but amused, nearly tripping over your own feet again. The treadmill beeps angrily as you stabilize.

You huff out a laugh. “Wow. Smooth.”

“I thought so,” he says, lips twitching.

You shake your head. “Nope. No boyfriend.”

He raises a brow, like he’s waiting for the follow-up.

“I think my very tragic, very bold attempts at flirting should be proof enough that I’ve been single for a while.”

Joshua laughs, genuinely, the sound slipping out between breaths. “That bad, huh?”

“I elbowed you, Hong. That was one of my first moves.”

“Hey, I kind of liked that. Very… assertive.”

You snort. “If elbowing is the bar, your standards worry me.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, tapping up his speed just slightly. “I’m not looking for a black belt. Just someone who talks to herself and calls her arms string cheese.”

You let out a loud, delighted laugh, nearly doubling over on the belt before catching yourself.

“God, you're lucky I’m too out of breath to roast you right now.”

He glances at you, smiling. “I’ll take what I can get.”

You slow your treadmill just a little, You glance at him out of the corner of your eye.

“You’re dangerous,” you say, almost offhand, but not really.

Joshua arches a brow. “Yeah?”

You nod, swallowing back a grin. “You make me laugh.”

He turns fully toward you now, still jogging, like he doesn’t even feel the effort. “And?”

“And then my mind goes completely blank the next second,” you admit, mock dramatic. “It's inconvenient. Hazardous, even.”

He chuckles, tilting his head. “So I’m a health risk now?”

“Absolutely. Emotional distraction. Should come with a warning label.”

“Funny. You’re the one running next to me looking like an ad for gym crushes.”

You nearly stumble again. “Okay, sir—”

“I’m just saying,” he continues, all smug and unbothered, “if anyone’s dangerous here, it’s you. With your string cheese arms and motivational mumbling.”

“Oh my God,” you groan, dragging a hand down your face, but you’re smiling too hard to commit to the bit.

He leans slightly closer, not enough to break form, just enough for you to feel the heat off his skin. “Blank mind, huh?”

You blink up at him.

“Right now?” he adds, voice a little lower, just teasing enough.

Your brain promptly does exactly what he said: goes blank. You open your mouth. Nothing.

He grins. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He grins, then slows down too, finally stepping off and grabbing his water bottle. For a second, it’s just the low hum of the gym around you, the distant clank of weights, your own heartbeat in your ears.

You swipe your phone from the cubby, pretending not to glance his way. Pretending like your entire body isn’t aware of his body standing just a little too close beside you.

He clears his throat. You look up.

He’s watching you, towel around his neck, a tiny flicker of nervousness in his eyes. It’s subtle, but it’s there—just enough to make your breath catch.

“So,” he starts, “are you doing anything Saturday?”

You blink.

He rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish but still somehow maddeningly composed. “I figured since we’ve got this... ongoing string cheese banter thing, maybe we upgrade to real food. No treadmills. No pull-ups. Just—you know. A proper hangout.”

You stare at him.

Then blink again.

“Wait, are you asking me out?”

He smiles, boyish and warm. “Trying to.”

You feel your face flush. Completely. No saving it now.

“Okay, wow. Um. Yeah. Yes. I mean, if you're willing to risk spending time with me outside of a fluorescent-lit torture room.”

Joshua’s eyes crinkle. “I think I’ll manage.”

“Cool,” you say, suddenly hyper-aware of how sweaty and ridiculous you look. “So. Saturday.”

“Saturday,” he echoes.

You start walking toward the locker rooms, heart in your throat, smile you can’t hide, and just as you’re about to turn the corner, he calls out—

“Oh, and hey?”

You glance back.

He’s leaning against the wall now, casually, towel slung over his shoulder, smirking like he already knows what he’s done to you tonight.

“I like the ponytail.”

You're pretty sure you black out for a second.

And yeah, you definitely almost walk into a water fountain.

=

Saturday evening.

You’ve changed outfits no less than eight times. Jeans? Too casual. Skirt? Too short. White top? Too risky. That one jumpsuit you swore made you look expensive? Suddenly feels like a Halloween costume.

