Oscar narrows his eyes at you, then rolls his shoulders back and nods, having evidently come to a decision. “I bet I can have you swooning like a fan within two weeks,” he declares.
PAIRING: oscar piastri x female reader
GENRE: established relationship, humor (perhaps too much humor sorry i just love to Jest), fluff, romance (they are so in love it's egregious), oscar embracing his full potential as a competitive shit-stirrer
WARNINGS: suggestive content/sexual themes
WORD COUNT: ~5k
A/N: hello hi im insane but im #free. the other day i was thinking of one of the earliest fics i ever read where i was like holy shit this is rly a Craft and that was this fic by November Romeo (yes it's on fanfiction dot net. yes it's a gakuen alice fic. respect ur elders etc.) and then i was like wow i Must put oscar piastri in a similar Situation. all credit where credit is due—the entire premise of the fic u see below, along w/ a few passages of dialogue, are completely inspired by the November Romeo fic! that's all from me. happy reading<33
You’d said it in passing—a casual, offhanded, must-be-the-wind kind of remark. It wasn’t even meant for Oscar’s ears; you’d been joking around with Alex when you said it, during a lull in the annual pre-season F1 photoshoot marathon.
“Really, I guess it’s kind of flattering, in an adjacent kind of way. But to me, he’s just Oscar. And besides, we’ve been together for so long that it hardly registers to me anymore.”
The topic of conversation: a recent upsurge in online adulation for your boyfriend, simply because he’d stepped out in longer hair and pants that fit well. Thirst edits of Oscar had even made their way to Alex’s For You Page; when you look back on this moment, that’s where you’ll pin the blame.
Oscar comes to a cartoonish halt as he’s on his way to the main shoot, limbs frozen mid-gait. “What was that?”
You turn at the sound of his voice and smile warmly at him, a familiar fondness surging through you at the sight of his floppy hair post-helmet fitting. “Oh, hey! All done?”
“Yeah, yeah. What was that? About the, uh, trend in fan interest?” He directs his question at Alex, who looks between the two of you with thinly-veiled amusement before answering.
“They were really into your new look. Hair, pants, you know. But they’re always into you,” Alex allows.
Oscar waves him off good-naturedly. “Cheers, mate. And you said it hardly registers to you anymore?” His attention is now fixed on you, intense and single-minded in a way that makes you squirm a bit—he looks like this whenever he’s set his mind to some new challenge, all steel and sinew.
Still, you laugh, making light of your comment. “That you’re hot? Oh, please. I just meant that I’m used to you, that’s all. I’ve known you for years!”
Oscar spots Lando coming this way and raises his voice slightly to reach the other driver. “Hey, Lando! Do you think I’m hot?”
Lando gives your group a two-fingered salute and replies without even looking up from his phone. “Ask me a serious question.”
Oscar points at him, half triumphant, half accusing. “Lando’s known me for years, too.”
You roll your eyes. “C’mon, Oscar. You were shorter than me when we met, and your sleeves didn’t reach your wrists because your arms were growing faster than your legs. Which was not a deterrent for me, by the way! I had a crush on you even then, way before you had any fans,” you hurry to add.
“But you don’t have a crush on me anymore?” he presses.
“Anymore? What are you talking about—Oscar, we’re dating,” you splutter.
Alex—and Lando, drawn in by his nose for drama and general amusement—watches your exchange like a tennis match.
Oscar narrows his eyes at you, then rolls his shoulders back and nods, having evidently come to a decision. “I bet I can have you swooning like a fan within two weeks,” he declares.
The statement is so absurd and so unlike him that you burst out laughing. “Sorry, what?”
He doesn’t blink. “You heard me. Two weeks, baby. Winner gets to choose what we do for summer break.”
Oh, this is serious. You straighten and put your hands on your hips, projecting a confidence you don’t quite feel. “Deal.”
He winks—winks!—at you before being ushered away to the photoshoot, and you’re left standing there, heat crawling up the back of your neck.
Alex and Lando break, hooting and shrieking with laughter.
“You’re in trouble,” Alex gasps out.
Your jaw drops. “You guys don’t think I can resist swooning for two weeks? When have you ever known me to swoon?”
“I don’t think you can resist a competitive, motivated Oscar for two weeks,” Lando corrects.
As if. You’re a grown woman with a fully developed pre-frontal cortex. You’re made of stronger stuff than that.
As it turns out, you are not made of stronger stuff than that.
“This is ridiculous. This is obscene,” you hiss.
Lily whistles between her teeth. “This is a show, honey. One-man show, sold out just to you.”
The press powers-that-be have decided that the drivers should do individual and group helmet shots this year. Which would be fine, but the photos are being taken in Monaco, on a docked yacht, in full view of the cafe where Oscar had innocently suggested would be good for brunch with the drivers’ partners.
Not so innocent now, you realize, as you’re watching Oscar lift up his goddamn shirt to wipe at the visor of his helmet for a “candid” shot.
His shirt, which can only charitably be called such, because it’s a billowy, practically translucent thing; the kind of white button-down guys wear in the Mediterranean to be allowed to order a drink at the bar, but not much else.
“Where did that shirt even come from? I swear I’ve never seen it in his closet,” you gripe. It’s true—Oscar owns maybe three white button-downs, one-and-a-half of which fit him, all of which are the kind of thick, stiff cotton that needs to be ironed before wear. Nothing approaching the casual elegance of what he’s got now, sea breeze kicking merrily at the hem of his shirt and dancing atop his shoulders.
Alexandra giggles from beside you. “That might be Charles’s fault. Oscar came over last night to borrow a shirt for today’s shoot… and with the way you’re reacting, I’m not sure he’ll want to give it back.”
“I am not reacting—oh my god, Oscar’s going to kill him,” you announce upon seeing Lando douse Oscar thoroughly with a water gun. But instead of grabbing the gun out of Lando’s hands and emptying the whole thing onto his head, as you expect, Oscar just smiles pleasantly and shakes water out of his hair.
You’re instantly suspicious at his lack of put-out, drowned-cat behavior. And your suspicions are proved correct because Oscar makes sure to look directly at you and shrug in an oh, what can you do? kind of way before starting to unbutton his shirt entirely.
Lily and Alexandra are downright cackling now. “I think Oscar’s going to kill you, first,” Lily delights in pointing out.
Her words pretty much go in through one ear and out through another for you. You’re transfixed by the steady, methodical work Oscar’s hands are engaged in now, undoing each button on his (Charles's?) shirt with a dexterity he has no reason to show off for such a menial task. You’re vaguely aware that your jaw is slack and you’re blatantly ogling him, but you can’t help it, not really. A faint smirk graces Oscar’s lips as the last button pops loose; he looks like he was born to do nothing but sit around and be handsome on a yacht, cheeks kissed pink by an obliging sun and your even more obliging attention.
Divine intervention arrives in the form of your waiter, delivering a round of drinks to the table. You thank the waiter far more fervently than is necessary and gulp down half a peach bellini without tasting it.
Lily takes pity on you and offers you a mini fan from her purse, but you wave it away with the grim determination of a soldier heading off to battle. “Oh no,” you insist, “I’m not going down that easy.”
Alexandra muffles a laugh into her drink. “Are you not already down?”
You shoot her a dirty look and refuse to dignify that with an answer.
On the yacht, water drips from Oscar’s hair down the planes of his chest, tracking down terrain you know like gospel. In one smooth movement, he flicks his shirt away from where it’d been sticking to his torso and twists to say something to the photographer, exposing the flex in the obliques along his waist.
Your willpower whimpers.
“Don’t you think you’re laying it on a bit thick?” Lando remarks, eyeing the cafe where the girls are sitting.
Oscar squints at him and resists the urge to put on sunglasses, which he knows would ruin the show he’s putting on for you. “I think there’s a bet on, and all fair’s in love and war.”
Lando tuts sympathetically in your direction. “Poor girl.”
Oscar scoffs. “You’re lucky she’s here; otherwise, I’d have pushed you overboard for that shit with the water gun.”
“Promises, promises. But who knew you had it in you, huh? Where was this energy when we were doing the merch shoot last week?” Lando gestures at Oscar and all of his slick skin and shameless smirking.
“Not like this is my normal state of being. This is the hardest I’ve ever worked for a paycheck.” Even now, Oscar has to resist the urge to hunch into his usual posture.
Charles catches the tail end of his comment and laughs heartily. “Mate, you are so full of it.”
“Sorry, are you seriously talking right now? Guy who’s been voted most handsome on the grid like, every single year?” Oscar grumbles.
Charles clasps a hand to his chest, all aflutter. “Aw, Oscar, I didn’t know you were keeping track like that.”
Oscar rolls his eyes. “Not really much to keep track of if it’s the same every year.”
Charles drops the ingénue act and starts to look at him more thoughtfully. “I thought you didn’t care about stuff like that.”
“I don’t. I care about…” Oscar coughs and refuses to meet anyone’s eyes. “I care about her. What she thinks.”
“Uh, I don’t know if you noticed, but she looks like she wants to jump you.” Lando shades his eyes with his hands to get a better look at you. “Violently or sexually, or both—hard to say.”
“You have such a way with words,” Oscar deadpans, resisting the urge to see for himself. “Anyways, she said she’s used to me.”
Charles shakes his head. “You can’t tell me you actually believe that.”
“Not for a second, but—” Oscar sighs and gives in to the urge to look at you. Even from this distance, he can tell that you’re flustered, and that sends a jolt of self-satisfaction through him. His mouth curls into a grin, boyish and playful as he mouths the words Hi, baby, to you.
You turn away instantly, and he laughs out loud. No, you have never given Oscar a reason to feel insecure in his relationship or in himself. And he’s glad that you like him—love him—for all the right reasons. His ambition, his level head, the way he treats others, and even his dry-ass sense of humor. Still, level as his head may be, he’s also young and in love, and his pre-frontal cortex is not yet fully developed, so yes, he thinks it’d be nice to hear that you like him for all the superficial reasons, too.
“—but this is kinda fun, anyways,” he finishes.
Down at the cafe, your heart is thrumming like a snare drum even as you refuse to look at Oscar. “I cannot believe him,” you say, trying to sound indignant and ending up somewhere near breathy.
Alexandra pats your hand, placating. “Oh, have some mercy. He’s suffering just for you.”
“Suffering? The guy’s on a yacht. In Monaco.”
“Yeah, and do you think he’d ever be caught dead behaving like this for anyone else?” Lily levels you with a knowing look.
“Well… no,” you’re forced to admit. “But that doesn’t excuse his behavior!"
“God forbid your boyfriend tries to seduce you,” Lily agrees archly.
“He doesn’t need to seduce me—he already has me!” you cry.
“Right, so… tell him that.” Alexandra, ever the voice of reason.
You whip around and glare at her. “And lose the bet? Absolutely not.”
She sighs and tosses her hands up. “I give up. You guys are made for each other.”
Inexorably, your gaze swings back to Oscar on the yacht, where he’s leaning back against the railing of the top deck, shirt lifted by the wind. A hum of pure delight escapes you at the welcome sight. Yeah, you’re made for each other, alright. You watch appreciatively as Oscar cocks his head to receive an instruction from the photographer, but then he’s tossing his shirt aside and—oh dear god, he’s diving off the boat, one perfect arc slicing through the glittering Mediterranean sea.
You toss back the rest of your drink and slam it down on the table. “We’re leaving,” you grit out.
In the immediate aftermath of Oscar’s… performance on the yacht, he has wisely chosen to ease his foot off of the drive-my-girlfriend-insane pedal. But he’s only human, and his conscious choices must yield to his unconscious instincts, so when he gets a series of dramatic texts from you about severing all of your blood ties (read: you’re helping plan your sister’s wedding, and both her and your mother are being nightmares about it), it’s instinct that pushes his bottom lip out just slightly (a pout by any other name) for your plight.
It’s instinct that drives him to scour the high-brow Monaco grocery aisles for your favorite boxed mac-and-cheese and tomato soup, it’s instinct (and maybe a bit of his own sweet tooth) that stops him in front of a display of chocolate flowers, and it’s instinct that carries him through sniffing approximately thirty candles to find the one he thinks you’ll like most.
His own desires come into the mix when you arrive home and he kisses you hello, slow and indulgent, but that’s instinct, too; kissing you has always felt like the natural conclusion to where his body should end and yours should begin. And he knows exactly how to kiss you mindless, so he luxuriates in it, draws it out like molasses, a masterclass in heat and sensation.
When he finally pulls himself back from the trembling pulse in your neck, some indeterminate amount of time later, he’s pleased to see that your eyes have gone hazy and heavy-lidded, all thoughts of cake flavors and tablecloth colors purged by his wandering mouth.
“Hi,” you breathe out, slightly hoarse. The problem with being so hopelessly in love with your boyfriend is that it really doesn’t take much to set you off. The kiss—all of the kisses—were spectacular, of course, and he’s managed to take you so completely out of your head that you’re surprised to discover you’re still splayed against the door, purse and keys and shopping bags perilously close to dropping from your suddenly loose limbs.
But it’s really the fact that you’ve caught the scent of some woodsy candle in the air, and you can see a spot of tomato soup at the hem of his shirt and another of cheese powder at the collar, and you can taste chocolate on his tongue—all of that, and the care and devotion it entails, is really what warms your chest and weakens your knees.
“Hi,” he returns, grin lopsided and arms solid around you, so steady and reliable that you have to reconsider your aversion to swooning.
The worst—best?—part is that he won’t hold you against your bet for finding him so unbelievably attractive right now, because he doesn’t even know. He has no idea that he’s doing anything remarkable; to him, all of this is just instinct.
“I love you,” you sigh, awash in contentment.
He hums a tuneless agreement into your hair. “Double it and give it to the next person.”
And then there’s that infamous sense of humor. You pinch his waist lightly in retaliation, but he sees that coming from a mile away and dodges easily to plant a kiss on your forehead instead.
“Silly, you’re the next person,” he tells you, unabashedly fond even as his hand slips up your inner thigh, and yep, that’s it—dinner can wait.
The next time is all premeditated—no instinct, just strategy.
Step 1: Find an event to go to that requires him to wear a suit. This would normally be the opposite of enticing to him, but he knows the cards he can play, and well-fitting formalwear is at the top of the deck.
He tries to be subtle about it, bringing it up one morning when you’re getting ready in the bathroom. He tells you that Hattie’s been bugging him for weeks to take her to this charity gala where one of the K-pop groups she likes will be in attendance. This is all true, but this is also where he makes his first fatal mistake:
“ENHYPEN?!” Your shriek makes him wince.
“Uh, yes, do you know them?”
“Oscar.” You throw him a withering look. “Do I know them? Yes, you idiot. I know them. Honestly, what a question. Of course I’ll go with you! Oh my god, I should text Hattie to see what she’s wearing…” And then you’re bustling away, and he’s left blinking at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Step 2: Acquire aforementioned well-fitting formalwear. This isn’t the kind of thing where he can just go borrow something from Charles, and while Charles would probably still be his first choice for the daunting task of shopping, the man is out of town this weekend.
So, Oscar is left with some knockoff of the Three Musketeers: George, Alex, and Lando. That’s his second fatal mistake.
“I didn’t actually ask you two to come,” Oscar makes a point of saying to Alex and Lando.
Lando sniffs. “I take offense to that.”
“Yeah, you were meant to. I’m not about to show up to this thing in a fluorescent bowtie.”
“Not that I have one, but I’d rock a fluorescent bowtie.”
Alex holds up his hands. “I’m just here because I was with George when you called him. Also, my sister wants Niki’s autograph, so do me a solid, yeah?”
“Once you told me what was going on, I knew I needed to call in reinforcements,” George—the only one Oscar had asked for help—explains.
Although, Oscar is now feeling a bit dubious about George’s judgement. “Alex and Lando are your reinforcements?”
“Not for style. Don’t be ridiculous. Just for this—here, make yourself useful.” George grabs five suits from a rack and dumps them in Lando’s arms.
Lando grunts under the sudden weight. “You know there are employees in this very expensive store who get paid absurd amounts of money to do this?”
George dismisses him with a flick of his wrist. “I made a private styling appointment, without any employees, for a reason.” He grabs Alex’s arm and starts draping ties over it.
“Actually, why did you ask the employees to leave?” Oscar’s curious, too.
George turns to him with utmost seriousness. “Oscar, I’m a good mate. I’m not about to let more strangers know the exact extent of your sad wardrobe.”
Damn. Oscar really should have waited for Charles to come back to town.
Oscar loses the plot somewhere around Step 3, which was probably going to be something like marvel at how hot your girlfriend is when she asks you to pick a dress.
As it is, he expresses his appreciation into the swell of your chest and the cradle of your hips on the morning of the gala, and you’re more than happy to accommodate.
“This doesn’t count for the bet, by the way,” you remind him. But the words come out on a moan, so it’s not your most convincing effort.
Oscar pulls his head up to huff a tiny laugh into your belly button. “You really wanna argue about that now?”
“Well, opportunities multiply as they’re seized."
He laughs fully at that one. “What?”
With no small degree of smugness, you inform him, “Sun Tzu. All’s fair in love and war, right?”
“Oh my god, did Lando snitch?” Miffed, Oscar pushes himself up on his elbows and frowns at you.
“Obviously. And he told me about your shopping trip, too!”
Oscar blows out a breath and collapses back into you. “Turncoat.”
You smooth down the ruffled hair at the top of his head. “If it’s any consolation, he traded me information for a Sunoo autograph for his sister.”
“Believe it or not, that offers me no consolation whatsoever.” Oscar sighs. “This whole gala thing is kind of backfiring on me, isn’t it?”
“A little, but then again, you get to see me in a dress I look killer in. There are worse fates.”
He presses a kiss into your sternum and smirks at the shiver that goes down your spine. Yeah, there are definitely worse fates.
This is something he has to remind himself of, many hours later, when he’s being coaxed through the motions of a 30-second TikTok dance by Jake Sim, who is displaying an admirable level of patience with him. That had been Oscar’s third fatal mistake: abiding by some vague sense of patriotism and Jake’s promise that the dance would be “easy” and “fun!”
“Sorry, dancing’s not really my thing,” Oscar apologizes for the umpteenth time after stepping on Jake’s foot.
Jake waves the apology away easily. “Nah, dude, you’re doing great! And I could never do what you do, trust me. Maybe we can try the dance again, at point-two-five speed this time…”
Halfway across the room, you and Hattie watch with rapt fascination as Oscar attempts some kind of body roll, which sets you both off into hysterics.