Nayeon is lying belly-down on your bed, scrolling through her phone with the kind of serenity only someone not going on a date can possess.

“You’ve tried on enough outfits to walk a runway twice,” she says, not even looking up. “Just wear the pink one. The flowy dress. You looked cute.”

You groan from the floor. “I don’t want to look cute. I want to look like… I don’t know. Dateable. Like, someone who won’t say ‘string cheese’ in conversation.”

“Too late for that,” she mutters.

You glare. “Traitor.”

But fifteen minutes and a mini breakdown later, you're standing in front of the mirror in that exact pink summer dress, hair soft and just messy enough to look effortless, cheeks lightly flushed from the nerves. You turn to Nayeon.

“Be honest. Do I look like I’m trying too hard?”

“You look like someone’s about to fall in love with you.”

Your face scrunches. “Ew.”

She just grins. “Text me when you’re home or I’m calling the cops.”

Your phone buzzes.

Joshua: I’m downstairs :)

Cue heart skipping a beat. You grab your purse, whisper-scream into it for good measure, then fly down the stairs like your life depends on it.

The front door opens to a soft summer breeze. And Joshua—standing there by a black car, in a white linen shirt and jeans that somehow make your brain short-circuit—holding a small bouquet of pink tulips.

You freeze.

He blinks, eyes raking over you once, slowly. Then a smile spreads across his face, that gentle kind that feels like it’s meant just for you.

“These…” He holds out the bouquet. “These match your dress. I swear it wasn’t planned. I didn’t even know what you were wearing. But—” He tilts his head. “I’m not mad about it.”

You reach for the flowers, trying to play it cool even as your fingers brush his. “Wow. So now you’re dangerous and lucky.”

Joshua laughs. “Let’s call it fate. Shall we?”

And with that, he opens the car door for you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like this is just the beginning.

You slide into the passenger seat, bouquet clutched in your hands, cheeks already burning. 

Breathe, you tell yourself. Be normal. Be chill. Be a functioning adult woman who is not immediately reduced to mush by a man in linen and a watch.

Joshua climbs in, starts the car with one smooth twist of his wrist, and you catch a glimpse of the watch on his arm—sleek, minimal, silver. The kind of thing that shouldn't be so attractive but somehow is. It hugs his wrist perfectly, gleaming in the evening light, making his whole presence feel like a very curated attack on your willpower.

“You look really pretty,” he says, glancing over at you.

You smile, teeth and all, like an idiot. “Thank you. You, uh…” You gesture vaguely at him. “You’re doing a lot. With your existence.”

He grins. “That’s the plan.”

You roll your eyes, but the heat in your face says otherwise. He shifts into reverse, turning in his seat—and that’s when it happens.

That move.

Hand casually reaching behind your seat for support as he backs out of the spot, arm stretched out behind you, the other on the wheel, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. And you—sitting there—trying not to make a sound because wow.

Your brain short circuits. Every rom-com you’ve ever watched flashes before your eyes. You hate how effective it is. You hate that you notice. You really hate that the veins in his forearm are doing some kind of ancient magic on your heart.

“You okay?” he asks, glancing at you with a knowing smile.

You clear your throat, gaze locked out the window. “Yeah. Just, uh. You know. Processing.”

“Processing?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Me backing out of a parking spot?”

“Yep. Very intense. Emotionally charged moment for me.”

He laughs, head tilting toward you. “You’re not very good at pretending you’re unimpressed.”

“And you’re not very good at pretending you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

He raises a brow. “Touché.”

You’re still trying to recover from the parking maneuver thing when Joshua pulls onto the main road, one hand casually on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift like he's not out here causing emotional chaos.

You steal a glance at him, then look away just as quickly. Your cheeks are still flaming. Your pulse? Racing. Your entire internal system? Malfunctioning.

“You sure you’ll survive tonight?”

You scoff, crossing your arms with the tulips still in hand. “Wow. Cocky and observant.”

He chuckles. “It’s a genuine question. I’ve seen, like, six flustered expressions in the past ten minutes. That’s a record.”

“I’m just—” You gesture vaguely at the air between you. “Adjusting. You’re very… composed for a man who brought flowers and wore a thirst trap on his wrist.”

Joshua raises an eyebrow. “Thirst trap?”

You point at his watch. “That.”

He glances down, then smirks. “So that’s what’s doing it?”

You narrow your eyes. “That and the parking move. Don’t play dumb.”

He laughs, actually laughs, and it’s that soft, warm sound again—like he can’t help it, like it’s just you who gets this version of him.

“You’re fun,” he says simply.

“That’s it? No sarcasm? No comeback?”

“Nope.” He glances over at you, smile still playing at his lips. “Just letting you have the moment.”

You make a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a dying noise. “Okay, you need to stop with the sincerity. My brain is short-circuiting.”

Joshua glances over, takes his time, then says in a tone so casual it might as well be criminal,

“You really do look beautiful tonight.”

He tilts his head, that gentle smile still playing at the corner of his mouth. “Why? Can’t handle a compliment?”

“No, I can, just—” You gesture vaguely. “Not when you say it like that. With your whole… face.”

“You mean, my face that you were just staring at for two straight minutes?”

Your jaw drops. “I was not—”

“You were. I timed it.”

“I was—strategizing.”

“Oh? About what?”

“About how not to combust before we even get to dinner.”

He hums, turning the wheel with one hand as he takes the next turn. “I like that you spiral. It’s cute.”

You glare at the dashboard. “Okay, wow. New level unlocked: professional menace.”

“You’re going to be a mess by dessert, aren’t you?”

Your mouth drops open again, and he laughs, that warm, smug, boyish laugh like he already knows he’s won.

You whip your head toward him. “Are you trying to kill me?”

He shrugs, far too pleased with himself. “Just saying. If you’re already like this now…” He glances at you, slow and deliberate. “I should warn you—I get worse.”

Your lungs fail. Your brain turns to soup. You want to fling yourself out the window in the most ladylike way possible.

You step out of the car and immediately stop in your tracks.

You were expecting a restaurant—like, a normal place with chairs and walls and menus laminated within an inch of their lives.

What you’re not expecting is this.

String lights drape like golden vines overhead, hanging between soft, leafy canopies and curved archways made of blooming roses and ivy. Candle-lit tables are scattered like little secrets across a stone path, with delicate place settings and linen napkins that scream “yes, this fork has three siblings and a trust fund.”

The view? A clear shot of the river, glistening under the dying blush of sunset.

You blink. “Is this… real?”

Joshua rounds the car, comes to stand beside you, hands casually in his pockets like he hasn’t just walked you into a scene from a K-drama finale.

“You like it?” he asks, with a glint in his eye he knows will wreck you.

You glance at him, wide-eyed. “I thought we were doing food. Not walking into a proposal.”

He just smirks, leading you towards the entrance. The host greets him by name.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re being suspiciously smooth tonight.”

He pulls out your chair. “I’m always smooth.”

You sit down slowly, tilting your head at him. “You wore the watch and chose a place with fairy lights. Who told you my entire aesthetic?”

“I pay attention.”

“You’re dangerous.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that tonight.”

“I stand by it.”

The server comes by, and Joshua lets you order first, doesn’t even look at the menu, just says, “I’ll have whatever she’s having,” with a flash of a grin.

You eye him. “Careful, I panic-order.”

He smirks. “Exactly. It’s more fun that way.”

When the server leaves, you rest your chin on your hand. “So. This is your idea of a casual first date?”

Joshua shrugs, eyes dancing. “I told you. I get worse.”

You raise a brow. “You’re lucky I find that incredibly hot.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “You think I wore the watch for me?”

You choke on your laugh, nearly knocking over your water. He just grins again, leaning back with that maddening ease, the lights catching in his hair like he’s made to be part of this setting. 

And for a second, the world around you blurs. Just you, him, and the slow burn of something very, very real.

The night drips by like honey.

Joshua’s leaned back in his chair now, elbow resting against the armrest, fingers lazily twirling his wine glass. He says something—dry, sarcastic, just a bit ridiculous—and you burst out laughing.