“This is like Christmas, my birthday, and every other holiday rolled into one,” Hattie chortles.
“He is never going to live this down,” you wheeze.
Hattie nods sagely. “Many such cases.”
She continues to giggle as she pulls out her phone to film the whole ordeal, which is just as well because your amusement has turned syrupy sweet for your stiff-limbed boyfriend, whose face is bright red but is still trying so hard to do right by his countryman, his sister, and everyone else counting on him as an autograph conduit.
This is what gets to you: he will grit his teeth through public humiliation if he has a promise to keep, and he will complete a task with equal parts dorkiness and sincerity, and he will never be anything less than your favorite person. So, yeah, you aren’t swooning, but your heart goes tender at the sight of him putting in the effort, anyways.
Oscar is appropriately dramatic about his suffering when he returns ten minutes later and drops his head into the crook of your neck. “We should burn down TikTok,” he groans.
You pat the back of his head fondly. “Don’t quit your day job, baby. And don’t make your day job fire you for arson, either.”
“I’m going to play this video at your wedding,” Hattie declares gleefully.
Oscar discreetly points his middle finger at her. “Not if I don’t invite you.”
The unspoken when—not if—of marriage has long been acknowledged between you and Oscar, but it still sends a little jolt through you every time. This is the person you will spend the rest of your life with, and if you are lucky, there will be many people who have equal longevity in your life, but there is only one Oscar. There is only one person who looks at you like you’ve inspired him to dream new dreams, only one person who has rewritten the rhythm of your heart to beat in time with his, only one person whose guiding star trails after the ones he sees in your eyes.
What is the point of swooning when this is the magnitude of what you feel for him, when you know the magnitude of what he feels for you?
It’s a rhetorical question, but it’s one that you answer for yourself an hour later, when he tosses the car keys to Hattie for the drive back home.
She shrieks, “Really? You’ll let me drive?”
“It’s a rental, obviously. But yes, I know you’ve always wanted to drive in Monaco. Don’t tell Mom,” he tacks on at the end, watching her get in the driver's seat with a shake of his head.
“Wow, somebody call the press! Never thought I’d see the day when you give up the keys,” you joke.
He pulls you close and murmurs the next words against your ear, raising goosebumps along your arms. “Would you believe me if I said I had ulterior motives?”
“What kind of ulterior motives—oh.” The breath gets knocked out of you when he pushes you gently into the backseat of the car, a knowing look in his eye.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice how you’ve been shifting on your feet all night, baby.” He gets down and starts undoing the intricate laces of your heels. “I thought you were going to get rid of these after how much they bothered you at the FIA ceremony.”
You melt into the seat; he’s so fucking dreamy like this, striking in a sharp suit, all clean lines and expensive tailoring. But more than that, it’s the way he dropped to his knees without a second thought, without regard to the gravel and dirt now rubbing against his multi-thousand-dollar pants, all because your feet hurt, and he noticed. He noticed even before the ache in your soles registered to you.
One shoe comes off, and then he’s pressing a kiss into your ankle with a wicked smile. “What’s got you so tongue-tied, hm?”
You release your bottom lip from where you’d been biting it between your teeth, watching him. “Maybe I should keep the shoes, if I get to see you like this.”
The other shoe comes off, punctuated with a kiss to your other ankle. “You know I’d get on my knees for you any time, gorgeous.”
There’s nothing appropriate you can say in response to that, so you just try to trap the whimper in your throat as best as you can.
Your shoes dangle from his fingers when he gets in the car, and then he’s pulling up the privacy divider and kissing you with such intensity that it makes you gasp, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he owns it, teeth catching on your bottom lip and digging in right where yours left a mark earlier. It’s over as quickly as it began (he still has some sense of decorum), but he makes it one of the hottest moments of your life, and you think you could live inside of it forever.
When he pulls away, he rubs his thumb over the wet shine of your mouth and grins smugly at the shudder it elicits from you. “Messy girl,” he coos, sucking his thumb into his own mouth just to see you squirm again.
“Oh, god,” you say finally, with feeling. You'd have swooned if you hadn't already been sitting.
“Nah, just Oscar,” he corrects, cheeky.
The coup de grâce comes a week later.
Frankly, you’d kind of forgotten about the bet in that week, because it’s the lead-up to the Australian Grand Prix, and Oscar’s heart has been broken here too many times for you to think about anything else.
He’s a good sport about it and always has been, so you also try to be casual about it throughout the week, like you couldn’t care less how he does on Saturday. In the grand scheme of things, you don’t care; he has been beloved to you long before he ever got into an F1 car, and he will always shine so brightly to you, no matter what he does on track. But you know the enormity of the hunger that hums underneath his skin whenever he’s in Albert Park—the scale of his hope, the reach of his longing.
You want it because he wants it, and even then, you know your want is only a shadow of his. Still, your heart pounds in your ears through all 58 laps, a constant drumbeat of please, please, please, as if the circuit can hear you. Please be kind to him. Please let me see that once-in-a-lifetime smile again.
The unbelievable, dizzying speed of this sport contradicts itself at the end. When Oscar’s car crosses the finish line in P1, the world goes slow-motion around you as bedlam of the best kind erupts. His sisters are shrieking, jumping up and down, and his parents are crying freely, but all you see is him, getting out of the car and raising his fists to the crowd, which roars its approval back tenfold.
You’re running to him before anyone can stop you, everything other than him fading to background noise. He whoops when you jump into his arms, and though he still has his helmet on, you know there’s that once-in-a-lifetime smile underneath it. And so goes your white flag, waving in defeat. He was right—he’d have you swooning within two weeks.
Really, it was a losing battle from the start. You’d been naive to think otherwise; after all, you’re so goddamn in love with him. Later, you’ll tell him all of this, and more. But for now…
If you’re going down, you’re going down swinging.
“Oscar,” you begin, all bravado and command. “Get ready to catch me.”
He barely has time to splutter out a muffled What? behind his helmet before you’re pitching yourself backwards.
Thank god for racing reflexes; he catches you one-handed, just inches from the ground. You pop a leg up for him to hold by his waist, just for the drama of it all, and then you press a kiss to his helmet.
The moment is picture-perfect; indeed, a thousand camera shutters go off around you. But his world has narrowed just to you, dazzling and breathless, so lovely it makes his chest ache, makes his whole body remember that gravity is tethered to wherever you’re standing.
Oh, he thinks, you are so dear to me.
He has spent two weeks peacocking and preening, putting on airs designed specifically to get under your skin, tempting you with sin and seduction, turning you molten with a flicker of his gaze, a whisper of his touch. Even after all of that, it only takes a few words from you to bring him to his knees.
And the next words out of your mouth are made for him: “Hi there, hometown hero. I’m so proud of you.”
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You’re in the same room as Lando, and he’s not trying to get your attention. Which is weird, because: 1) for the first ten years you’d known him, that’s all he ever did, and 2) for the first time, you want him to do it again.
PAIRING: lando norris x female reader
GENRE: childhood frenemies-to-lovers and/or idiots-to-lovers (lando is an irritance-to-lover) in the style of jily (though this is not actually a hogwarts au), mutual pining but even more so from professional yearner lando norris, fluff, romance, non-f1 au, kinda vaguely academia au in the sense that they're in grad school bc i love to Project ( – girl who's so close to graduating it's freaking me out)
WARNINGS: none really but ig some metaphors for love that toe the line of graphic
WORD COUNT: ~5k
You’re in the same room as Lando, and he’s not trying to get your attention. Which is weird, because: 1) for the first ten years you’d known him, that’s all he ever did, and 2) for the first time, you want him to do it again.
The Lando who used to perform all sorts of antics just to get you to look at him—pranks, speeches, elaborate displays of sentiment, and, once, a backflip that landed him in the hospital—is all grown up now, you suppose. You should be happy for him; he looks like the person you always imagined he could become, if only he could get his head out of whatever dumbass plan he had most recently concocted to ask you out.
And you are—happy for him, that is. Really, you are.
Certainly, his childish declarations of affection had been a constant source of vexation when you first experienced them so long ago; you remember thinking that he must be making fun of you, the new kid who didn’t know anybody in a neighborhood where people had been going to the same schools and hanging out with the same friends since they were in diapers. But over time, Lando’s persistence—and general willingness to look like a fool—in his pursuit of you made it clear that he wasn’t doing it just to tease you. So you figured that he just liked attention, and he’d do anything to catch yours when you were so unwilling to give it—after all, he loved a challenge.
You never took him seriously. Maybe you should have, because honestly, who pursues a girl for ten years, in the face of rejection after rejection, in the face of wasted time and effort and broken bones?
But it was always easier to assume that he just liked attention, and he just loved a challenge. Easier to assume that it had nothing to do with you; he didn’t like you, and he didn’t love you.
Harder to sustain this assumption once you started college at the same school and the world of people you knew exploded exponentially, and the number of people who couldn’t care less what Lando did exploded exponentially, as well. There were plenty of other uninterested girls at college (though they were outnumbered by the interested ones—a fact you recall with misplaced bitterness now), but Lando kept up his bi-weekly attempts to ask you out.
Halfway through college, all of that suddenly just stopped. You’ve never asked or understood why; you only know that one day, Lando stopped trying to seek you out in every free moment. It had been a welcome reprieve, at first. Then, one of your best friends started dating one of his, and you started seeing each other in that peripheral kind of way, but Lando was finally, well, normal around you. Eventually, you had developed a friendly enough relationship that you were glad to have gotten into the same university for graduate school as him, and you even found apartments in the same building.
All to say: Lando has grown up. Not just mentally, but physically, as well. You’re not sure if grad school is driving you crazy (it is) or if it’s just because of all the time you now spend together, but lately, you’ve been driven to distraction by how his limbs, once an awkward extension of his body that he barely knew how to control, now move with fluid grace whenever he picks up your books and puts them in your backpack for you; how his hands span so much of the steering wheel when he’s driving you anywhere; how the vein in his neck that pulses whenever he gets worked up about something is just so biteable.
How his eyes have never changed—always inquisitive and attentive, shining brightest whenever he looks at you.
Okay. It’s possible that you’re in too deep.
Certainly, you’re well past any right to his affection. He’s been over you for many years now, if his behavior is anything to go by. And sure, he picks up your books for you, and he looks at you with star-streaked eyes, but Lando is kind to everyone. Even when he was at the peak of his obnoxious declarations of love to you (there was an incident in your high school science classroom involving thousands of fake rose petals, candles, and a chemical fire), you had taken note of his considerate nature (he worked with the janitor after school every day until he graduated—long after his mandated detention days for the fire). Lando gave you the most attention, but that never meant that everyone else fell to the wayside; he carried bandaids in his pockets for people who tripped over the notoriously loose tiles in your high school atrium, he raised his hand in class just to say that he heard Oscar make a really good comment— hey, Oscar, what was that again?, and he slow-danced with the girl at prom who caught her boyfriend cheating on her moments before. Even you had been impressed by that.
So, you aren’t going to delude yourself into thinking that he still has any feelings for you. He’s just being Lando: kind, considerate, himself.
It sucks.
It sucks, because Lando is part of your everyday life now, and even if you had previously suspected the goodness of his heart, you would never have guessed how deep it ran. Lando has been by your side through every should-I-drop-out-of-grad-school crisis, sent you class notes every time you’re out because you’re sick or exhausted (or sick with exhaustion), made you laugh until you cried with his stupid impersonations of your professors; all this, and you know he’s just doing it out of the goodness of his heart. Because you’re friends, and you’ve known each other since fifth grade, and he’s loyal and nice.
So. Good for Lando. All grown up now, mature and intelligent and all kinds of attractive, and that’s the real problem, isn’t it? You’ve stumbled your way into some kind of horribly mistimed feelings for him, and you can’t even blame him—he’s just being Lando.
Lando, who no longer enters every room with his head on a swivel to spot you. Lando, freshly a year older as of twelve hours ago, laughing and joking amongst his friends at this arcade bar you reserved for his birthday. Lando, not looking at you at all now because his attention is fixed on the girl in front of him who is asking for his help on Tetris, probably. Which is dumb, because it’s Tetris—everyone knows how to play Tetris, and okay, fine, you’re petty and you’re too late, and you’ve spent years deafening yourself to the beating, complicated thing in your chest because you didn’t understand it.
And still, here you are, wishing that it could be you, standing there and glowing under the warmth of his regard.
Something in your stomach twists at the way he leans in closer to hear the girl; your friends and his are too damn loud. Your stomach drops completely when you see her mouth move away from his ear to press a kiss to his cheek, and then you’ve done a 180° turn without even realizing it. You don’t want to see whatever comes next, even though you should be happy for Lando. Birthday hookup, or something.
You know you’re being unfair—for all you know, this could be the start of a beautiful relationship. It’s not like Lando to do no-strings-attached, you guess. You can only guess, because for the longest time, the only heartstrings he reached for were yours.
And that brings you back to square one: you’re too late. He doesn’t have feelings for you anymore, and it’s entirely his prerogative to meet a nice girl at a bar and fall in love with her and be on his merry way.
Actually—you should be on your merry way. You’ve never had a good poker face. Anyone who looked at you right now would be able to see how upset you are, let alone Lando, who spent all of his formative years looking at you.
You start trying to find the nearest, most inconspicuous exit, and if that happens to be the exit nearest to Lando, then you’ll find the next nearest, most inconspicuous exit—
“Leaving so soon?”
Shit.
Lando can feel your eyes drilling into the side of his head.
Truthfully, he can tell whenever you even chance a glance at him; like a sunflower following the sun, he is dutifully attuned to your every movement. He’s as helpless as a sunflower against the sun, too—it has been well over a decade since he saw you tear into a much older kid on the playground after they made fun of fellow new kid Oscar Piastri’s accent, and Lando has been helplessly, foolishly, unbelievably in love with you ever since. He has long since relinquished the notion that he owns his own heart. The sun rises in the east, and as the sunflowers give themselves over to its arc across the sky, Lando gives his heart to you.
(Really, Lando doesn’t understand how Oscar didn’t fall in love with you on the playground. When he asked Oscar about this, Oscar pulled a horrified face and assured Lando that he values his life and you are, frankly, incredibly scary. You also treat Oscar like a wayward child most of the time, so Lando supposes Oscar can be forgiven for not seeing your obvious charms. For one, Lando likes your… assertiveness. Oscar says Lando has no self-preservation instincts, but Lando has no need for any instinct that isn’t loving you.)
All to say: Lando would know if your eyes fell upon him even if by accident, even if only for a second, so the way you’ve been burning a hole into his temple for the past five minutes is blaring an alarm signal in his mind.
The girl in front of him is saying something about… something. He doesn’t want to be rude; she’s a guest at his birthday party (though he’s struggling to place how he knows her), and he should listen to what she’s saying. He leans in closer to the girl, hoping that he can pick up enough context clues to figure out what he’s been nodding and hmm-ing and ahh-ing about this whole time, but it’s futile—he can’t focus on anything when you’re staring at him like this.
Eventually, he manages to disentangle himself from the conversation (it was about air fryers, towards the end), and he thinks he’s home free to go check on you, but the girl stops him with a kiss on the cheek. Lando freezes, and then she’s asking him about coffee, and he can’t believe this is happening to him—air fryer girl is asking him out on a date?
He wants to laugh out loud because it’s so ludicrous. The first time he ever got asked out was senior year of college. Before that, his obvious (and obviously pathetic) crush on you was a pretty effective blocker for any other interested parties. Since then, he can still count on his fingers the number of times he’s been asked out, because soon after he stopped publicly humiliating himself to get your attention, the two of you actually became friends. Your friendship is the best thing that has ever happened to him, and he knows it shows on his face whenever he’s near you. So that has been a pretty effective blocker as well; he’s still the village fool for you, but now you call him an idiot with affection in your voice, and he walks on clouds because of it. Sure, you don’t see his heart on his sleeve, but most people do.
Air fryer girl joins the ranks of the few who don’t see, or don’t care, and he would be mildly impressed with her forwardness if he wasn’t itching to get over to you and ask if you’re okay.
“So, what do you say?” Air fryer girl smiles at him.
Lando cringes internally at what’s about to happen. He’s not even sure exactly what question she asked (so stunned was he by the prospect of getting hit on), but he has a pretty good sense. And he knows what his answer is going to be, and it isn’t pretty. “I’m sorry…” He struggles for her name, then drops his head into his hands when her face falls. “I’m sorry!” he repeats, properly anguished now. “I promise I’m not normally an asshole who forgets people’s names, but you can totally think that of me, if you want. Yeah, actually, you should tell your friends I’m the worst—”
“Lando.” Air fryer girl interrupts him with a hand to his arm. She looks amused now, which is better than heartbroken, he supposes. “You haven’t actually told me what you’re sorry about, yet.”
“Oh.” He blinks rapidly at her. “Yeah, sorry. Um, I was just going to apologize, because I can’t go out with you—not because of you, or anything! You’re wonderful, I’m sure, but honestly, I’ve been in love with the same girl since I was 10, and we’re not even together, so… yeah.” He scratches the back of his head. “It’s not you, it’s me?” He offers.
She bursts out laughing and pats him on the arm before releasing him. “Don’t worry about it, Lando. Seriously, I’m glad you feel comfortable enough to, uh, share your decades-long love story with me, but I just asked you out because I think you’re cute, and I had a nice time tonight. No hard feelings, alright? Happy birthday!” She waves at him as she leaves, and he has to remind himself to pick his jaw up off the floor.
He forgets that other people can just do that— ask someone out, casually, like it’s nothing. Like they’re not putting their heart on the line every time, gambling away their sanity on a hope and a prayer. He would say that he’d like to achieve that level of offhand breeziness one day, but he wouldn’t mean it. Being in love with you is Sisyphean, sure, but he’s not sure it would feel true or real any other way. Not to him, at least.
And that reminds him: where the hell are you? He knows you stopped staring at him a minute or so ago, so he can’t imagine that you’ve gotten very far…
He catches sight of the back of your head worming your way through a crowd, towards the doors that lead out into the terrace. He thinks that’s a bit strange because there’s a light dusting of snow outside and you don’t have a jacket, and aren’t you going to be chilly? Should he bring you his coat? It’d be a shame to cover up the hypnotic expanse of your backless top, but he doesn’t want you to freeze, and—
For christ’s sake, mate, get it together.
It’s possible that his brain is a bit scrambled from all the joy of tonight. You’d organized this surprise birthday party, filled with his favorite people and favorite things, all for him. The high school version of him, who had lived off of scraps of your attention, could have never dreamed of such a privilege. Even the college version of him, who had eventually realized he should try to be your friend instead of continuing this foolish crusade to win your heart, would have laughed at the idea that you might one day do so much just to make him happy.
Nowadays, he still marvels at the thought that you text him play-by-plays of your favorite podcasts, and he gets to hand you a warm drink when you refuse to order anything that isn’t iced even in the dead of winter, and his shoulder is where your head falls when you doze off in the library.
Oh, unrequited love has its place in his heart still. Of course it does. The wayward, puppy-dog adoration of his childhood and the heart-pounding, all-consuming infatuation of his later youth has only smoothed out into a more steadfast, deeper devotion. He knows himself well enough by now to understand that he may well be in love with you for the rest of his life, and he will bear that blessed pain with a smile on his face. You will never look at him with anything more than fond friendship, and he may one day see you walk down the aisle towards someone else, and he will still be grateful just to know you and love you. Because he’s never going to put the weight of his feelings on your shoulders again. After a decade of it, the last thing he ever wants to do is force you to soothe the ache in his chest, to give resolution to the breath he’s always holding in around you. He will love you like this—in suffering silence, in loyal anonymity, in permanent secrecy. And it will hurt him good, like that first, clean inhale of ice-cold air in the winter, crisp and addictive even as it slices through his lungs; a pain he continues to chase because he needs it to breathe, to live.
So. He’s fucked, basically. But what else is new? As it is, he’s got more pressing issues to deal with—
—such as catching you just before you leave and delivering what he hopes is a casual, “Leaving so soon?”
You whirl around with a look of guilty surprise on your face. “Lando!” you squeak out. “When did you get here?”
“Hours ago? You came in with me? Blindfolded me, the whole nine yards?” He grins. “Good job with all that, by the way—I didn’t suspect a thing. And I know you said to stop thanking you, but seriously, thank you. This party is mint. You’re a proper good mate for organizing all this, yeah?”
You nod dully. “That’s me. A proper good mate. But I meant when did you get here as in, uh, when did you leave your… interested prospect?”
He stares blankly at you. “What?”
“What?” you parrot back.
Something in the look on your face makes him nervous, loosens his tongue, like he’s 17 years old and asking you to the prom again. He’s older now, and he hopes he’s just enough wiser that he won’t be surprised if you’re about to say something that will break his heart just like the last time. Certainly, his heart will break no matter what; that’s a foregone conclusion.
Still, his voice wavers on his next words. “C’mon, sweetheart. You’ve always been too smart for me; I reckon you’ll have to spell it out for me, yeah? What’s gotten into you?”
Instantly, a frown sets in between your eyebrows. “Don’t say that. I hate it when you say that shit, Lando.”
Impatience—and a little bit of anger he thinks he deserves to feel—bleeds through. “What have I done now to make you hate me?” Desperately, he thinks, I thought we were good! I’ve been so good! Really, it has been almost two years of comfortable, steady friendship, and he has been so good, so careful about easing you into his life and doling out his affection, holding back the momentum of the heart that strains through his ribs for all that it wants to be held by you.
Not a single word of his wanting, his aching, his wounded hoping—not a single word has escaped from where he keeps it all clenched behind his teeth. He’d rather bite his tongue bloody than see you distressed over how to ease the blow of another rejection.
And that’s the worst part, because now that he knows you, really knows you, he’s sure you would try to be gentle about it. Maybe you’d even try to meet him halfway—suffer through a few dates with him, fret over why it wasn’t working, or, god forbid, try to convince yourself to feel something for him. But the chasm between what he feels for you and whatever platonic fondness you may feel for him is so wide that it’s laughable, and he’d sooner throw himself over the edge than watch you try to cross that distance to fulfill some sense of obligation.
Even now, he can see a shine in your eyes that indicates you’re about to cry, and he hates himself for it. “No, hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” He hugs you before he can stop himself.
You sniffle angrily and push back against his chest. “Don’t apologize to me, either! You’ve done nothing wrong, Lando!”
“W-What?” Now he looks like he’s about to cry, though he thinks he can’t be blamed for it; you’ve been giving him such emotional whiplash in the last few hours.
“I hate it when you joke about not being smart,” you snap. “You are. You work twice as hard as anyone else to get through the same material, and you never complain, and you have better things to say than all the rest of them put together. You—you have a wonderful mind, Lando. Anyone who ever made you think otherwise—that’s who I hate. Not you. Never you.”
This is just about the last thing he could have ever predicted you would say. He’s so dumbfounded that all he can do for a few seconds is stare at you, jaw slack.
The silence stretches on for long enough that you start to ramble, digging your own grave as you go. “To be clear, I kind of hate myself, too, for every time I insulted your intelligence because I didn’t know what else to say. It was never true. And if you don’t believe me, just ask the girl you were talking to earlier! I guarantee she wasn’t just talking to you because you’re a pretty face. Not that you aren’t pretty. You’re definitely, uh, fine to look at. I guess. And she was gorgeous, too. It’s great! The two of you will have beautiful and intelligent children. If you want to have biological children, which you don’t have to, of course. I respect your choices.”
By the end of it all, your cheeks are burning with humiliation, and you’re pretty sure you should never open your mouth again. In that moment, you're willing to believe that nothing so graceless and awkward has been spoken in all of history.
Lando bursts out laughing, all high-pitched and near cackling with it. He laughs with such little abandon that you can’t help but smile in response, hesitant and bewildered but defenseless to the soundtrack of his joy; you’d like to play it on repeat, every day of your life.
“Oh my god," he gasps, when he’s finally finished laughing. “That’s who you were talking about? My ‘interested prospect’? Air fryer girl?”
Your smile stays somewhat bewildered as he explains his near-death experience (getting asked out), but then your whole face freezes in some garish caricature of amusement when he ends his story with this: “… and I mean seriously, I don’t know how you put up with me all of those years. I get asked out once, and I swear it took a year off of my lifespan. I think I owe you, like, life insurance payments or something. Thank god I got over myself, right?” He throws you a conspiratorial grin, as if you’re in on the joke instead of watching the tiny flame of hope you've been harboring in secret now go dark, snuffed out cheerfully by Lando Norris.
“Seriously, I don’t know what air fryer girl was thinking,” Lando continues on, oblivious to your internal turmoil. “Everyone knows I’m not available. I mean, I’m single, sure, but in all the ways that matter, I’m really quite useless for anyone who isn’t you. That ship sailed a long time ago—” He stops himself several moments too late. Then, he lets out a strangled laugh, tinged with panic. “Which is what I would say if I was in high school! You know, something about a group of friends getting together for a birthday just makes me so nostalgic. Really brings me back to the good ol’ days, which I guess were not so good for you because I couldn’t shut up about you or around you. Fuck, I’m not doing a great job of that right now either, am I?”
Long, rambling monologues destined for doom seem to be the theme tonight, but his words stopped making sense to you as soon as he alluded to… Maybe, could it be possible that he still…?
“Lando,” you say, tremulous. “What are you saying?”
“Just that I’m an idiot,” he declares. “Um, not in the way where I’m calling myself dumb. Thank you, I learned my lesson there. And later, I should thank you for saying all that stuff about me. My intelligence. It means a lot to me. A lot. But right now, I’m just saying that my mouth ran away from me, and you should forget what I said!” Nervously, he laughs again.
“Lando,” you repeat, more firmly now. “I don’t want to forget what you said. About me, and why you’d be useless for anyone else. Can you please, please tell me what you meant? I know it’s not my birthday, and you don’t owe me anything, but… please.”
He stares at you, at the emotions flashing by in your eyes too quickly for him to name, at the earnest, beseeching press of your hands against his chest. He isn’t stupid (and he knows you don’t think he is, either). He knows what you’re asking him. Of him.
You are asking for the truth, and the truth is a tangle of emotions he has known and held for so long it feels like an old friend now. Thanks to you, he even knows its name, because at 15 years old, all clumsy and tender-hearted, he had picked up your favorite Jane Austen book in hopes of understanding you better, or at least having something in common to talk about. It took him weeks and weeks of reading with his fingers tracing over each letter, laboring through language from a time long ago, and he didn’t even end up talking to you about it because the meaning he had grasped from it felt far too precious—too serious, too real, too close to the marrow of him—for the spectacles he put on for you as a smokescreen for what he couldn’t say.
The words beat a drum inside his chest now, steady and unmistakable.
If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.
What comes out of his mouth instead is a poor imitation: “You’re not going to make me say it, are you?”
Confusion mars your forehead. “Say what? Lando, what is it?”
He closes his eyes and thinks about the first real smile you ever gave him, a few days into fifth grade, fingers sticky and shy as you’d accepted the cookie he offered you at lunch when he’d noticed you staring longingly at it. When he opens his eyes, he doesn’t really mean to compare himself to a cookie, but he thinks there’s something similar to the way you’re looking at him now: a bright, innocent kind of wanting, hope so delicate it shimmers like gossamer.
He hadn’t been able to resist you back then, and he certainly can’t now, not when you’re like this, all lovelorn and lovely.
So that’s it, then. He’s resigned to his fate, and he salutes himself to it.
In the end, it only takes a few breaths: “I’ve been saying it all along, sweetheart. Maybe not in so many words—mostly in a lot of other, roundabout words, actually. But it’s quite simple: I’m in love with you.”
“Still?” you ask. You’re halfway there, but you need to be sure.
He shrugs, grinning wryly. “Still. Bit terminal, I’m afraid.”
He’s ready to assure you that it doesn’t have to mean anything to you, and he’ll never mention it again, and nothing needs to change between you, but the words fail him, because you’re kissing him in the next breath, and he’s kissing you back, and it is—
Everything. It is the answer to every question he has never dared to ask, the soft landing for all the tumbles his heart ever took, the release of each desire he has always choked back, the spotlight on so many quiet measures of devotion.
He won’t—can’t—stop kissing you, fervent and almost frantic with it. Now that he’s said the words, they keep pouring out of him, dispersed between each desperate press of his lips against yours. “Please—are you? Does this mean—do you?”
The heat of his mouth, his hands, his heart beneath your palms; it’s dizzying and all-consuming, and you never want it to end. But there is something you need to say to him, something you know he deserves to hear.
“Lando Norris,” you gasp out, slapping a hand over his mouth so you can speak unimpeded (but what a welcome imposition it is). “Let me say this one thing, and then I’m taking you home, party be damned.”
His eyes darken at you from above your hand, and his head cocks to the side in a silent, go on, then.
“I’m kind of in love with you, too,” you confess.
All the breath leaves him in one great whoosh, relief and joy and adoration tangled up together. He leaves a kiss against your hand before taking it into his own, wonderstruck that he can do this now. He’s pretty sure he could power a whole city with the emotion brimming in him, body a live wire tuned just to you. But he’s still cheeky enough to quip, “Terminally?”
Your smile, before you kiss him again, is the only thing he has wished for on every birthday. “God, I hope so.”
You're a generational figure skating talent. Stunning lines. Textbook technique. Wildly evocative artistry. Anyone would be lucky to partner with you and get a shot at the Olympics, but you have one glaring fault—the big B. The words all your previous partners repeat like a prayer…
What a bitch.
Enter Oscar Piastri: former Olympian hockey player, current bitch-slayer.
PAIRING: oscar piastri x female reader
GENRE: huuuuuugely based on iconic-to-ME 90s romcom the cutting edge, non-f1 au, figure skating au, antagonizers-to-lovers which is my made-up term for two ppl who are just fucking annoying to each other, mutual pining, fluff, romance, slight angst i suppose but really to me it's just Plot?, idk do with that what you will
WARNINGS: suggestive content/sexual themes
WORD COUNT: ~12k (part 1..... of 3)
A/N: happy olympics! idk i rewatched the cutting edge over winter break and was immediately seized with the urge to write a fic about it and i have been unfortunately captivated by the strange world of f1 so here we are! if u notice olympics/figure skating/hockey inaccuracies that's because i reached the limit of my googling. also don't take it too seriously when i mention other drivers just for fun just for a chuckle just for laughs alrightttttt. and hey look—shiny new banner by @princemick as part of the f1blrforaid event! we (this fic) got a facelift hehe u guys will no longer need to look at my elementary canva attempts
part 2 | part 3
In the past two years, you’ve had six figure skating partners.
Today, your father and coach stand at the entrance of the rink, watching you and your latest partner spin in unison. Your father hopes this guy is the one because time is always running out before the next Olympics. Your coach hopes this is the one because there are precious few male figure skaters available for partnering, and you’ve gone through all the good ones already.
Ocon? Too tall. Tsunoda? Too short. Antonelli? Too young. Hulkenberg? Too old. Russell? Too dainty. Verstappen? Not dainty enough.
The latest one falls out of his spin six beats too early. You merely spin faster, almost mocking him with it, until you come to a perfect, imperious stop. From afar, your father and your coach see you open your mouth to rip into him.
“At least he made it past the first month,” your coach offers diplomatically.
Your father sighs. “Michael, you know I think the world of you and can’t thank you enough for coming out of retirement for my little girl. But these guys—they just can’t handle her!”
Michael grimaces. “She is a generational talent. Everyone knows this. Stunning lines. Textbook technique. Wildly evocative artistry. But we go out looking for new partners, and it always comes down to the big B…”
“I have laundry that can skate better than that!” Your voice echoes sharply in the cavernous space. Your partner—safe to say, ex-partner now—slinks off the ice with barely contained relief.
“What a bitch,” Michael finishes with a sigh.
“Oscar Piastri?”
Oscar looks up from where he’d been adjusting ten-year-old Tommy Lee’s skates. A man in a long wool coat stands behind the barrier of the rink.
“All set, Tommy.” Oscar sends the kid off with a fist-bump, then stands and skates over to the man in the wool coat. “I’m Oscar.”
The man shakes his hand. “Michael Schumacher. I am here to talk about your potential.”
Oscar’s eyebrows shoot to the top of his forehead. “Uh, we’ve got some talented kids here, for sure. Tommy, in particular—he’s got a lot of potential. But he’s still quite young…”
Michael blinks. “Your potential, Oscar. For the Olympics.”
Oscar’s face shutters in an instant. “You should leave.”
“Listen, I know what happened at the last one—”
“Then you should know why the Olympics aren’t a possibility for me anymore. There is no possibility for me in hockey at all. Dangling it in front of my face like this is not just disrespectful; it’s cruel.” Oscar closes his eyes. Unbidden, the memory of sitting in the doctor’s office two years ago surfaces in his mind, like some car crash he can’t help watching.
15 degrees of your peripheral vision is gone, Oscar. For most people, this would be an inconvenience, but for a hockey player, well–
Oscar had begged and bargained. Looked up impossible, snake-oil cures on the Internet. Cycled through all the stages of grief. And finally settled on this: helping the next generation of kids make it into professional hockey. Living with the taste of victory clawing at the back of his throat. Bumping into the ghost of what could have been at every turn.
He opens his eyes. “Please leave. I won’t ask again.”
Michael clears his throat. “I never said it would be an Olympics in hockey.”
“Alright, who’s next? Gasly? I heard his partner is thinking of retiring.” You give Michael an expectant look. “Well? Didn’t you go out and scout someone the other day?”
Michael makes a face you’ve never seen before—half gleeful, half panicked. Entirely manic. “In a manner of speaking, yes. In fact, he is coming to skate with you today.”
“Gasly? Oh, good. Let’s see what he’s got.”
“… Not quite Gasly, no.”
“Okay, then who? No way Hamilton is coming out of retirement, right?”
“No. Not Hamilton. It is… Piastri.”
“Piastri?” You frown. “Do we know a Piastri?”
“He was at the last Olympics with you, actually.”
“I think I would’ve remembered someone from my own team, old man.”
“Not your team per se….”
You let out a frustrated huff. “Michael, please stop equivocating. It’s highly unbecoming.”
He pauses his hemming and hawing to chuckle. “Unbecoming? Shall I remind you that I wiped your tears after you fell during your first double axel at nine years old, spätzchen?”
You flush and turn your head away. “First of all, I had an Olympic champion watching me—of course I was going to cry if I fell. Second of all, that is totally irrelevant.”
“Third of all,” Michael begins with a cajoling smile, “Piastri was captain of your men’s hockey team at the last Olympics. So. Not your team per se, but you know, who is counting when it comes to national pride, right?”
Your head whips back around. “Who’s counting? I’m counting! Have you lost your damn mind?! In case you haven’t noticed, I am a figure skater!”
Michael sobers. “In case you have not noticed, you are a pairs skater. God knows why your father did not put you in singles training when you started out, but pairs means two, and you have no partner. You have run all the usual options out of town, and the rest do not want to get within shouting distance of you. This is it, spätzchen. Piastri is the one, if only because there is no one else left.”
From the entrance of the rink comes a knock, and then a mild-mannered, “Hey, guys. Bad time?”
You squint at the head of brown hair approaching the ice. “That’s the one?”
“If only because there’s no one else left.” Oscar has the audacity to smirk as he says it.
Michael winces. “Oscar. I am glad you were able to make it. Sorry about my… choice of words.”
Oscar shrugs as he drops his duffel to the ground and pulls out his skates. “No harm, no foul. Believe me, I’ve heard plenty worse in hockey.”
You glare in his direction. “Then why don’t you go back to the warm embraces of a stick and a net? Leave skating to the professionals, hm?”
Oscar vaults over the barrier of the rink to get on the ice and doesn’t miss a beat as he glides toward you. “Professionally, I’ve got one more Olympic medal than you.”
“Please, be my guest and go back for another with the rest of your brethren.”
“Can’t. Career-ending injury.” He stops abruptly in front of you, sending a spray of ice flying towards your face.
You wave it away with a scream bottled behind your teeth. “Not sure how you won an Olympic medal if you never watch where you’re going!”
“Just trying to get your attention, your highness. The other option would have been to send a puck your way. Dealer’s choice. But I can see why no one wants to get within earshot of you.”
“Her voice carries,” Michael intones dryly.
At the same time, you snap, “As if anyone can keep up.”
Oscar smiles for the first time, slow and dangerous. “Oh, I think you’ll find my stamina more than sufficient.”
“Oh my god, you absolute neanderthal!” you screech. You’re speeding off the ice before anyone can do more than blink, and then you run smack dab into your father at the entrance of the rink. “Was this your idea? This is insane! Absolutely insane! Hell will freeze over before I work with a hockey player!”