“Okay, wait,” you say, breathless, wiping at your eyes. “That’s not even a real story. You’re making that up.”

He grins like it’s a secret between you two. “Maybe. But you laughed. That’s a win.”

“Barely!” you say, even though you're still giggling.

He watches you, and it’s not in a way that makes you feel self-conscious—it’s the opposite. It’s warm. Attentive. Like you’re the only thing in the room worth looking at. And that’s what really does it.

You sip your wine to distract yourself. “Do you practice your charm? Like, in the mirror? Or were you just born annoying and heart-melting?”

Joshua tilts his head. “A little of both. But I do study.”

“Oh yeah?”

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table now, voice dipping just enough to make you sit straighter.

“Like… I noticed you blush when I compliment you. But only if it’s quiet. Just between us.”

Your lips part slightly. “I—No, I don’t.”

“Sure.” He smiles like he’s absolutely sure. “And you smile bigger when you’re trying not to. Like right now.”

You press your lips together, willing yourself not to grin.

“And,” he continues, “you’re trying really hard to look unimpressed, but I caught you staring at me while I was talking about that ridiculous high school band story. Twice.”

You drop your head onto the table with a groan. “You’re unbearable.”

He laughs, soft and low. “But you like me anyway.”

You peek up at him, cheeks warm, heartbeat wrecked. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He tilts his head. “Let me walk you out later and I just might.”

You know you should say something smart, witty—anything—but you’re gone. Gone in the way that makes your chest ache with excitement and dread, both.

Because you know this kind of thing doesn’t come around often. Not the fancy lights, not the food, not even the compliments. But the way he looks at you. The way he listens. The way he talks to you like he’s always known how to.

You’d kick yourself if you let this go.

So, you sit up straighter, meet his gaze across the candlelight, and smile—soft and certain.

“Okay,” you say, lifting your glass. “Let’s see how charming you really are.”

After that night—the fairy lights, the river view, that maddening smirk—you knew you were done for.

But what you didn’t know was that Joshua Hong would treat this whole thing like a personal mission.

Not to impress you. No. To ruin you. Softly. Deliberately. One blush, one laugh, one lingering glance at a time.

The first date? A glowing success.

The second? A late-night bookshop crawl followed by hotteok from a street cart, where he brushed a crumb off your cheek and you nearly forgot how to speak.

The third? Rainy-day coffees and pressed knees in a tiny corner booth, and the way he said your name when you laughed—like it meant something.

Fourth? He taught you how to play pool. You lost. On purpose. (Okay, not really. But the way he leaned over to show you how to hold the cue stick? Yeah. You didn’t mind losing.)

By the time your fifth official date rolls around—some rooftop dinner he somehow made feel private and cozy in the middle of Seoul—you’re barely holding it together. The city lights glitter below. The food is untouched. Your wine’s going warm.

You’re talking about something—you don’t even remember what—when he tilts his head and says it:

“You’re driving me a little crazy, you know that?”

You stop breathing for a beat too long “I am?”

“Mm-hmm. And I’m being very patient.”

Your fingers tighten around your glass. “Are you saying I’m testing your willpower, Hong?”

He grins, slow and devastating. “I’m saying, if this keeps up, I might kiss you before dessert.”

The air shifts. You’re aware of everything—the hum of the rooftop heater, the buzz of the city below, the way your pulse is loud enough to hear in your ears.

You set your glass down. Very carefully. “Would that be a problem?”

He leans in slightly, elbows on the table. “For who?”

You lick your lips, heartbeat now fully sprinting. “For the cheesecake you ordered.”

Joshua laughs, but there’s tension under it. Electricity.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs again.

You smile, sweet and shaken. “Takes one to know one.”

After dinner, neither of you said anything about leaving. You just stood up, your hands brushed, and somehow—without planning, without speaking—they laced together like they'd been doing it forever.

No one commented. No one let go.

Now you’re walking through the quiet streets of the city, the kind that still shimmer with soft light, where the buildings are lower, the night quieter. A gentle breeze wraps around your bare arms, and his thumb brushes along your knuckles every few steps.