The doors rattle on their hinges as you leave. Your father pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs while ambling over to the ice. “I see you’ve met my daughter,” he says by way of greeting.
Oscar looks between your father and Michael incredulously. “You said she’d be temperamental? Yeah, alright. I can think of a few other words for it.”
Michael echoes your father’s sigh. “We have heard them all before.”
Your father holds his hand out to Oscar. “Listen, you’ve seen our setup here. Private rink, private coach. Completely state-of-the-art training facilities, all private. There’s a cottage on the property that’s yours to live in, free of charge. Meals, transportation, whatever you need.”
Oscar laughs. “Sure, sure, provided she doesn’t murder me in my sleep.”
Your father drops his hand and scrutinizes Oscar. “She had a gold medal right within her grasp last time, Oscar. Something you can relate to, I’m told. You know who lost it for her? Her partner. Now, he was made for this sport. Been doing it his whole life. But when push came to shove, when it really mattered—the guy crumbled. Couldn’t keep it together. Dropped her on the ice in the middle of the Olympics. We’ve scouted twenty guys since him, and none of them could make the cut.”
Your father takes a stack of papers out from his briefcase and reads from the top page. “Stroll. No rhythm.” He crumples the sheet of paper into a ball and throws it towards a small trash can a few feet away, just missing the rim. He picks up the next sheet of paper. “Lawson. Erratic.” Crumples it into a ball, throws it, and misses again. “Doohan, Zhou, Colapinto.” Three more throws, three more misses.
Michael rolls his eyes. “What he is trying to say, Oscar, is that we need a pressure player. Someone who will not fold when the cards are stacked against him. Someone who will not crash when the rubber meets the road. Can you be that person for us?”
Oscar stares at the expanse of ice in front of him for a long moment. He thinks of the bronze medal sitting on the mantle of his parents’ fireplace, of the way it had tasted between his teeth—metallic, like blood and regret. He thinks of how his vision had already started swimming in and out by the time the flowers were draped around his neck and the national anthem began its stirring overture. And he thinks, I have more to give. To the ice. To myself. To another shot at gold.
He makes his decision in one breath. In the next, he motions for your father to hand him a sheet of paper from the stack and crushes it into a ball.
Without looking, he tosses the ball of paper over the barrier of the rink and into the trash can your father had missed every time.
“She said hell will freeze over, yeah? Good thing I can skate.”
Monday through Friday, you get to the ice skating rink at 6am. You’re usually the first one there, and you like that. You like that you get to breathe in the sharp, ice-cold air, hum off-pitch to your warm-up music, settle your mind and prepare for the day—alone.
But today, you’re not alone when you push through the doors to the rink, still half-shadowed in pre-dawn cobalt. Michael and Oscar are already there, going through figure skating basics; the intrusion into your usual state of grace raises your hackles instantly.
Michael is reminding Oscar that he has to skate differently now when you approach the pair of them. “In hockey, everything is low,” Michael explains. “Center of gravity, low. Weight transfer, low. Shoulders, low.”
“You forgot intelligence," you scoff. Oscar hears it, because Michael was right; your voice carries. And you’d done nothing to hide it.
Oscar smirks and waves at you. “Good morning, your highness.”
You sneer right back. “Enjoy it while you can. You’ll be out of here before lunch.”
Michael clears his throat pointedly. “As I was saying, in hockey, everything is low. But here, you must keep your chest high, your chin high, your back straight. Here, everything is about lines. Grace. Fluidity.”
“Something you might have to look up in a dictionary,” you supply sweetly for Oscar.
His eyes go flinty. “Not that it matters, but I have a master’s in engineering. Some of us did something useful after the last Olympics, instead of chasing guys away with sticks.”
“Excuse me? I have a boyfriend, you asshole. And he has an MBA.”
“Oh, I’m sure that makes for riveting conversations. Can’t wait to meet the guy.”
“Not that it matters, but Theo is working in my father’s London office. And when he comes to visit me, I assure you we’ll be engaged in more pleasurable pursuits than talking, and certainly not to you.” It’s only half a lie—Theo and you truly don’t talk much, but that’s because you have nothing in common and have no personal interest in each other. And to call him your boyfriend implies a deeper relationship than convenience, but you’re certainly not willing to lose any ground to Oscar.
He just barks out a laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure you look just splendid to him from a few thousand miles away.”
Michael disguises a laugh as a cough, which makes you whip around to glare at him. “Are you on his side now?”
He holds his hands up placatingly. “There are no sides, spätzchen.”
“And for the record, I was talking about all the previous skating partners you chased away with sticks,” Oscar adds, because he’s damn sure he’s going to get the last word in.
“Enough!” Michael cuts in before you can unleash another tirade on Oscar. “More than anything else, pairs skating is about trust. This is the most dangerous and technically demanding type of skating there is. You will be the only thing holding her up, Oscar. She has to trust that you will not drop her. And you have to trust that when she comes down, she will not bring you down with her. None of you can skate better than the other will allow. So, enough with this childish nonsense.” He levels a knowing look at you. “No more attitude.” He squints at Oscar. “No more uncertainty. You do not do this half-assed, if you do it at all.”
“Fine,” you huff.
“Fine,” Oscar mutters.
The thing is: Oscar is cool, calm, and collected, even under the worst of circumstances.
With you, he discovers that actually, the circumstances can be that much worse.
By the end of your first day together, he’s black and blue all over. It starts with his new skates: figure skates. Compared to his hockey skates, the figure skates have a stiffer shoe, a thinner blade, a flatter edge, and an entirely different feel. But really, it’s the little teeth at the front end of the blades that have dammed him—the toe pick.
All day long, he’d be gliding an uncomplicated path parallel to you, holding your hand steady in his, and then you’d speed up a little, or turn a corner before him, and he’d try to catch up and go tripping over his own feet, all because of that dreaded toe pick. And this would have been fine—it’s his first day, and he’s still figuring out the learning curve, right? But after every stumble, every fall, every aborted attempt to pick up speed, you’d be there, laughing in his face, sing-songing the phrase toeeeee pick!
He’s pretty sure it’s going to be the soundtrack to his nightmares.
And yet, even as he’s lowering himself into an ice bath that night, even when he’s gritting his teeth against the cold and the blooming bruises, he’s still satisfied. It feels good to strive for something again. To push himself to the limit. To chase something that makes him work for it. To strain against the stiff leather of his skates, and yes, even to wobble on the tip of his toe pick.
He has to respect you, a little, for making it look so easy. So graceful. Like you were born skating instead of crying.
You, whose fall on international television has been clipped multiple times for anyone who looks up the last Olympics on the Internet. Oscar did look it up after that first, disastrous meeting with you, when he was settling into his new bed in his new apartment (cottage, he has to remind himself). At the time, Oscar had written you off as a spoiled rich girl with just barely enough skills to help him get his foot through the door at the next Olympics. But when he watched the video of your performance at the last one, he had been transfixed. He only needed to see the first 90 seconds of the performance to understand why so many guys continued to try out to be your partner despite your infamous attitude. He only needed to see the first 30 seconds of the performance to understand why you were, perhaps, slightly justified in your infamous attitude.
Put simply, you were incandescent on ice. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of you; your partner might as well have not existed.
It wasn’t until the few seconds leading up to your fall that he paused the video, and then he had been scrambling to do so. Regardless of what he thought about you, he had not been able to stomach the idea of watching your fall through a recording of it.
Your most vulnerable moment, betrayal of the deepest kind, immortalized on an Internet that never forgets anything. He knows there are videos out there of the incident that ended his hockey career at that same Olympics. He has never been able to watch them.
Oscar knows from then on that he will be in this until the end. He will reshape himself around this new dream. He will do what no one believes he can do, and he will reach for the glorious impossible.
And he will shine so brightly in this new sport that the videos of your accidents will become buried in the trenches of double-digit search results.
Sleep comes easy that night; he dreams of a blaze of light on ice.
On the weekends, training starts at noon. You still get up at 6am, because you do your long runs on Saturdays and ballet on Sundays, and you like to have enough time to read between all of that and stepping onto the ice.
Your previous partners liked to sleep in—nothing egregious, more like a luxurious 9am, but still. Your 6ams were always yours.
Because Oscar Piastri lives to be a contrarian and the human equivalent of a stone in your shoe, he starts taking over your weekend 6ams, too.
The first time he appears at your side during a run, he does it so silently and seamlessly that you jump about a foot in the air when you realize he’s there. He laughs his ass off about it, of course, even when you jab your elbows into his side in retaliation. After a month spending most of your waking hours in each other’s vicinity, he seems to have developed an immunity to your pettiness. You’re self-aware enough to recognize this as quite an impressive accomplishment on his part, but you’d rather die than tell him that.
Instead, you grouse, “We should put a bell on you.”
“Kinky,” he deadpans.
“Is it? You’ve got some weird kinks, then, Piastri.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Are you going to keep up the commentary for the entire run?”
“What, worried you’ll be too out of breath to keep up?”
That makes you laugh. “I won state championships in cross country as a kid. I think I’ll be just fine.”
He just shrugs and smiles pleasantly at you, like he always does when you’re starting to get wound up about something and he wants to piss you off even more by appearing unbothered by it. “Sure, whatever you say.”
True to form, he begins increasing his pace. You can’t help yourself from doing the same. He speeds up again, and you follow, until you’re both pretty much sprinting, flying down the path that ends at his cottage.
You can keep it up for the first few minutes, but your body is a machine you’ve spent your whole life honing, and you know exactly where your limits are and how far you are from them in either direction. It absolutely kills you to do it, but you’re the one who slows down first.
Your breath comes out in undignified pants when you stop, and you refuse to meet his eye. “Shut up,” you say, pre-emptive.
He slows down and starts jogging backwards, just to rub it in. “By the way, I won national cross country championships as a kid.”
“Oh, whatever, we’re not going to the Olympics for running.”
“Certainly not—you’d never qualify.” He’s smug as ever, and you kind of want to do something absurd to wipe the smirk off his face.
But you don’t have to do anything at all, because his backwards running takes him veering off the road, and before you can open your mouth to warn him about it, his back foot goes into the pond in front of his cottage, and then the rest of him goes in with a cartoonish plop!
“Oscar!” You sprint to him and skid to a stop in front of the pond. He doesn’t surface, and you don’t even hesitate before diving in. The water is disgusting, but you find him quickly, dragging him up by his armpits. “Can you not swim, oh my god, I can’t believe this—”
He wriggles out of your grasp to stare balefully at you, looking very much like a drowned cat. “Why the hell would you assume I can’t swim?”
You blow a wet strand of hair out of your face to no avail. “You are ridiculous—you really wanna argue about this now? You sank like a stone!”
He waves you off, inadvertently flicking pond water at you and building up your rage. “Actually, I was spending some extra time underwater contemplating my life choices and how much you were going to make fun of me when I came out. But I’m a little touched that you came in so quickly to get me.”
You gape at him, the both of you still treading water, looking ridiculous with algae clinging to your soggy clothes. “You mean I dove in here for nothing? Oscar Jack Piastri,” you begin thunderously.
But his laughter—airy, bright, coming in gasps—stops you in your tracks. In a month of shared rink time and supervised workouts, you have never heard him laugh before. He has chuckled, sure, when Michael unintentionally says something funny, and even a few, rare times when your snide remarks have been particularly childish. But never full-out laughter, eyes crinkled with amusement, head thrown back with unselfconscious joy.
He is… radiant. There are no other words to describe the sudden warmth in your chest, like the sun is peeking through your ribs. Your mouth curves bemusedly, helplessly in response.
“You should look at you right now,” Oscar wheezes. “There is a stick in your hair! God, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with a single hair out of place before!”
You mean to tear into him with renewed vigor, you really do. But instead, what comes out is a giggle, which turns into peals of laughter. “Me? You should’ve heard yourself going into the water! Plop! You made an actual plop! sound!”
The two of you work your way through laughter-induced hiccups until you’re truly out of breath. When you calm down, the silence that descends upon you is pleasant and warm.
… The pond water, however, is not.
“C’mon, your highness, I’ll carry you out.” Oscar extends a hand in your direction.
“You will do no such thing,” you grumble, but there’s little heat behind it. You accept his hand, letting him pull you out of the pond after he’s out. Your whole body shivers in the March air, still chilly enough to penetrate your bones this far north.
“You should come inside. My place is right here, much closer than your house, and you can take a shower and get warm before we have to get on the ice,” Oscar offers between chattering teeth.
Normally, you’d kick up a fuss and demand to be driven to your own house, with your own bathroom and your own comforts, but right now you’re too water-logged to care. You nod emphatically in response to his offer and almost run into his back trying to get into the cottage and to the promise of a warm shower.
Once you’re both inside, Oscar shoots you a wary look. “Are you gonna hold it against me if I shower first? It’s just that I’m probably faster.”
You roll your eyes. “Contrary to popular opinion, I am not 100% a bitch, Oscar. I’m probably at 90%, though, so if you take too long, I will come in there.”
He can’t resist; the joke is right there for his making. “Geez, buy me dinner first, won’t you?”
“My father pays for all of your meals.”
“… Damn. You got me there. Here, let me at least turn on the kettle for you. Be back in five.”
You give him a thumbs-up and wait no longer than half a second after he’s gone to snoop around his space. You’d never been in the cottage when your previous partners stayed here, nor have you wanted to, but Oscar fascinates you. As vexing as he can be, as outlandish as this whole enterprise of turning a hockey player into an Olympic figure skating contender is, you can’t deny that he’s a hard worker, and his tragic Olympic backstory is similar enough to yours that you can’t help but understand him, a little.
You’d looked him up, after that first day of practice together. Though you pointedly avoided the videos broadcasting his career-ending injury, you’d eaten up every article and interview you could find of him. All of it painted the same picture: a meteoric rise through college hockey, Olympic team captain by unanimous vote among teammates and management, NHL scouts battling it out amongst themselves to recruit him for what would have been a long and illustrious professional career. And Oscar, level-headed and well-mannered throughout it all, even after the injury, even after his single-minded pursuit of a lifelong dream collapsed into itself, gone supernova.
Now, looking at the chipped dish he throws his keys in and a colorful blanket draped over the couch, you start to see him as a person beyond the skater. What’s his favorite color? Does he like to read? Is he scared of spiders? All of a sudden, you want to know.
“Shower’s all yours. I put out some clean clothes, too.” Oscar’s voice cuts through your thoughts. He’s all dressed to skate, but for the damp hair curling at his ears. You only allow yourself the briefest moment to find that kind of endearing before you’re murmuring a thanks and disappearing into the bathroom.
In the kitchen, Oscar pours hot water into two mugs and belatedly realizes he has no idea what you like to drink. Probably something far fancier than what he has in his rather utilitarian grocery haul. He’s stumped until he remembers a box of Earl Grey sachets buried in the back of his pantry. It takes him a while to find the box, but then he’s able to read the instructions and follow them to military precision.
He’s so immersed in making a perfect tea that he barely notices when you exit the bathroom. “I dunno how you take your tea, or even if you want any, but here—” He stops himself short at the sight of you frowning slightly, drowning in his clothes. You look years younger like this, all your sharp corners softened by oversized cotton and shower steam. For someone usually carved of ice, he wonders if your cheek would be warm now if he touched it.
“Do not look at me right now. I look ridiculous,” you mutter as you take the mug from his hand. Sipping from it instantly placates you. “Ooh, this is good!”
“Always the tone of surprise,” he mumbles, still a little dazed by the sight of you. “It’s from one of my sisters. The tea, I mean. She gave it to me as a joke—I don’t even drink tea.”
You wait just a beat. “Too delicate for your rough sensibilities?”
He lets a laugh slip, which makes you crow in delight.
“I knew you thought I was funny!”
He halfheartedly whips a kitchen towel at your elbow. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Like your ego needs any more of a boost.”
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt.” You smile coyly at him from over the rim of your mug.
He tries to conceal his responding grin in his own mug. “I think you’re funny. Happy now? I also think Michael is funny, so maybe I’m just an easy sell.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Why’s the tea a joke?”
“My sister thought it would be hilarious to give it to me on my birthday last year because I got my first gray hair.”
A pregnant pause lingers in the air.
“Get it? Earl Grey?”
“No, I get the joke, Oscar.” You frown. “Damn, you really are an easy sell. Your hair looks fine to me, though.” His hair looks more than fine—in fact, the curls flopping onto his forehead are frustrating you a little because they highlight his stupidly Renaissance-painting-like features. His is a face that is made for overwrought expressions set to classical music; just what the figure skating judges like to see.
“It’s just one strand, thank god. Haven’t gotten any others, but last year was pretty stressful, as I’m sure you can imagine… Uh, hey?” His eyes go wide at your sudden nearness; you’re peering at his hairline with the intensity of a scientist. “Are you looking for my gray hair, you weirdo!?”
“I just wanted to check!”
He opens his mouth to respond, but you’re close enough that he can smell his shower gel on your skin, and the combination is frankly debilitating to his higher brain function. “It’s there, I promise,” he manages to get out in a normal-sounding voice.
You hum softly upon finding the silvery strand. “Trust but verify, you know?”
Oscar pokes a finger into your forehead and pushes you back with it. “I know that’s what they say about nuclear weapons, actually. Seriously, you are so strange.”
“Do not give me wrinkles, you oaf!”
“If you’re worried about wrinkles, I’d work harder on not glaring so much—”
“Oscar, might I remind you of the steaming cup of tea in my hands? It could very well go over your head.”
He holds his hands up. “Whoa, threats of bodily harm. Haven’t heard one of those from you in a few days.”
You shrug. “It really depends on what comes out of your mouth on any given day, you know.”
“Right, like breathing?”
Try as you might, you can’t help the giggle that escapes.
He points a finger at you in triumph. “I knew you thought I was funny, too.”
“Low bar. It’s not like I have that many people to judge you against.” You say it offhandedly and punctuate it with a laugh, but now that he’s heard the real thing, Oscar knows this one is hollow.
He could ask. He wants to ask—to learn more about you, to understand what makes you tick. What hurts you still carry with you, what might take your breath away, what tenderness lies beneath your acerbic tongue.
But it was only last week that the two of you were at each other’s throats about whose music was more unbearable to listen to during warm-ups; Oscar had raised his voice about as loud as it ever went, and you had thrown your skate guards at his head. This fragile understanding between you two—that maybe this insane, last-ditch, Hail Mary scheme to go to the Olympics might actually, terrifyingly, work—has barely taken shape. A wisp of this kind of hope is more dangerous than any words (or objects) you’ve hurled at each other.
And so he clears his throat and changes the topic. “Um, stay here a sec.”
You’re caught somewhere between berating yourself for letting an ounce of vulnerability slip and embarrassment that he didn’t reciprocate. That he didn’t cup his hands around this tiny, trembling piece of your heart and keep it warm.
But then he returns with a towel, and his hands—all calloused and cold from years of handling a hockey stick across ice —turn gentle and soothing when he dries your hair. Heat emanates from his chest to your back, and maybe that’s enough warmth, for now.
He doesn’t say a word while he dries your hair, and you’re stunned into silence by the intimacy of the gesture. There’s nothing romantic about it, but the care with which he does it—well. You’re just glad he can’t see your face; it must be incredibly obvious that sunshine is peeking through your ribs again.
And even though your hair is still mildly damp when you leave later and step into the grey-blue world of a winter balanced on the knife’s edge of spring, so starkly different from the cozy peace of his cottage, where the outside world had seemed only a distant possibility in comparison to the supercharged air humming between your bodies—
Even then, some things persist.
The phantom touch of his hands in your hair, lovely and light. Earl Grey, lingering on your tongue. Something glowing warm and bright, safely tucked away in your chest.
Two months in, Michael decides that Oscar is ready to skate with you. Aside from the very first day, when Michael made you two skate together just to see if it was possible at all, you haven’t actually done any pairs skating. Michael has been putting Oscar through his paces on all the figure skating basics, and Oscar, to his credit, has worked relentlessly to accelerate through what is normally years of training.
Still, you can feel time slipping through your fingertips every time you enter the rink and skate on your own, winding your body tighter and tighter when you think of how far you have to go to reach the Olympics. Oscar is making good progress—incredible, really—but it won’t make a difference if he never gets up to competition level.
“We go slow,” Michael reminds you. “Slow and steady wins the race.”
“Thank you for the children’s aphorism, but we’re not even close to entering the race,” you argue.
“I can hear you, you know,” Oscar interjects mildly.
You barely look at him. “I know, Piastri.”
He pretends to shiver. “Ooh, Piastri. Back to formalities now, are we? And I thought we were getting along so well.” He’s being a little facetious, but it’s true—relations have improved between you two. I can’t stand you has turned into I wouldn’t kill myself if we were stranded on a deserted island together into actually, you’re kind of alright and I might even have lunch with you without insulting your table manners. You’re still snippy with each other, sure, but now it’s about a battle of wits rather than actual warfare… most of the time.
“Oscar,” you emphasize, “It doesn’t matter how much I like you—which isn’t a whole lot, by the way, so don’t get it twisted—if we can’t skate together.”
He shrugs. “So let’s skate together. C’mon, your highness, show me what you’ve got.”
Wordlessly, you take off into a sequence of jumps. Oscar has seen you do these countless times now, usually out of the corner of his eye as he goes over some mind-numbingly repetitive footwork, but it still makes his chest a little tight with awe every time. This time, you end with a double axel and dip into a curtsy after landing, which gets him to laugh softly in staccato.
Michael gives you a single clap. “Enough, spätzchen. The question is whether you can skate together, so let us get started, together. We will do footwork today. Simple, just working on synchronization. Everything in unison.”
And so it goes. You spend the entire day tracing long, looping patterns together on the ice, hand in hand, side by side. It’s elementary work, really, but at least he’s not tripping over his toe pick anymore.
You tell him as much at the end of practice, to which he rolls his eyes and elbows you gently. “Oh, please, I’d like to see you on hockey skates. See how you do without that toe pick of yours.”
You smirk even as you gulp down water. “Any time, any day, hotshot.”
He points his water bottle at you. “I’m gonna hold you to that.” He tilts his head and studies you for a moment. “Actually, I think you’d like hockey.”
“Me?”
“Oh, come on. I’ve heard you complain about figure skating judges a million times now. I’m not saying hockey refs don’t ever make a stupid call—hell, sometimes that’s half the game. But the scoring is simple. One goal. One point. And you get to hit something, which I think you’d really like.”
You smack his shoulder without even looking.
“Would you look at that! You’re a natural,” he remarks dryly.
“Like I said. Any time, any day.”
Oscar makes a show of looking around the empty rink. Michael always leaves promptly at the end of practice to have dinner with his wife, and it’s not late enough for the Zamboni to come out yet. So it’s just you and Oscar here, sitting on a bench by the ice, shoulders almost touching, heads leaning towards one another. Enough space between you for the air to come alive with electricity.
He cuts through the buzz with a challenge. “You wouldn’t be too tired after all that elementary work today to whack a puck around with me, would you?”
Your nose scrunches. “Do you have to make everything hockey-related sound so vulgar?”
“Hey, don’t hate the player, hate the—”
“Do not finish that sentence if you ever want me to take you seriously again.”
Oscar pretends to gasp and clutches at his chest. “You mean I have a choice in the matter?”
He’s just working you up, and you know it. But competitiveness zings through your blood now, so you get up and put your hands on your hips. “Let’s go, big guy. Put on your hockey skates.”
He’s already up and grabbing his bag. “Next time, I’ll bring you a pair,” he promises over his shoulder.
“As if you know my skate size,” you scoff.
He rattles it off without missing a beat, so you have to glide onto the ice in slightly irritated, defeated silence. When he vaults over the barrier to get on the ice, outfitted in hockey skates and holding two hockey sticks in one hand, the slick move makes you roll your eyes anew.
He hands a stick to you with barely concealed mirth. “Bet you’re regretting throwing your skate guards at my head now. You know you’re the only person I’ve ever met who gets them engraved? With your name and your skate size?”
Heat rises to your cheeks despite yourself. “They were a gift. From Theo.”
His eyebrows raise, but otherwise his face stays impressively impassive. “How… romantic. And he got your skate size engraved in case you ever… hit your head and forget it?”
Actually, you’re pretty sure Theo had his secretary email your father’s secretary for your size, forwarded it directly to whatever bizarre, niche service does engraving for skate guards, and never even checked the contents of the email, which probably just said your name and skate size. The engraver may have looked for some kind of sweet, personalized message to engrave, but they would have been sorely disappointed. Your name and size it was, then.
But Oscar doesn’t need to know all that. So instead, you lie through your teeth. “I happen to think it is incredibly romantic. This way, I can always have a piece of Theo with me when I skate.” Truthfully, if the day ever comes where you find something like this romantic, you hope Oscar will put you out of your misery with a well-timed hockey puck.
… Which is morbid, but you think you know him well enough by now to guess that it would make him laugh if you said it out loud. But you can’t say it, because you’ve dug yourself into a lie about these damn skate guards. Frankly, you’d forgotten about them until now. They look pretty much like all of your other skate guards if you’re not looking too closely, and unless said skate guards are flying toward your head, there’s no reason to look closely.
Oscar finally breaks and laughs, bending over with the force of it. “That is the lamest thing I’ve ever heard!”
Your lips twitch; you want so badly to laugh with him, but you’ve never backed down from anything in your life. Distraction is your way out—you check his shoulder lightly as you pass him and skate out towards the center of the rink. “Drop the puck, Piastri. Show me why they even let you get on the plane to the Olympics.”
Oscar continues to laugh even as he sets up your water bottle and his as makeshift goalposts. “I want you to know that I have no part of my ego invested in this, because I was Olympic team captain, and you’ve never seen a puck closer than on a TV screen. But you’re kinda cute like this.”
He says it offhandedly, like it doesn’t mean anything, but the words still make you feel like you’ve tripped over your toe pick, which is absurd—you don’t even remember how young you were the last time you did that. The feeling is unmistakable, though. A hiccup of air beneath you; a sudden drop in your stomach, like gravity made internal; some combination of surprise and a tender foolishness.
That’s it. You have got to get a grip. With more force than is strictly necessary, you whack the business end of your hockey stick against the ice three times, loud and sharp. “I don’t have all day, Piastri.”
Oscar smirks as he drops the hockey puck and starts swapping it from one side of his stick to the other. “Ooh, should we alert the press? The indomitable ice princess is holding a hockey stick!”
You give him a saccharine smile. “Wow, big words coming from you today! So impressive.”
The insult only eggs him on, eyes crinkled with delight. “Boring! Low-hanging fruit. C’mon, your highness, show me you mean it. How about this: if you can get the puck away from me even once, I’ll let you pick the warm-up music for a week straight.”
Your eyes narrow. “Just once?”
He spreads his arms out magnanimously. “Yeah, ‘cause I’m a really nice guy.”
“Hah! You’re on.”
Here's the problem: when you were five years old, you tried out a bunch of different sports because your mother didn’t want you to commit to figure skating too soon. Most of it was uninspiring to you, but anything that required hand-eye coordination—tennis, basketball, volleyball, water polo—infuriated you, because, well, you sucked at it.
Those memories come back rather hauntingly to you now, as you’re struggling to even keep your eye on the puck Oscar is maneuvering so seamlessly at the end of his hockey stick.
You try to get at the puck, but every time you think it’s yours for the taking, he fakes you out. Eventually, you snap, “Stop tricking me!”
He stifles a laugh. “This would be a bad time to repeat the line about not hating the player, right?”
“You think?!” You slam your hockey stick into the side of his in an effort to steal the puck.
“Now, now, you can do better than that,” he croons.
You look away from the mesmerizing movement of the puck to glare at him. “I’m going to strangle you.”
His grin curves wicked and bright. “Can you even reach my neck?”
“I’ll do it between my legs if you and I ever get to overhead lifts, asshole.”
He nods solemnly. “One can only dream.”
Of course, he doesn’t elaborate which part is the dream—overhead lifts, or your legs around his neck. And the speculation of what he means makes your brain short-circuit, so you miss it when he shoots the puck past you.
You whip your head around to watch the puck whiz a clean line through the center of your makeshift goalposts, your mouth falling open in consternation.
He props his hockey stick across his shoulders and has the audacity to give you a little, who, me? shrug. “Sorry, your highness. Better luck next time.”
Irritation boils over in you and pours steam out of your ears; metaphorical, but maybe real, if the way your blood is singing is any indication. “Go get the goddamn puck,” you seethe.
Wisely, he goes to retrieve the puck without any additional smart remarks. When he’s on his way back, just past the goalposts, you shout, “Send the puck over here, but stay right there!”
He obliges with a flick of his wrist, and the puck comes to an infuriatingly perfect stop right in front of your hockey stick. You inhale through your nose and point your stick at him. “Same deal. If I make one goal past you, I get to choose the warm-up music for a week.”
He agrees easily and crouches into goalie position; why not? It’s not like you had shown any particular prowess earlier.
But what he doesn’t know is that it was the whole getting-to-the-ball situation that had derailed you across tennis, basketball, volleyball, and water polo all those years ago. Once you had the ball in front of you? Your aim was golden.
Now, looking at the stationary puck in front of you, a serene smile graces your features. Oscar only gets a second to reconsider his sense of ease—you only ever smile like that when you’re about to ruin his life in some way—before you’re raising your hockey stick high and whacking at the puck with stunning force.
It comes flying at him, just barely clipping his eyebrow before overshooting his head, clear through the goalposts. It’s his turn to whip around and gape at where the puck landed, a wave of awe coming over him. “Holy shit, you have a slap shot?”
“I have no idea what that is, but you can look forward to Stravinsky during warm-ups for the next week. Sucker.” You glide toward him with your hands behind your back, beaming with satisfaction. Genuine delight curls your lips and shines in your eyes, and he can’t help but smile back. Victory looks good on you.
But then you’re dropping your hockey stick with a loud clatter, and your hands are yanking his head down to your level. He gripes, “What the hell—”
At the same time, you exclaim, “You’re bleeding!”
“Huh?” His hand brushes against yours in its journey across his forehead. “Oh.” He reaches a small cut just above his left eyebrow and comes away with a trickle of blood. “This? Don’t even worry about it.”
Your eyes are frantic on his. “I am so sorry!”
He laughs and gently removes your hands from his face. “Falling over my toe pick for the first few days straight was far more painful, trust me. You’re fine— this is barely a graze. I’m more impressed by your slap shot, killer!”
You shake your head emphatically. “That’s not fucking funny. Oscar, you got hurt like this.”
He softens instantly, hands curling around yours. “Hey, hey, no. None of that. I got hurt because two goons sent me flying into the boards, and one of them was stupid enough to have his stick pointed at my head. It was an honest accident, and it sucked, but it was nothing like this.”
You stare at your skates. “Still. I… I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Oh, you better believe you’ll be doing it again. I need to see that slap shot in action again! I’ll wear a helmet next time, alright?” He squeezes your hands, and his eyes are kind when you look up at him. “Seriously, we’re good. But if you feel that bad, you can always let me pick the warm-up music instead.”
Hesitantly, a scowl crawls across your lips. “You wish.”
He grins. “There she is. Ice princess.”
You roll your eyes and shove him away, in the direction of the rink’s gate. “C’mon, let’s get you patched up.”
He goes without complaint and sits on the bench while you rifle through your bag to find first aid materials. “Careful, I might start thinking you like me if you keep being so nice to me,” he quips.
“Didn’t I just tell you this morning that I don’t like you that much, if at all?” But your hands are startlingly gentle when they sweep an antibacterial wipe across his forehead.
His eyes flutter closed. “Yeah, but that was before you made an attempt on my life.” Silence reigns too long in the space where your next retort should have gone, so he cracks an eye open to peer at you. “Too soon?”
You grimace. “Maybe. But what makes you think I’d like you more after making an attempt on your life?”
“I dunno, enemies to lovers?”
“There is no way those words just came out of your mouth.”
“Hey, I know some stuff about some stuff. I have three younger sisters, so. ”
“Really, three? Wow. I always wished I had siblings.” Your eyes go wistful. “I think I would’ve really liked it.”
He smiles without even thinking about it. “They are colossal pains in my ass, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.” His nose scrunches. “If you ever meet them, don’t tell them that.”
You hum as you apply ointment to the cut on his forehead. “Do they live close by?”
“Nah, they’re back in Australia.”
“Your family isn’t here?”
“Nope. I came here with my dad when I was fourteen to play hockey. Not a lot of that where I grew up, obviously. My dad stayed for the first few months, but then he went back; I think Edie must have been, oh, seven or eight at the time.”
You pause in your ministrations. “That reminds me. How the hell are you qualified for Team USA?”
“Dual citizenship. I was born, like, two months early, when my parents were on a trip here. Duh?”
You resume applying a bandaid to his forehead. “Not duh. You know, this is making me realize we don’t actually know a lot about each other.”
“Tell me about it. I don’t even know if you like skating,” he says.
Your hands still again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He lifts his eyes to yours, careful now. “Sorry. I don’t mean anything bad by it. It’s just… You looked happy, earlier. When you made that goal. I haven’t seen you look like that while skating, ever.”
You give him a wry look. “Maybe I just like winning.”
“Okay, sure. But you could’ve trained in anything. Could’ve started winning in anything. Skating, though—do you actually like it?”
It’s such a simple question, yet it knocks the breath out of you. “I… well, yes, of course I like it. I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember. My parents were probably more excited for my first skate than my first steps.” You smile into the distance. “My mom was a show skater—have I told you that? It was always her dream to go to the Olympics. My father still keeps this empty medal case in his office, actually. For her, and now, for me.”
Oscar’s voice is so gentle you think you could be imagining it. “But do you like it? Do you want it?”
Ice settles into your veins at the obvious implication of his words. “Let me set something straight for you, Piastri. If you’re making up some story in your mind about how I’m only chasing my mom’s dream because she died, or I’m only doing this for my father’s attention, you can forget about that. Don’t fucking think about me at all, actually.”
It would be the perfect time to make your exit, and you’d truly rather be anywhere but here right now, but stubbornness roots you to the spot as you watch an array of emotions play out on his face: frustration, sorrow, then resolve.
“I didn’t know anything about your mom. I’m sorry. And I’m not making up any stories in my mind, I swear. I just wanted to know if what we’re doing here could ever make you smile like you did earlier.” He says each sentence firmly, like there’s no possibility for anything to be truer than this.
You could blow up at him. Tell him off and give him the cold shoulder. Or cut into him with a cruel remark made just for him and all the places where he’s soft. But sincerity radiates from him like sunlight, and you can’t help it—you believe him.
So instead, you tell him that you’ll see him tomorrow. And you leave him with a challenge: “Give me a reason to smile like that, and I will.”
One month into actual pairs training has you wondering when your body is ever going to recover from the force that is Oscar Piastri.
Not because he’s dropping you a lot—he hasn’t even gotten the chance to do that, not really. You’ve been training lifts and throws together, but you’ve been in a harness the whole time. Still, his grip is branded all over you, a mosaic of handprints across your body as physical proof of how he doesn’t trust himself not to drop you yet. More than that, though, it’s proof of how he doesn’t trust you yet. Every time you get above his head, you can see his jaw tighten with the uncertainty of how far you can tempt the laws of physics.
When just the act of sitting down to lace up your skates starts to make you wince slightly, you decide you have to put an end to this.
“I’m going to tell you something, and I need you not to freak out,” you begin, no-nonsense at 6am.
His head turns toward you, still bent down over his own skates. “Not an auspicious start, but okay.”
“I want to note that I could totally give you a backhanded compliment about your vocabulary right now, but I’m not going to do it, because I’ve matured as a person.”
“Riiiight, so you were being mature when you said I was going to bore you into old age yesterday?”
“You were reciting Soviet Union figure skating history to me on our run, Oscar.”
“A guy can’t mansplain in peace anymore?” he jokes while straightening to face you.
Like clockwork, you roll your eyes. “Anyways, I’m going to tell you that your hands are literally bruising me, and you need to ease up on your death grip before someone thinks we’re having kinky sex, okay?”
His only response is to blink. Then, dryly: “Yeah, I have no idea why you think I’d freak out after hearing something like that.”
You smile sheepishly. “Oops. I didn’t mean to put it quite like that… But seriously, Oscar. Remember what Michael said? Pairs is all about trust. I’m a damn good skater, but I can’t skate any better than you’ll let me. And right now, you aren’t letting me do much of anything. I’m in a harness, and you’re still gripping me like you’re the only thing holding me up.”
“I will be the only thing holding you up. Something I distinctly remember Michael saying, as well.”