He swings your hands a little, like he’s not aware of the fact that every single nerve in your body is alert and buzzing. “So,” he says casually, “fifth date.”

You side-eye him, smiling. “Who's counting?”

He smirks. “I am. I keep a very detailed record. For science.”

You roll your eyes. “Let me guess—charts, graphs, infographics?”

He nods. “There's even a bar graph for the amount of times I’ve caught you staring at me.”

Your jaw drops in offense. “I do not—”

Joshua stops walking. You almost take another step before you notice, but he holds your hand just tight enough that you pause too, blinking up at him.

He’s looking at you. But not in the teasing, boyish way you’re used to. It’s softer now. Serious.

“You do,” he says gently. “But it’s okay. I stare too.”

You can’t find your voice for a second. It’s stuck somewhere behind your ribs.

The breeze moves your hair. He tucks a strand behind your ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I was gonna wait. Be smooth. You know, the gentleman thing.”

Your heart is pounding so hard you’re afraid it might echo in the stillness.

“But you look at me like that,” he murmurs, “and I kind of forget how to pretend.”

You open your mouth—but nothing comes out.

He steps closer. Just enough that you feel the warmth of him, smell the faint trace of his cologne and something clean and crisp like fresh laundry and summer air. He’s still holding your hand.

He tilts his head, slow, careful. “Can I?”

And you whisper—because it’s all you can manage—“Please.”

The kiss is soft. Barely there at first. His hand cups your cheek like he’s afraid you might vanish, and you lean in like you’ve been waiting for this exact moment since the beginning of time.

It’s gentle. Tender. But it’s not hesitant.

Because when his other hand settles on your waist, when he deepens the kiss just slightly, when you move closer without even thinking—it’s clear that every step, every look, every smile, led here.

And when you pull apart, just an inch, still close enough to breathe each other in, he doesn’t say anything right away.

He just rests his forehead against yours and whispers, “Yep. Definitely a sixth date.”

You laugh, quiet and breathless, standing on your tiptoes so your noses are still brushing, your hands curling lightly into the front of his shirt without even thinking.

His eyes crinkle as he watches you, his forehead still pressed gently to yours. You’re so close you can see the curl of his lashes, the shine in his pupils that makes your stomach flip like it’s never known peace.

Then he murmurs, voice low and teasing, “What’s the look for, pretty girl?”

Your smile wobbles just a little because he says it like he means it. Like you’re not just pretty, you’re his pretty girl. And you don’t even think he realizes how much that nickname already has you unraveling.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “You’re just…”

You trail off, shaking your head a little, and he pulls back just enough to look at you fully, still smiling, still curious. 

“Just what?”

You lift your brows like really? “You kissed me under fairy lights, brought me flowers, opened my car door, made me laugh so hard I choked on water, and looked at me like I hung the stars—and now you’re asking what the look is for?”

Joshua grins, the kind that starts at his lips but ends in his eyes—so warm, so soft it’s almost unbearable. “So I’m doing okay, then?”

“You’re so lucky you’re cute.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Mm,” you hum, pretending to think, still pressed close to him. “You also smell nice.”

He laughs, tilting his head back just a little, and it vibrates through his chest where your hands still rest.

He brings one hand up to tuck your hair behind your ear again and lets his fingers linger just behind your jaw. “You’re making it really hard not to kiss you again.”

You shrug, leaning in even closer. “Who said you had to stop?”

And you kiss him this time. His hands find your waist again, his thumbs brushing the fabric of your dress as he kisses you like he has nowhere else to be, like the city around you doesn’t exist, like this sidewalk is the only place in the world.

When you finally pull away—barely—you’re both smiling. Staring. A little stunned, maybe.

“I can’t believe this is real,” you say, laughing into his chest.

He wraps his arms around you then, pulling you in, your feet slightly off the ground for just a second as he murmurs into your hair, “It’s real. All of it. You. Me.”

You nestle closer, your smile pressed to his shoulder. “You’re the best kind of trouble, Hong.”

He chuckles. “You’ve got no idea.”