“Yeah, and when you are the only thing holding me up, I trust that you’ll be able to do it. But you have to trust that I can do these twists and lifts, too.” You look at him seriously now. “You’re not going to hurt me. I mean, you will, and you already have, given the Oscar-shaped bruises I have—” You cut yourself off with a wince at the horrified look on his face. “Sorry. Don’t freak out?”
“You need to stop saying that,” he grits out.
You wince again. “Sorry! I’m just trying to say that you aren’t going to seriously hurt me. You’re probably going to drop me, or I’ll lose my grip, or we’ll both fall, or whatever. That’s normal. That’s just pairs. But you have to trust that we’ll be okay when it happens. I trust that we’ll be okay when it happens, and I’ll keep trusting you after it happens.”
“But sometimes people aren’t okay when it happens.”
“If this is your awkward but kind of sweet way of being obtuse about my fall at the last Olympics, I appreciate it, I think. But that was also normal. It was also just something that happens. And I’m okay, see? Lived to tell the tale and bitch about it, and everything,” you try to cajole.
He’s quiet for a long moment. “You’re not a bitch,” he says finally.
That’s just about the last thing you would’ve expected to come out of his mouth. “Okay… thank you?”
“I’m serious. You’re unbelievably annoying, your voice is loud as hell, and sometimes I seriously question why I was put on this earth just to suffer with you.”
Your mouth drops open. “What the hell—”
“But,” he plows on, “You’re also a perfectionist. You work harder than anyone I’ve ever met. You can’t take it when your partner isn’t at your level because you are that good, and I respect that. Mistakes frustrate you because you know you can do better, and I respect that, too.”
Now you feel emotion welling up in your chest, which is horrifically embarrassing.
Thankfully, he seems to share your embarrassment, because he clears his throat gruffly and turns away to look straight ahead at the rink. “So, I appreciate you telling me that you’ll trust me even after I mess up. I’m sure it, uh…. I’m sure it’s not easy to say that and mean it.”
You also clear your throat. “Well, not to ruin the sentiment, but it actually is pretty easy to say it and mean it. Pairs requires trust above all else. I don’t go out there and skate with anyone unless I can trust them, but you know how many skating partners I’ve had, so clearly my capacity to trust is, y’know, fine. What’s harder is, um, finding someone who can keep up. Someone who wants this dream as badly as I do. Someone who will chase after it for as long as I will, even if it’s a moving target.” Now you’re staring at your skates as your voice fades away into a whisper. “Someone like you.”
He nudges your shoulder with his, both of you still refusing to meet each other’s eyes. “Well, I’m a stubborn bastard, too, so you’re in luck. Now, show me how to hold you.”
The awkward, earnest spell between you breaks. You laugh as you get up and stand in between his legs. “Oscar Piastri, shouldn’t you buy me dinner first?”
His eyes are mischievous when he finally looks at you. “Can’t. Gotta ask your dad first. He pays for all of my meals, you know.”
Your nose scrunches as you swat at his shoulder. “Why’d you have to make it weird like that, you weirdo?”
“Real original, your highness. Should I say something about your vocabulary, too?” he quips as he hovers his hands near your waist.
“Oh, hush.” You gesture for him to settle his hands on you, and then you wince when he clamps down with his usual force.
He’s watching you closely, so he instantly takes his hands off when he notices your wince. “Sorry! I told you, you need to show me.”
“Oh my god, you big baby.” You grab his hands and plant them firmly at your waist. “Relax, okay? Less like, I dunno, a kidnapper, and more like you’ve ever touched a woman before.”
“Whoa there, I think I’m supposed to buy you dinner first—”
“No, shut up, now your grip is too loose. A little tighter. A little more… a little more… there. Just like that.” You suck in a breath at the sudden layer of intimacy that drapes over the two of you.
When you release your breath, his hands fit perfectly to you—like he was made for you.
“Oh.” His pupils are blown wide with wonder. “I… I get it now.”
“Mmhm,” you murmur. You can feel his breath coming out against your ribs, and distantly, you wonder if you’ve ever been so warm before.
“In the spirit of trust,” he begins, “I should probably tell you that I do trust you. It’s me I don’t trust.”
You make an awkward face at him. “... Not to ruin the sentiment again, but I knew that, too.”
He shakes his head. “Yeah, but that’s not all. What happened two years ago… I know it sucked for you. And believe me, I’m not trying to belittle your fall at all. But when I went crashing into the boards in the last minute of that game, it felt like the end of my life. I lost fifteen degrees of my peripheral vision and my entire future.” He pulses his grip around your waist with just enough pressure to show how much he means this. “I don’t ever want to put you in that position.”
“You won’t. Michael is the best in the world—he’s going to make sure you have the necessary training. And you, as much as I’ll deny this if you ever bring it up again… Your heart is true, Oscar.”
He wants to protest—that it doesn’t matter what’s in his heart if he can’t be 100%, completely dependable for you, that it doesn’t matter how much you trust him or how much he trusts you if he drops you and you fall at the wrong angle, that nothing in the world can stop a tragedy from occurring when it’s already in motion.
But you’re looking at him with an earnestness that borders on faith, and he loses the words.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”
“Okay,” you agree. “One more thing, though… If any part of your hesitancy about skating all out with me is because of, like, my tragic backstory or whatever, I just want to make it clear that that’s not necessary.”
Now he does protest. “It’s not about that—”
You ignore him gracefully. “I really haven’t suffered some huge tragedy. I mean, I miss my mom, but I was six years old when she died. And my father has always given me whatever I wanted, supported me in everything I’ve done. If I woke up tomorrow morning and decided I hated skating, he’d tear down the rink for me, no questions asked. So there’s always going to be some part of me that is doing this for her, and for him. I’m never going to skate without them over my shoulder, and I don’t want to.” You take a deep breath. “But you asked me if I liked skating. I do—I know I do. I just don’t know how much of me likes it because I’m good at it, and how much of me likes it because it’s fun.”
He looks at you as if he’s seeing you anew. “That’s okay.” Silence stretches out like taffy between you until he tilts his head, suddenly playful. “But y’know, if you want to have more fun, we can have more fun.”
Because you enjoy being difficult, you retort, “And if I don’t want to have more fun, we’ll have more misery?” You pull up your shirt unceremoniously and gesture to the palm-shaped imprints still tracking across your torso.
He splutters a bit and yanks your shirt down for you, flustered in a way that has nothing to do with his earlier horror about his handling of your body. But then he squints at you, and aha, spots a glimmer of mirth in your eyes. “You are such a brat—almost got me there,” he mutters.
You grin, unrepentant. “Sucker.”
He grins right back, thrill and temptation wrapped up together in the curve of his mouth. “To answer your question: if you don’t want to have more fun, I’ll make you have more fun. How ‘bout that, your highness?”
Like every other promise he’s made you, subtle and not in so many words, but no less sincere—
You believe him.
The laws of physics rule your life. When you’re up in the air, twisting faster than previous generations of skaters could have believed, the only thing you are straining against is air and gravity itself.
But the second law of thermodynamics is this: the universe tends towards entropy. And the equilibrium between you and Oscar could only go undisturbed for so long.
Catastrophe starts when you miss your alarm one morning in June. You never miss your alarm, so your entire day is unbearably off-kilter from there. You rush into practice at 6:18am and ignore Oscar’s raised eyebrows, which hitch even higher on his forehead when you don’t say a single word about his house music during warm-ups.
Practice is fine, but he can tell your head is miles away the entire time. He attempts to ask you if you’re okay, but you brush him off at the end with a See you later! that he accepts with bewilderment. He doesn’t remember any extra training planned for tonight, and you’re clearly not in the mood for one of those cool-downs where you let him teach you a bit of hockey and he pretends he isn’t absolutely over the moon about it.
But then he remembers that you had wanted to talk about choosing music for the first choreographed program you’re going to attempt together, and he figures you want to do it tonight. Fine, no sweat. He makes and eats a utilitarian dinner, grabs his laptop and his nice headphones, slings his skates over his shoulder, and ambles over to the building that houses the skating rink.
His head is down, scrolling through Spotify on his phone when he passes through the inner doors to the rink. He’s coming up with a short list of songs to argue with you about—and if he’s being honest, he kind of enjoys arguing with you these days—when the sound of skates on ice hits him.
This, in itself, is nothing new. He would’ve thought you’d be trying out your own short list of songs on the ice, anyways. But it’s the sound of two pairs of skates on ice that stops him cold.
Michael’s gone home for the evening. Your father hasn’t been on skates since his fiftieth birthday. His mind reaches the conclusion before his eyes do—
He catches sight of you in the middle of a throw triple loop, coming down with only a slight wobble in your knee, arms still light and graceful as ever. Absurdly, his mind conjures up the memory of being in ballet with you last weekend, and the praise your instructor had given your port de bras.
“Had to underrotate that one. Release me a bit earlier next time, yeah?” you call out.
Oscar’s head swivels to spot the proverbial nail in the coffin. Some tall, lanky guy with curly hair nods as he glides over to grab your waist, ready to go for another try.
Because life is one massive, cruel joke, Oscar’s finger slips against his phone screen, and the chorus of I Guess We’re Not the Same starts blasting out from his phone. In his fumbling to turn it off, he doesn’t even notice the screech of your skates against the ice as you come to an alarmed stop.
“Oscar…” His name slips out of your mouth on a gasp.
He lifts his eyes to yours, and it only takes you a second to recognize the storm brewing in his. Then he’s turning away, already on his way out of the rink with a resolute set to his shoulders that makes your stomach drop in dread.
“Wait, wait! Oscar, wait!” You’re scrambling to get off the ice and into your street shoes, fingers clumsy with your laces and barely registering the confused murmurings of Gabriel Bortoleto behind you.
Oscar isn’t going to dignify this situation by running away from you, which redounds to your benefit because you catch up to him quickly after bursting out of the doors of the building, soles slapping against the pavement until you crash into his back. But he isn’t going to dignify you with a conversation, either, so he shakes you off with a grunt and picks up his pace a little.
“Will you just wait a second?” You launch yourself in front of him and throw your arms out to either side to block him.
He simply steps around you. But you’ve fooled around on hockey skates with him enough now that you’re surprisingly nimble when you move to block his path again, and he collides into you with an involuntary grunt.
You start speaking before really thinking anything through, frantic with the need to make him understand. “Oscar, I can explain, I swear. It’s not, I mean, he’s not, I mean—it’s just for practice. Just so I don’t lose my twists and jumps, okay? He’s not my partner. He just transitioned over from singles last year; he’s not even looking for a partner yet!”
His mouth has been an unmoving line all this time, but the wildness in your demeanor releases the storm in his. His next words come out crisp and ice-cold. “Is that so? Seems like you’re looking for one.”
“I’m not! I’m not. I told you, I’m just working with him for practice. Michael doesn’t even know.”
“You’re keeping this a secret from Michael, too?”
“I—yes. Yes, I am. He wouldn’t… He wouldn’t approve of this.”
Anger rises up in Oscar’s chest now, burning through the numbness of shock. “God, I wonder why not! Maybe because you’re supposed to be my partner, and we’re supposed to be working together!”
Your face is a landscape of guilt. “I know that. I am your partner! We are working together.”
“Not well enough for you, apparently. I’m with you every single day, before the sun even rises, for all that that’s worth,” he spits out. “I haven’t seen my friends or family in months, you know? Haven’t done anything but breathe and skate, so really, I can’t imagine what I’ve done to make you think I’m anything less than 110% in on this.”
“I know that, too! Oscar, I know how hard you work. You’ve done things in four months that others couldn’t do in four years.”
“Who gives a fuck? I’m still not good enough for you.” He smiles bitterly. “I’m never going to be good enough for you. And all that bullshit about trusting me? Yeah, right. Save it for the next guy.”
Hurt flashes in your eyes. “I’m not—There’s not going to be a next guy. You’re the one, didn’t we both say so on that first day?”
He laughs, but it’s a brittle, brutal thing. “Nice way to twist what happened. Here’s what I remember about that first day: you said hell would freeze over before you ever worked with a hockey player.” He pushes you aside, not unkindly, but with the kind of finality that stops you in your tracks.
“Oscar, please—”
He pauses, and hope rises in you for one brief, foolish second. But then he turns around, and his face is wiped of all expression when he looks at you. “It’s probably time for us to get out of hell, yeah? It’s summer. I’m gonna go join the land of the living. Best of luck with the rest of your season.”
There is something seriously wrong with you. Seriously. You have half a mind to go to the student health center about it, but you know you’d get laughed out of there like you deserve.
Diagnosis? So horny it’s making you stupid.
That has to be it, because there can be no other reason for why you find yourself making out with Oscar Piastri in the middle of a frat basement, again.
PAIRING: oscar piastri x female reader
GENRE: situationship-to-??-to-??-to-lovers, (loosely derived) much ado about nothing au and therefore misunderstanding/miscommunication trope (sorry) (all will be well in the end trust me), non-f1 au, college au, greek life au if greek life was on its best behavior, nonlinear storytelling as a plot device (or plot crutch? hard 2 say), he falls first and harder and his major is Yearning (it's engineering) meanwhile she's... insane!, mutual pining and lovesick foolishness, romance, fluff, humor, lando as beloved frat boy caricature
WARNINGS: suggestive content/sexual themes, heavily implied smut, discussions of sexual assault (not directly related to main characters), underage drinking (?) and perhaps unhealthy party school culture in retrospect
WORD COUNT: ~19.7k (part 1) (SORRY i rly was gonna do this as one part but the word count got out of hand and i felt like i was gonna hit text block limit if i did it all in one post so....... part 2 out soon)
A/N: 1) re: the nonlinear storytelling, this fic starts out in present day and proceeds forward chronologically in each present day section. in between every present day section, we go back in time, starting in freshman year and proceeding forward chronologically from there, until we eventually catch up to where this fic first started in time. and then we just stay in the present! hope that makes sense eek; 2) the drivers’ ages are Whatever I Want Them To Be here so dw abt it lol; 3) much love to this excellent modern retelling of much ado about nothing, from which i drew a lot of inspiration!; 4) happy reading & tell me ur thoughts MWAH<333
PRESENT DAY
Senior year dawns hot and muggy, but it’s going to treat you well, you think. You only have two more courses to complete in your major, your acapella group just added four new members, and you have the second biggest room in the sorority house with the cutest little balcony on the top floor. This also means you have the requisite amount of stuff to move up two flights of stairs, but luckily, the boys next door saw your plight and are helping you move—
“Jesus Christ, how much shit can you possibly have?”
The serene smile that came easily to you a second ago freezes in place at the sound of that irritating fucking voice. You remind yourself that you have free will, you are the master of your own destiny and blood pressure, and you do not need to give the owner of that voice the satisfaction of reacting.
“Seriously, we should give up on the stairs and just have a yard sale here with the rest of your stuff.”
Oh, what the hell. Your attempt at zen was doomed from the start. “You wouldn’t dare,” you seethe, whirling around to glare at the Oscar Piastri-shaped nuisance currently carrying your beloved swivel armchair.
He pokes his head around the chair to smirk at you. “Oh, hey there, Lady Disdain. And here I thought you were going to pretend I didn’t exist for the rest of the year.”
You smile sweetly right back. “The year just started—don’t count yourself out yet. And nobody forced you to help, so either stop complaining and lift with your legs, or fuck off.”
He tsks. “And leave the rest of my brethren at your mercy? I think not.”
“Your brethren are happy right where they are. Isn’t that right, Logan?”
Logan, passing by carrying your full-length mirror under one arm, catches the slightly maniacal tone of your voice and nods hurriedly. “Nowhere I’d rather be, ma’am.”
You nod in smug satisfaction. For that, you’re even willing to overlook the fingerprints he is no doubt leaving on your mirror.
Oscar rolls his eyes. “That’s your best friend’s boyfriend—sampling bias if I’ve ever seen it. And thanks for the backup, mate.”
Logan grins, unrepentant. “Sorry, that’s my girl’s best friend. You’ll understand when you’re older, honey.”
Oscar scowls at his retreating back and refuses to make eye contact with you. “Whatever. I’d rather not lose my mind over anyone like that.”
You inhale deeply; here we go. “Hah! As if anyone would want you to—”
“Trust me, there’s no shortage of willing participants in my bedroom—”
“Oh, yeah, ‘cause your bedroom is the pinnacle of every girl’s romantic fantasy? Real classy, asshole—”
“Hey, I never said I was anyone’s romantic fantasy, alright? Girls know what they’re getting into with me—”
“Trouble is what they’re getting into—”
Lando clears his throat noisily. “Can you guys do this somewhere else? You’re in our way.”
Startled, you look away from Oscar for the first time to realize that the two of you are, indeed, blocking the doorway of the sorority house. Lando is lugging along two of your suitcases, and behind him, Alex and Charles release a hand each to wave cheerfully at you from where they’re holding on to either end of your loveseat.
You shake yourself out of your Oscar-induced stupor and paste a serene smile back onto your face. “Of course, of course. Thank you, boys, you are such dears.” You usher them through the doorway with a promise of pizza for a job well done, and you steadfastly ignore Oscar’s faint, high-pitched imitation of your words of gratitude.
You’ll be damned if you let him get in the way of your perfect senior year.
THREE YEARS AGO: FRESHMAN YEAR, FIRST SEMESTER
There is something seriously wrong with you. Seriously. You have half a mind to go to the student health center about it, but you know you’d get laughed out of there like you deserve.
Diagnosis? So horny it’s making you stupid.
That has to be it, you decide. The raging hormones of youth, a campus full of equally hormonal, distractingly attractive students, and no fully developed prefrontal cortex to balance it all out. You’re just another victim of the high of living on your own for the first time and being entirely free to make reckless decisions.
That has to be it, because there can be no other reason for why you find yourself making out with Oscar Piastri in the middle of a frat basement, again.
It’s a real pity, too, because you’d been doing so well on the not-making-out-with-Oscar-Piastri front. Despite making clear eye contact with him at the last two dorm parties where you’d both been in attendance, you had managed to avoid his lips—evil, terrible temptations—each time, mainly by turning the other cheek and feigning great interest in the conversation farthest from wherever he was brooding with his (admittedly fantastic) arms crossed over his chest and some storm of indecipherable emotions brewing in his eyes.
But tonight, the frats are open to freshmen, you are a sucker for a Two Friends Big Bootie mix, and, well, one thing led to another, so now you have Oscar’s tongue in your mouth and his hands on your ass. It is, unfortunately, just as great as it was the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that, and so on and so forth.
It’s unfortunate, but not because there’s anything wildly objectionable about Oscar—quite the opposite, really. You’ve done the customary freshman introduction song-and-dance with him and around him enough times now to have his biography memorized: he’s an engineering major, he’s from Melbourne, Australia, and he’s on the lightweight rowing team.
Then there are the things that you’ve picked up on your own: he’s lightning-quick with a dry remark or a muttered quip, his hair is always perfectly soft even though you’re sure he uses 3-in-1, and he’s the best kisser you’ve ever known.
Finally, here’s what you don’t know: just how far the moles on his skin extend below the collar of his shirt, why he looks at you with such intensity even when you’re both completely sober in broad daylight, or what he thinks of your hot-and-cold approach. That approach, so far, has looked like making out with him at parties, and literally turning on your heel and walking expeditiously in the opposite direction whenever you see him outside of a frat basement. It’s so bad that you’ve even resorted to pretending like you’ve never met him once or twice.
You’re sure it’s confusing as hell for him, but it’s confusing for you, too. If pressed, you wouldn’t be able to state a clear reason for why you’re so mercurial with him. You just know that your mediocre high school boyfriend broke up with you two weeks before freshman orientation because he thought he was growing out of this relationship and the two of you should take advantage of the college experience and meet new people. And it’s not like he was the great love of your life, but how dare he break up with you? And who is he kidding, growing out of this relationship? He doesn’t even know how to do his own laundry.
This is all to say: you came to campus six weeks ago determined to take advantage of the college experience and meet as many new people as possible. As you’d screamed drunkenly the first night, shortly before meeting (and making out with) Oscar for the first time: slut era, baby! So you have no intention of getting into a relationship, or even any kind of repeat player situation.
The problem, of course, is that you keep finding yourself within kissing distance of Oscar, which inevitably leads to kissing him, which inevitably leads to continuing to kiss him until you’re in danger of a public indecency citation or something (to your humiliation, you’ve already gotten several Snapchat videos from your friends of your enthusiastic dance-floor-makeouts with the guy). Worse still, you haven’t been kissing anyone but Oscar.
He doesn’t seem to have any complaints about it, if his eager hands are any indication. Right now, those hands have migrated upwards, one rucking up the hem of your shirt and sweeping across the exposed skin of your waist, the other at your chin, tilting it so he can kiss you deeper. A shiver passes down your spine when he nips at your bottom lip, and you know he feels it because his mouth quirks into a smirk against yours, thrilling and terrible all at once.
“Oh no,” you whine, voice wrecked and wretched when you pull away from the kiss just to tuck your head against his shoulder. “I’m kissing you.”
“Yeah? I’m well aware.” His voice is amused but no less affected, raspy and accent thicker around each elongated vowel.
“Yeah, but.” You pull your head up to glare at him, no real heat behind it. Svedka and jungle juice make you more honest than you intend, because then you blurt out, “I had a plan for not kissing you!”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You had a plan for not kissing me?”
You nod emphatically. “I was going to kiss Lando instead!”
His expression sobers immediately. Then, his eyes flick over your shoulder, and he laughs, sharp and a little mean. “How’s that going for you, hm?”
You turn to spot Lando really crossing the line into public indecency, mouthing into some girl’s neck and hands disappearing under her skirt. Cheeks burning, you turn back around to face Oscar with a petulant huff. “Whatever. I didn’t actually want to kiss him, anyways.”
Relief flashes across his face, so quickly that you’re not sure you didn’t make it up after the fact. His voice is steady again when he asks, “Who d’ya wanna kiss then, gorgeous?”
Uh-oh. The compliment completely destroys your resolve, and you resort to hiding your face in his shoulder again. “I want to kiss you, unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately?” he repeats, half pleased, half amused as he sways you back and forth to music which is entirely unsuited for this kind of slow dancing. “I don’t get you, you know that?”
You sigh mournfully. “In my defense, I actually do know that.”
“Well, alright then.” He doesn’t press further, and you don’t explain, either. You’re going to get so much shit for this from your friends (Snapchat is not temporary), but you continue to sway with him until the party dies down, and later, it becomes one of the fonder memories you have of him.
PRESENT DAY
On second thought, maybe senior year has it out for you. It’s 94º and the AC is out in your sorority house, your acapella group can’t agree on a rehearsal time for the semester, and the last two courses you have to complete in your major are Physics I and II. There’s a reason you’ve been putting these courses off until your last year of college; you and physics do not get along well. High school made you painfully aware of this, but who knew you’d be forced to confront this foe again as an adult, and at 8am in the morning, no less?
Of course, it gets worse, because the TA assigned to your physics lab section is Oscar. Nothing could have prepared you for the sight of his impassive countenance on the first day of classes, handing out paper copies of the physics syllabus because your professor is an old-fashioned kind of guy who still lectures on blackboard and doesn’t allow laptops in the classroom.
“Oh, fuck me,” you groan instantly upon reading the syllabus. Labs start next week, conducted under the supervision of the TAs; that’s an extra 3 hours per week you have to spend with Oscar in close proximity, on top of actual class and office hours.
“Fuck you for real,” Callie agrees from beside you. “I’m an English major. Why the hell am I here?”
You bat your eyelashes at her. “Because lab is a graduation requirement and you love me so, so much?”
Your best friend frowns. “No, I don’t think that’s quite right. There are easier courses with labs.”
Logan bounds up the steps to the third row where you’re sitting with Callie and greets her brightly. “Hi, sweets!”
She beams right back. “Oh, yeah. That’s why I’m here."
“Whore,” you mutter listlessly. She pats your shoulder in consolation, though you’re not sure how sincere she is about it given the hearts sparkling in both her and Logan’s eyes at the moment. You turn your attention instead to the back of the classroom, where you expect to find Oscar brooding with his arms crossed over his chest now that he’s done passing out syllabi.
To your surprise, he’s turned sideways, leaning casually against the wall as he laughs at something the pretty brunette next to him is saying. She’s another TA, Riley something-or-the-other; you remember her from serving on the Inter-Sorority Council together last year, but you don’t remember her being that funny. Oscar’s laughing with his head tossed back, exposing several moles along his neck that remind you of when you’d seen all of the moles scattered across his skin. Not for the first time, you curse your excellent memory.
You’re saved by the bell, so to speak; your professor enters the classroom just then, and soon you’re too busy scrambling to keep up with his rapid scrawling on the blackboard to think of much else.
50 minutes later, your notes look insane and you can feel the beginnings of a headache coming on. And you’re supposed to meet briefly with your lab section to introduce yourself to your partner and receive instructions for the first lab from the TA. You’re already grimacing by the time you reach the small huddle of students grouped around Oscar—not just because he’s there, but also because you haven’t had to take notes by hand in ages, and you’re still shaking out the cramp in your fingers.
“That bad, huh?” The guy next to you nudges your shoulder with his and offers you a sympathetic smile.
You smile ruefully in return. “That obvious, huh?
“I salute you, fellow warrior.” He really does salute you, solemn for 0.5 seconds before he breaks into a grin. “And lab partner, I think?”
You glance down at the sheet of lab partner assignments at the back of your syllabus. “Oh, yeah, nice to meet you! Here, let me give you my number so we can coordinate—”
Oscar clears his throat loudly. “If everyone’s done socializing, we should talk about the pre-lab.” He doesn’t look at you as he says it, but you’re sure the derision in his tone is directed at you. If you’d been feeling more energetic, you might have snarked back; as it is, you simply scowl at the floor, willing your headache away.
Oscar drones on about the pre-lab assignment for a few minutes, and then you’re exchanging numbers with your lab partner on the way out. Your headache has fully reared its head now, but there’s not much you can do about it; you have a meeting to get to in twenty minutes, and it’s fifteen minutes across campus in the new science building. You’re about to just grit your teeth through it when a tiny bottle of Advil and a banana are shoved in front of your face.
“If you’re going to make it through 8am physics, you have to stop skipping breakfast,” Oscar says brusquely.
“I—”
“Don’t like bananas, yeah, I know. It’s all I had on me, okay?”
That isn’t what you were about to say, but it’s true—you don’t like bananas. You’re just shocked Oscar knows that.
He continues as if he’s done nothing out of the ordinary. “Eat it, or I’ll sic Callie on you.”
You shudder instantly at the thought. Your meeting is at the imaging lab, but you don’t doubt Callie would burst through the lab doors just to force breakfast into your mouth.
Oscar allows himself a tiny, amused smile at your reaction. Satisfied that you’ll have something to treat your headache and something to eat, he nudges you toward the door. “Go. You’ll be late.”
And really, how does he know that? You ponder this until you reach the lab, where the likely culprit is sitting innocently.
“Have you been reporting on me to Oscar?” You point an accusing finger at George, fellow neuroscience major and research assistant in the Hamilton lab. George also happens to harbor delusions about Oscar being secretly in love with you. You’re pretty sure George just likes to stir the pot and watch the ensuing drama unfold, but that has never stopped you from vociferously rebuffing him at every turn.
George raises both hands in absolutely unconvincing defense. “I may have mentioned our shared dismay about Lewis moving the weekly check-in to Monday mornings, yeah. C’mon, Oscar’s my friend and teammate, too. Can’t I wish the best for my two friends?”
You scoff. “Can’t you wish the best for some of your other friends?”
George smiles sunnily. “You two are in the most dire need, though.”
“Good morning, good morning!” Professor Hamilton—Lewis, he insists—bustles in with his usual good cheer and, best of all, a pot of good tea and pastries from the best bakery in town.
You and George fall into the rhythm of the weekly check-in while you munch happily on a spinach and feta danish. At the end of it, you grab a chocolate croissant and wrap it up carefully in napkins, trying not to think too hard about what you’re doing and why you’re doing it.
When you exit the building and spot Oscar ascending the steps with his head down and looking at his phone, you feel like you’re a freshman again, tempted to run away at the sight of him. But you straighten your shoulders and lift your head, and your hand doesn’t shake at all when you thrust the croissant in front of him, almost hitting him in the forehead with it.
His head jerks up, alarm clear in his expression before it melts into something like hesitation, like hope. He points at the croissant, then himself in a For me? kind of way.
The gesture makes you laugh softly. “Yes, it’s for you. My professor brought pastries, so. Yeah, you know. Thanks for this morning.” It’s stilted and awkward, and you think it must be 110º in the air around you right now, but you’re glad you did it, especially when Oscar’s entire face turns pink as he takes the croissant from you.
“Thanks,” he says. “This place makes my favorite chocolate croissants.”
“I know,” you say before you can think better of it. Then you do think better of it, and you squeak out an, “Okay, bye!” before fleeing the scene. It really is just like freshman year.
FRESHMAN YEAR, SECOND SEMESTER
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen.” You bemoan the sight before you: Callie, once your staunchest ally willing to die on the no-relationship hill, now happily tucked against Logan’s side in the library, hands entwined underneath the table where you’re all studying.
Callie sticks her tongue out at you. “Sorry, dearest, I still love you the most.”
Your eyebrows pull together in disdain. “Obviously.”
At the same time, Logan presses a kiss to Callie’s temple and agrees, “Of course.”
Your face softens, almost against your will. Callie and Logan are so much in the throes of the honeymoon period that it’s almost cartoonish, but you’re happy for them; really, you are. Your discomfort with their new relationship stems from entirely selfish reasons, namely—
“Hey, does anyone have a charger I can borrow—oh, hello.” Oscar’s ears go bright red as he waves awkwardly at you, and only you. He might as well be waving a neon sign that says, I’ve had my hand up your dress not 500 feet from here!
(Shamefully, you can now say that you kind of understand Lando; last week, you and Oscar had been too impatient to make it to the dorms, so you’d made it work in the stacks of the library, which was the only semi-private place between either of your dorms that was still open late at night. Your only consolation is that, well, at least you made it out of the party.
Oscar’s low murmurs of, There you go, c’mon, gorgeous, you look so good like this, as he helped you fall apart on his fingers served as a nice consolation, too, you suppose.)
“Hello,” you grit out. “Here, take mine.” You hand him your charger, and when he continues to stand there like a statue, you pointedly jerk your head in the direction he came from. Thankfully, he seems to get the message and shoots you an inscrutable look before going back to his study group two tables away.
Callie’s eyes narrow instantly at you. “What’s going on between you two?”
“Who, me and Oscar? Nothing, nothing!” you insist, high-pitched even to your own ears.
“Not according to Oscar,” Logan mutters, so quietly you almost miss it.
“Weren’t you all over each other at the crew party last week?” Callie asks loudly.
“Keep your voice down,” you hiss, resisting the urge to turn around to see if Oscar heard her. “We just. Y’know. Hook up sometimes. Why, what did he say?” You turn to Logan with zealous focus. Callie repeats the motion, and he looks distinctly regretful about opening up his mouth.
“Oh, this and that,” he mumbles. But he’s no match for the heat of yours and Callie’s combined glares. “Okay, he just said he doesn’t know what your vibes are.”
You’re instantly skeptical. “He said that?”
Logan grimaces. “Well, not in those exact words. But I think he’s been… confused? About whatever’s going on between you two.”
“Which is nothing,” you rebuke sharply. Even if half the campus has seen you and Oscar making out at some party or another, you’re not about to pour your heart out in front of Logan, who’s still Oscar’s best friend at the end of the day. You flick your eyes significantly at Callie, and she understands immediately.
“Logan, do you mind getting me an iced tea? From the café next door, not the one in here. The café next door has the ice cubes I like,” she explains. “And take Oscar with you. He looks like he could use a walk.”
Logan glances at the completely full iced tea in front of her, then between you two, then over at Oscar, and he catches on, too. “Of course, baby. It might take a while, so we’ll be back in five… ten…? Okay, ten minutes,” he allows gallantly.
As soon as he’s grabbed a confused-looking Oscar out of his seat and they’re both out of earshot, Callie raises her eyebrow at you, and you sink your head into your hand and heave a huge sigh. “Oh god, I don’t even know. Me and Oscar… It’s not, like, a thing. I never even intend for it to happen! It just happens.”
“You and Oscar hooking up every time you see each other at a party and then pretending like you’re distant acquaintances the next day is a thing that just happens?”
“Well, when you put it like that... But in my defense, it’s better now than it was a few months ago, when I was still acting like I had never met the guy.”
Callie offers you a sarcastic thumbs-up. “Wow, you’re the model of emotional maturity.” She pauses, looks at you like you’re a frightened woodland creature, and begins again. “He’s a good guy, you know.”
You sigh louder. “He is! He really is. I dunno, it’s easy enough to fool around with him when we’re both a little drunk and Miley Cyrus is playing on the dance floor, but every time I see him in public I just want to run away because god, he’s really perceived me, y’know? The idea that he knows anything about me is so humiliating, but at this point, he knows a lot about me.”
“You ever heard of an avoidant attachment style?” Callie asks rhetorically; she already knows what your response will be.
“Oh, come on, enough of that pop psychology bullshit—”
Callie smirks. “Yeah, yeah, I know, you sanctimonious science snob.”
“Semantic know-it-all,” you retort. “Damn, I gotta give it to you for the alliteration, though.”
You lock eyes with her, and then you both burst out laughing. You’re still giggling by the time Logan and Oscar return with an iced tea for Callie and a banana smoothie that Oscar tries to pass off casually into your hands.
You stare blankly at the smoothie. You figure his study group is done, so you ask, “You want me to hold this for you while you move your stuff over here?”
“No, I—it’s for you. The drink. You probably don’t get enough potassium. Most people don’t, actually. At least, that’s what the sign at the café said. It’s their special this week.” Oscar’s voice fades off into a mumble, blush intensifying across his cheeks with every word.
“Oh.” You’re quite touched by the kind gesture, random though it may be. “But I don’t like bananas,” you say thoughtlessly.
As soon as the words leave your mouth, you wish you could take them back—his eyebrows pull down, his mouth sets into a flat line, and he moves to take the smoothie from your hands. You think maybe he’ll drink it himself, but he lobs it unceremoniously into the nearest trash can, which sparks some vague irritation in you.
“That is so wasteful,” you begin, mulish for no real reason other than your embarrassment about what you said and not knowing what to do with all this prickling heat at the base of your neck.
“It’s no less wasteful than you not drinking it,” he snaps.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to drink it—”
“You said you don’t like bananas. It’s a banana smoothie.”
“That doesn’t mean I wasn’t going to drink it!”
“It’s basically the same thing—”
“Don’t put words in my mouth—”
Callie snickers. “I can think of other things you could put in her mouth.”
You and Oscar turn twin expressions of shock on her.
Now she cackles. “What, like you’re not familiar with each other’s mouths? Oscar, sweetie, she doesn’t like bananas, but she loves berries. Ask me next time if you’re unsure, okay?”
Oscar gapes at her for a few seconds, mutters something about needing to finish a problem set, then retreats back to his study group.
Logan looks at his girlfriend with newfound admiration. “That was so hot,” he blurts out.
“I know.” Callie throws her hair over her shoulder; the picture of self-satisfaction.
You groan. You’re never living this one down.
PRESENT DAY
The AC in your sorority house has been out for four days now, and the unusual heat wave continues; high-nineties during the day and not much better at night. You may not have retained much from high school physics, but you know heat rises—you’re practically melting in your room on the top floor. Even at night, every part of your exposed skin is unpleasantly sticky, and you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in four days.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. Tonight, you’re desperate enough that you’ve dragged your desk chair out onto your little balcony, folding yourself into the cramped space with a stack of research papers propped against your knees and highlighters tucked behind your ears. If you can’t sleep, you can at least make some progress on the thesis you’re doing in the Hamilton lab. There’s even a pathetic little breeze out here on the balcony.
You’re deep in the weeds of literature review when your phone buzzes in your shorts, which makes you groan. The thought of fishing your phone out of your undoubtedly sweaty back pocket is so unwelcome, but needs must.
Oscar’s name at the top of your notifications is the last thing you expect to see.
oscar: I can hear the wheels in ur brain turning all the way from here
oscar: Here, where the AC is on, btw. And I’m just working on my capstone, so I won’t disturb u if u come over
Your head snaps up and across the way, where Oscar waves sardonically at you through his window.
(You’d almost lost it a few days ago when you discovered that Oscar is the current resident in the frat next door whose window practically kisses your balcony. Fate is a cruel mistress; the discovery came about because you got a text from Oscar—the first you’d gotten from him in well over a year, and in fact the first in your text history because you’d deleted everything from before—telling you to pull your damn curtains together. Mortified, you’d immediately shut down your blasé habit of changing anywhere in your room without care to who could potentially see.)