=

Another day, another gym session, and naturally—you’re swearing under your breath at the cable machine like it personally insulted your ancestors.

“Why,” you mutter, wrestling with the pin, “do you exist—”

“You okay there?” a voice cuts in.

You look up, blinking.

He’s tall. Friendly smile. The kind of guy who probably means well but is leaning just a little too close to be casual.

You smile politely. “Oh, yeah. Just… negotiating with this death trap.”

He chuckles, clearly taking it as an invitation. “First time trying that machine?”

You nod, tugging your towel over your shoulder. “Yeah. I usually avoid anything that might require actual upper body strength.”

He laughs again, inching closer. “Well, I could show you how to—”

“I have a boyfriend,” you blurt out.

He freezes.

So do you.

You don’t know why you said it. It just… slipped out. Pure panic. Your fight-or-flight response has a third setting now: fake boyfriend defense.

The guy straightens, brows raised slightly. “Oh. Cool, cool. Just being friendly.”

Before you can awkwardly backtrack, you hear him.

“Everything good here?”

Joshua. He appears behind you like magic, towel slung over one shoulder, hair damp and sticking adorably to his forehead, shirt clinging in all the distracting places.

You glance at him like please go with it, and he slides in next to you, one hand gently resting at the small of your back. You lean into him without hesitation.

The guy eyes Joshua, clocking the very real heat in the space between you two, and holds his hands up in surrender. “Got it. My bad. See you around.”

Once he’s gone, Joshua doesn’t say anything at first. Just lifts a brow and leans in, murmuring near your ear, “Boyfriend, huh?”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “I panicked.”

Joshua smirks, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Didn’t seem like panic. Seemed… natural.”

You scoff. “What are you, pleased about it?”

He shrugs. “A little flattered, not gonna lie.”

“You’re impossible.”

He grins. “And yet… you called me your boyfriend.”

You jab him lightly in the ribs with your elbow. “Shut up.”

He doesn't even give you a second to recover.

Just flashes that maddeningly smug grin, rests a hand on your back like it's the most natural thing in the world, and says, “Okay, let’s go, girlfriend. Time to do pull-ups.”

You blink.

“You—what—excuse me?”

Joshua shrugs like it’s nothing. “You said it, not me. I'm just respecting the title.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “That’s… not how this works.”

“Oh no?” He glances over his shoulder, leading you toward the pull-up bar. “So I don’t get boyfriend privileges now?”

You gape. “What privileges?”

“Well for starters, teasing rights. Unlimited. Spotting privileges—obviously. And I think there’s something in the fine print about post-gym smoothies. My treat, of course.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm, your heart racing like he just kissed you again.

He stops in front of the pull-up bar and turns to face you, offering his hands to help you up like he’s done this a hundred times. “Come on, girlfriend. You’ve got this.”

You squint at him. “You’re gonna milk this forever, aren’t you?”

He tilts his head, smile boyish, eyes soft. “Only if you let me.”

You stare at him a beat longer. Then sigh dramatically as you step forward, placing your hands on the bar. “Fine. But if I fall on my face, I’m blaming my fake boyfriend.”

Joshua’s hands find your waist—confident, gentle. “Correction. You said I am your boyfriend. I’m just honoring your truth.”

You groan. “I’m never living this down.”

“Not a chance,” he says, grinning. “But don’t worry, girlfriend. I’ve got you.”

Later you two are in his car, in the parking lot of the smoothie place that has now become part of the routine. You’re curled up in the passenger seat, legs tucked under you, sipping your mango smoothie through a bright yellow straw. 

Joshua’s smoothie is already half gone, sitting in his cup holder while he taps the steering wheel lightly with his fingers.

You’re both quiet. Not in a weird way. Just that post-gym, smoothie-in-hand, everything-is-good kind of quiet.

Until he breaks it.

“So…” he says, glancing over at you with that unmistakable spark in his eyes, “how long have we been dating?”

You nearly choke on your drink.

You turn to him, eyes wide. “What?”

Joshua shrugs like he’s asking about the weather. “I just think it’s important to know. Like… are we new-new? Or established couple? Do I get to call you babe yet? Do we have matching outfits in our future? Are we meeting the parents? You know, just the basics.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He leans his head against the headrest, grinning over at you. “I’m ridiculous? You’re the one out here declaring relationships under pressure.”

“It was a reflex!”

“So was kissing you under fairy lights,” he counters smoothly. “But I don’t regret it.”

Your cheeks burn immediately. “That was different.”

“Was it?” he teases, voice soft now. “Felt pretty real to me.”

You try to focus on your smoothie again, the straw suddenly too interesting. But then his hand reaches over, fingers curling around your wrist gently, guiding the cup away.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and your eyes lift to meet his.

It’s not as teasing now. Still warm. Still boyish. But there’s something else behind it, too. Something softer.

“I’m not making fun of you, you know,” he says. “You could’ve said anything back there. But you said boyfriend. And… I liked it.”

Your breath catches. He watches your face carefully, fingers still brushing lightly against your wrist.

You swallow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” A small pause. “And if it ever stops being a reflex and starts being real—I'd be really, really okay with that.”

Your heart is thudding so hard you’re surprised the smoothie cup doesn’t crack in your hand.

So you do the only thing that makes sense. You lean over the console, your hand resting lightly on his shoulder, and kiss him.

No hesitation this time. No fairy lights or shy glances. Just you and him and the quiet of his car and the electricity that seems to spark to life the second your lips meet.

He kisses you back immediately—like he’s been waiting, like he’s memorized the rhythm of your laugh just to get here. His hand slides into your hair, other one anchoring at your waist as you shift slightly, leaning into him more. The center console is a pain, but neither of you seem to care.

It’s soft, at first. And then it’s not.

There’s something heady about it like all the teasing and tension and almost-kisses are finally catching up to you in a rush of heat and breath and fingertips that linger just a second longer than they should.

When you finally pull away, your noses still brushing, both of you a little dazed, he grins.

“Okay,” he breathes, “so I’m definitely calling you babe now.”

You laugh, dropping your forehead to his shoulder. “I knew you were going to say that.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, lips warm and slow. “Get used to it, girlfriend.”

=

It’s been a couple of months now.

You’re officially, undeniably, Joshua Hong’s girlfriend—which still feels slightly unreal whenever he smiles at you across a gym mirror like you hung the stars yourself.

Today, he’s in full personal trainer mode Which should be illegal, honestly.

The sleeveless shirt. The backwards cap. The little encouraging claps. The smirk he tries to hide when you’re clearly avoiding the workout he set up for you.

You eye the bench like it just threatened your family.

“Okay,” he says brightly, standing next to it, arms crossed and grinning, “three sets of twelve. You’ve got this.”

You hold your water bottle like a shield. “Can’t we just… not?”

“Baby.”

You pout instantly. “Josh.”

He walks over, lowers his voice into that dangerous territory of sweet and smug. “You said you wanted to work on your arms.”

“Yes, but I didn’t mean today.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You say that every time.”

You take a dramatic step back. “Because every time you try to kill me.”

“It’s literally three sets.”

“Three sets too many!”

“Come on,” he coaxes, reaching for your hand. “I’ll do them with you.”

“You’ll make it look effortless.”

“I’ll pretend to struggle.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s worse.”

He chuckles, catching you by the waist and pulling you toward him. “Baby, please,” he murmurs, leaning down to nuzzle your cheek, voice low and sinful. “You’ll look so good doing them.”

You groan, weak to the way he says it. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re stalling.” He grins, presses a kiss to your temple. “Let’s go. I’ll spot you. We’ll flirt between sets. It’ll be romantic.”

You look up at him, trying to stay strong, but the boyish grin, the arms, the literal audacity of him being this supportive and attractive—it’s too much.

You sigh in surrender. “Fine. But if I start crying, I want bubble tea after.”

He winks. “Deal. But only if you flex for me when we’re done.”

“Joshua!”

“Babe.”

You grab the dumbbells, grumbling under your breath. He’s already standing behind the bench like your biggest fan, hyping you up with a proud grin.

And honestly? He makes it hard to say no.

He’s driving with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on your thigh like it belongs there which, apparently, it does now. The windows are cracked just enough to let in the late evening breeze, your gym bag tucked in the backseat along with your pride.

You're slouched dramatically in the passenger seat, arms crossed, head turned toward the window. “I’m never going to the gym with you again.”

Joshua chuckles under his breath, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “You say that every time.”

You whip your head toward him, scandalized. “Because every time you make me do something that feels like some part of my body will fall off afterwards”

He just grins, full of sunshine and mischief. “And yet, you keep showing up. Interesting.”

“I was sore for three days last week. Three. I couldn’t even reach for my lip balm without my arm threatening to fall off.”

Joshua laughs outright this time, his thumb rubbing lazy circles against your thigh. “You’re being so dramatic.”

“I’m being realistic. I almost saw my ancestors mid shoulder press.”

He’s still laughing when he pulls up to a red light, finally turning to face you fully, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Darling,” he says, voice low and teasing, “you flirted with me at the gym the moment we met.”

You gape at him. “I did not.”

He raises a brow. “You called me ‘Bambi eyes’ to your bestfriend”

Your jaw drops. “That doesn’t count!”

“Oh, it counts.”

“You were wearing that stupid tight shirt!”

He smirks, turning back to the road as the light goes green. “So you were looking.”

You slap his arm lightly. “You’re impossible.”

He chuckles again, sliding his hand back up to lace your fingers with his. “And yet, here you are. In my car. Post-workout. Holding my hand.”

He squeezes your hand, voice softer now. “And you love it.”

You sigh, leaning your head back with a little grin. “Ugh. Unfortunately.”

He glances over at you, and even with just streetlight shadows flickering through the windshield, his smile is pure trouble. “Good. Because I love you right back, sore arms and all.”

=

It’s way too early for anything.

The sun isn’t even fully up, just a soft hint of light peeking through the curtains. The room is still cloaked in that hazy warmth of sleep, all tangled sheets and the familiar scent of him lingering in the air. You’re curled deep into the blanket, refusing to move.

Joshua, however, is shirtless and awake—stretching by the window like it’s normal to be up at this ungodly hour. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, hair a fluffy, sleep-tousled mess, and he’s doing this thing where he rolls his shoulders like he doesn’t know what it does to you.

Menace.

Absolute menace.

You squint at him from your cozy cocoon. “If this is your way of seducing me into jogging, I’m still not going.”

He grins, walking over to your side of the bed with slow, obnoxiously confident steps. “It’s not seduction, babe. It’s encouragement.”

“Encouragement should not involve looking like that while I’m still horizontal and emotionally vulnerable.”

He leans down, brushing his nose against your cheek. “Come run with me. Just fifteen minutes.”

You groan, clutching the blanket tighter. “If my legs weren’t sore from yesterday, I’d consider it.”

Joshua chuckles, voice deep and warm against your skin. “Whose fault is that?”

Your eyes snap open. “Yours. You and your ‘just one more set, babe, you got this’ nonsense. I did not have that.”

“Pretty sure you liked it.”

“Pretty sure you’re single if you don’t let me sleep.”

He laughs again, reaching for your blanket—but you swat his hand away with a sleepy glare. “Don’t you dare.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’ll go suffer by myself. All alone. With no company. No moral support. No—”

“I’ll give you a back massage when you get home,” you mumble, cutting him off.

Silence. You peek one eye open to find him blinking down at you, stunned.

“Full massage,” you add. “Oil and everything. No complaints.”

Joshua narrows his eyes. “You’re bribing me.”

You smile sweetly. “I’m winning.”

He sighs again, much more theatrically this time, and drops back into bed beside you. “Fine. Morning run postponed. I expect thirty minutes, minimum.”

You grin, rolling over to bury your face in his neck. “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Hong.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, voice low and satisfied. “I’m still getting that massage though.”

You hum sleepily. “Mmhm. Only if you promise to stop being hot before 7 a.m.”

Joshua laughs quietly, wrapping his arms around you like he has nowhere else to be. “No promises.”