You consider your options: continuing to live in miserable, sleepless, soupy heat, or blessed AC paired with an opportunity to address the elephant in the room.
A bead of sweat rolls down your neck, collecting in the valley of your chest, and yep, that’s it. You cap your highlighter and text Oscar back.
you: open your window
oscar: What why
you: i’m coming in through the window
oscar: ???? There’s a perfectly good door 2 floors below us
you: a PUBLIC door
you: plus i’ve seen like 30 people up on your roof at once it’ll be fine
oscar: Yeah but they’re not climbing onto the roof from ur rickety ass balcony
you: i’ve BEEN one of the 30 people up on that roof, AND i’ve been on this balcony. it’ll be fine!!!
oscar: U r impossible
you: yeah yeah whatever it’s the cross i bear. open your damn window
Oscar slides his window up, disapproval already etched into his eyebrows. “Hate to throw a wrench in your plan, but my window has a screen on it.”
You roll your eyes. “First of all, you love to throw a wrench in my plan. Second of all, and speaking of, don’t you have a screwdriver or something lying around that you can use to disassemble the screen?”
His mouth drops open. “You want me to take the screen off? Seriously, I get that you’re embarrassed to be seen with me, but it can’t be so bad that you’re willing to go this far just to avoid the front door.”
“I’m not embarrassed to be seen—what the hell are you talking about? You know what, fine, forget it, if you can’t take the screen off, you could’ve just said so! What’s the point of being an engineering major if you can’t even—”
“Oh my god, as if I’m incapable of taking the screen off—Jesus Christ, you’re so—!” Oscar’s voice dissolves into a litany of muttered exasperations as he disappears from the window frame.
You wonder if this is it, if you’ve finally pushed him too far, and he’ll just stop interacting with you at all. The thought is surprisingly sobering; stinging, even. Mechanically, you resume highlighting the research paper in front of you while ignoring the way your shorts stick to your thighs and the suspicious pressure building behind your eyes.
But then there’s some light clanging, followed by Oscar’s head popping out of his window, which is now screenless. He folds his arms across the windowsill and gives you an unimpressed look. When you blink deer-in-the-headlights eyes back at him, he sighs and lets one corner of his mouth twitch upwards. “Well, don’t make me come get you.”
Relief floods through you, both for the AC so close within your grasp and for the reassurance that he’s still willing to put up with you. “Yay! Okay, take this first.” You scramble out of your chair and gather your stack of papers together, moving to stretch over the railing of your balcony to hand it to Oscar. But the distance is farther than you’d gauged, and it quickly turns precarious.
“Be careful—”
“Relax, it’s fine! Can you just—”
“It’s definitely not fine. Wait, don’t—”
“Move your head—“
“You’re going to give me a concussion—”
“Don’t be so dramatic—”
“Oof.”
Somehow, he manages to pull you in through the window, and you both land in a rumpled heap on the floor of his room.
“This is a nice rug,” you remark from your position face-down in it.
He groans. “Your elbow is in my ribs.”
“Hold on, let me get up—”
“That’s worse—how did you manage to make it worse? Fuck me—”
“Don’t move, let me just… There!” You finally disentangle from him successfully, and then you’re giggling at the sight of his disgruntled appearance, hair all messed up and cheek creased from some element of the tumble.
He glares balefully at you. “Was this worth avoiding the front door?”
You’re still shaking with mirth when you scoot closer to him on the floor, much to his continued exasperation, but he goes completely still when you reach out to touch him. “Sorry,” you murmur, fingers gentle in his hair as you smooth down the ruffled strands.
Oscar’s forgotten why he was annoyed at you in the first place. “S’okay,” he says, eyes fluttering closed at the absentminded sweep of your thumb across the crease on his cheek.
His skin goes pink in the wake of your every touch, and it’s so heartbreakingly familiar that you almost lose your nerve. But even if the timing is a little earlier than you’d imagined, the opportunity is right there for the taking, so you figure you might as well. “Sorry,” you repeat, barely above a whisper now as you lean in even closer, fitting your palm to the curve of his cheek. “Want me to kiss it better?”
Eyes still closed, Oscar raises his eyebrows. “Sure,” he says, joking because he thinks you are, too. Strange that you’re suddenly so comfortable addressing the elephant in the room, but that’s fine, he can roll with the punches—
You kiss him like it’s the first time, soft and a little shy.
It’s so unexpected that he’s frozen for a second, eyebrows still raised like he’s expecting a return quip from you. But then muscle memory kicks in, overriding all good sense and inhibitions and nine long months of not knowing where the hell he went wrong with you, and he’s kissing you back with a fervor bordering on desperation. If nothing else, he still knows this: exactly how you like to be kissed, all the places where you’re hypersensitive and responsive, the trembling gasps he can pull from you if he’s just clever enough with his teeth and his tongue.
And he may know all of your tells by heart, but you don’t even have to try to unravel him. It’s not fair what you do to him, and it never has been; he loses his head, his restraint, and his treacherous heart in one fell swoop to the shocked little Oh! that you whimper into his mouth, to the overheated press of your chest against his, to the way your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt and tug because you’re so caught up in sensation.
He doesn’t even register how you got into his lap; only that you’re there, sweet and pliant like the fantasy he’s been punishing himself with, all these months knowing he can’t have the real thing. But this is real, and you’re so fucking lovely that he needs to tell you immediately or he’ll die—
The tentative, searching press of your hips against his is like a bucket of ice-cold water in his face.
He wrenches himself away from you with a gasp, and he doesn’t know if he hates himself more for being the cause of your protesting whine or for losing his resolve and kissing you back in the first place. “What,” he heaves out a breath, “are you doing?”
A marriage of hurt and humiliation flash across your face. He decides that that’s what he hates himself for the most, but there’s no going back now.
“What do you mean?” you snap, scrambling off of his lap and wrapping your arms around yourself like armor.
He wants to hug you, to comfort you. He wants to go back to five minutes ago, before you’d kissed him. He wants to go back to thirty seconds ago, when you were still too wrapped up in each other to remember yourselves. Instead, he just looks at you, wild-eyed and kiss-swollen and the loveliest sight he’s ever seen. He’s not sure he could ever regret kissing you, but he regrets that he may never be able to see you like this again.
“Isn’t this what you invited me over for?” you bite out, unable to hold the silence like he can.
He shakes his head mutely.
You scoff as you scrabble about for the sheaf of research papers that had scattered across his floor in your rough-and-tumble entrance through the window. “Well, you didn’t have to invite me over just to tell me you’re not interested. I got that message pretty clearly sophomore year, actually.”
He’d rather rip his beating heart out of his chest than add to your distress, but he can’t hold his agony just between his own two hands anymore. “What the hell are you on about?”
You stand with your papers tucked against your chest, adding distance and height between you and him to better steel your nerves. “Listen, I have no interest in playing games with you. And I have a pretty healthy ego, but I know not everyone wants me. I was gonna say you should just tell me if you don’t, but I guess you just did. Thanks, Oscar. I almost forgot where we stood with each other. I’ll see myself out—you have a front door, or so I’m told.”
You’re gone before he can formulate a response, and all that’s left is a stray highlighter of yours that had rolled under his bed, and the echo of the way you’d said his name on your way out.
SOPHOMORE YEAR, FIRST SEMESTER
You’ve decided to turn over a new leaf. New (school) year, new you. Freshman you should hardly be able to recognize sophomore you; that’s your goal, anyways.
First order of business: impress Professor Hamilton enough this year to have him sign on as your thesis advisor. Second order of business: conquer sorority rush. Third order of business: be normal about Oscar Piastri.
Number one and two are going along swimmingly. The third one…
“God, I just think he’s so hot,” sighs the girl in front of you in the line for the bathroom. Her friend, who you know vaguely in the same way you’ve gotten to know most of the upperclassmen in your sorority over the course of rush, has the decency to try to shush her. You don’t realize why that’s necessary until the girl protests, “What’s wrong? It’s not like Oscar can hear me.” She lets out a drunken giggle. “I wouldn’t even mind if he could.”
Her friend swats her gently on the shoulder. “Girl, seriously, shut up.” She glances back at you and mouths, Sorry!
You instantly overcorrect. “Oh god, no! Please, it’s totally fine. I’m not dating him, or seeing him exclusively, or anything, really! I’m not even hooking up with him anymore. Go for it, girl!” You aim the last part at the girl, whose delight (and several Twisted Teas) manifests in a smacking kiss to your cheek. Her friend hauls her into the bathroom with an admonishment and another apologetic smile back at you.
God, this school is too small. Or—probably more accurately—you and Oscar had been far too conspicuous last year. In any case, that’s all behind you now; you’ve had a summer of growth and reflection, and you’re a new woman now. Oscar Piastri and his effect on your hormones will rule your world no more.
“Hello, gorgeous.” But then there’s that voice, lazy and low in your ear, sending a visceral bolt of heat down your spine.
Heat, which you ignore judiciously, because you’re a new woman now. Or something.
“Hi, Oscar,” you respond, schooling your tone into a kind of placid neutrality that belies how hyperaware you are of his arm brushing against yours, and holy shit, did his arms get bigger over summer break—
New woman. Right.
He smiles faintly and crosses his arms over his chest like he doesn’t know how that affects you. “Good summer?”
“Mmhm,” you manage, counting backwards from 10 now to distract yourself from the wide expanse of his chest. You’re a weak woman, is what you are.
“Miss me?” he asks, eyes dropping shamelessly to your mouth. The intention in his expression is enough to make you forget, momentarily, what you’ve set out to do this year. You’re not sure where all this brazen confidence came from, but it looks good on him, burnishing him golden and bright, sending your heart stuttering in your chest and the floor shifting beneath your feet.
Or maybe that’s the girl you saw in line for the bathroom earlier, stumbling into you with an apology and widened eyes once she realizes who you’re talking to. She begins, “Oh, are you guys…?”
Nope, back to your original plan. “We’re not!” you insist, ungluing yourself from Oscar’s side (what the hell, when had you even gotten there?).
“You totally should!” She flaps a hand behind her at Lando, who sends you and Oscar an obnoxious wink. “I’m going upstairs with him instead!”
“Yay! Have fun,” you say weakly, ignoring the way Oscar’s gaze is drilling into the side of your head. Without looking at him, you explain, “I was just telling her earlier that we’re not dating, or seeing each other exclusively, or hooking up, or anything. So. Y’know. FYI.”
“Really? That’s news to me,” he says. You’d bet anything he’s giving you a flat, unimpressed look right now.
You nod with false enthusiasm. “Well, yes! Hence the FYI. For your information. Now you’re informed!”
“Yippee,” he intones dryly.
You figure this horrifically awkward PSA can’t be that much worse with the addition of eye contact, so you decide to face him again. But it is worse now, because he looks a little miserable and all the more beautiful for it, and god, you really need to get a grip; it’s so embarrassing to feel like this about some guy in a frat basement.
There’s no way out but through, so you take a deep breath and begin again. “I just figure, with Callie and Logan and everything—I mean, they’re still going strong, and it doesn’t look like that’s going to change anytime soon. Not that I’d want it to change; I’m happy they have each other! But you and I are, um, probably going to keep seeing a lot of each other.”
He scoffs. “Careful, now. If we see any more of each other, someone might think we’re hooking up, or seeing each other exclusively, or dating.”
You scowl at him. “My point is that since our best friends are dating, we should try to play nice with each other.”
“And you’d know just how nice I can play with you,” he drawls, low and slow and so fucking hot you think you deserve some sort of award for holding onto your resolve.
You laugh shrilly to distract yourself from the heat pooling in your navel. “Anyways! I think we should be friends. Or at least, uh, normal acquaintances.” You stick your hand out, elbow locked in the stiffest handshake you can muster.
Oscar stares at your hand. The thing is, he knows you by now. Maybe not in the way a friend would know you, but he knows how your instinct is to crack a joke—or, Christ above, get into his lap and destroy his higher brain function—at the earliest sign of emotional intimacy. He’s seen how skittish you get when he doles out any of the tender affection that he barely manages to contain in the cage of his measured demeanor. Sometimes he feels like he can’t breathe around you for all the adoration that swells in his lungs, but he knows you’d spook and retreat if he ever spoke a word of it too soon. It’s probably crazy, and it’s certainly stupid, but he’s halfway in love with you, and he’s selfish enough to accept “friends” if that’s what you need before you’re willing to look him in the eye and acknowledge all the devotion bursting at the seams of him.
So he takes your hand and shakes it, resisting the urge to pull you closer and just kiss you out of your inane platonic proposal. That would be the fastest way to end this charade, and it is a charade—he knows what you look like when you want something you won’t let yourself have, has memorized that look, treasures it, can taste it on his tongue if he closes his eyes and thinks about it. And he recognizes it on you now, easy.
But he’s patient, and he’s foolish, and he’ll do anything you ask. “Friends or normal acquaintances,” he agrees, crossing his fingers behind his back.
PRESENT DAY
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. But hell is probably also where the correct answers to your physics pre-lab assignment reside, so you’re marching there with your head held high.
And you keep your head held high, all the way from your sorority house into the depths of the old science building where the physics department still sits, all the way until you peek into the student lounge and spot the top of Oscar’s head, bowed down over his laptop on top of a repurposed lab bench.
Your immediate reaction is to fling yourself back from the edge of the doorframe and flatten yourself against the wall, even though there’s no way he saw you. Then you call yourself all kinds of fool; you should’ve sent Callie in to scout the scene for you before assuming there’d be other TAs available at office hours.
But hold on, why are you embarrassed right now? Who wouldn’t have interpreted a frat guy’s late-night invite to come over and enjoy his AC as a poorly-disguised booty call? You don’t think you’re particularly far out in left field for that one. Sure, you probably shouldn’t have agreed or actually gone over, but you’re a weak woman—Oscar Piastri is still the best kisser you’ve ever known, and there’s still a huge, unresolved black hole between you two. God forbid a girl try her hand at conflict resolution and end up making out with her counterparty.
Righteousness restored, you tilt your chin up again and breeze into the student lounge with an aggressively friendly smile. “Oscar! You’re on TA duty now, right? Can you help me with the last few questions of the pre-lab?”
He heaves a sigh like he’s being asked to dig his own grave, and your smile freezes in place. “Yeah, I guess,” he says, gesturing for you to take a seat in the empty row of tall swivel chairs alongside the lab bench.
Your smile doesn’t budge, even as you curse him out in your head for his bitchy attitude. What right does he have to go around acting so beleaguered, so put out? Between the two of you, you’re quite certain you’re the one who keeps getting rebuffed. But no matter; there’s a grade on the line here, and you will persevere, you will overcome, you will rise above the fray—
Oscar coughs. “Can you stop smiling like that? You’re freaking me out.”
Your eyes narrow, even as your smile remains artificially perky. “No clue what you mean. This is my normal smile.”
“That is not your normal smile.”
“Yes, it is. But please, Oscar, feel free to keep mansplaining my own smile to me.”
“I’m not mansplaining—you know what? Fuck it.” He rolls his eyes to the ceiling, takes a breath, and says, with exaggerated feeling, “Road work ahead? I sure hope it does!”
You can’t help it. Instinctually, your mouth curves into a genuine smile, and a giggle escapes you.
“See? That’s your normal smile. God, I can’t believe that bit still gets you.” He slips you a sideways glance, pressing his lips together into a marshmallow-soft smile at the sight of yours; he can’t help it, either. He lets himself watch you laugh for a few more seconds before remembering to have you pull out your pre-lab assignment, and then it’s all business from there.
Ten minutes pass comfortably with him checking your work, mostly nodding and confirming that you’re on the right track. You’re almost grateful for how quickly the awkwardness of your entrance has been dealt with, but when you eventually get to the part of the pre-lab that has been giving you the most trouble, he starts sighing and frowning and generally looking like he’d rather be anywhere else every time you ask a question. It’s getting on your nerves and dispelling any semblance of a positive atmosphere that has lingered after his stupid joke, and after a few minutes of it, you’ve had enough.
“Okay, what is your problem?” You throw your hands up. “I get that I’m not a physics whiz, but I’m not stupid, either. You don’t have to sigh like it’s some huge inconvenience every time you start explaining something to me. You’re getting paid to do this, aren’t you?”
He gawks at you. “What? I’m not—I don’t think you’re stupid. At all. I think you’re terrifyingly brilliant, actually, but that’s not the point. I’m…” He exhales roughly. “I’m uncomfortable, okay? I’m trying to figure out how to apologize for how things went down in my room the other night, but I don’t know how.”
Your face shutters in an instant. “Thanks for the sentiment, but there’s really no need. I can pick up on a hint.”
He lets out a frustrated sound. “Well, I can’t. What the hell kind of hint do you think I’m giving?”
“I can’t believe you’re making me say this out loud—the hint that you’re not interested, Oscar! You don’t want me, or anything to do with me. Fine, whatever. Life goes on. Can we get on with the pre-lab?”
A strangled laugh punches out of his chest. “You can’t be serious. You think I’m not interested? That I don’t want you?” Suddenly, he reaches out and grabs the back of your chair, swiveling it around to face him.
The motion brings you closer to him than you’d expected; your knees knock together, and your next inhale seems to pull from the air in his own chest. He’s looking as determined as you’ve ever seen him, like the way he gets before a race, all single-minded and certain, ready to forge the world he wants by virtue of his own strength. But there’s no race ahead of him, no teammates breathing in unison on calm waters. Right now, there’s just you and him, and there’s a flush of color across his cheekbones already, emotions dialed all the way up for every inelegant word he doesn’t know how to say.
“Wanting you has never been a problem for me,” he says finally. “I usually have the opposite problem, honestly.” I want you too much, all the time, everywhere, in whatever way you’ll have me. But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he just smiles at you, a little shy but sincere, almost helpless in his affection.
“Oh. Well, you could’ve just said so,” you murmur, all the fight having gone out of you the moment you saw him smile like that.
He gives you a knowing look. “There’s a lot of things we could’ve just said, gorgeous.”
The return of that particular epithet sends a full-body shiver through you, which his eyes seem to positively sparkle in delight upon catching. “Shut up,” you say pre-emptively.
He exhales on a laugh, lighter now for having told you a fraction of what he feels. “Whatever else happens, you can always be sure of that.” That I want you, that I think you’re brilliant, that I’m lucky just to have you look at me.
Your head tilts, surveying him. “Promise?”
“Promise.” And this time, he doesn’t cross his fingers behind his back.
SOPHOMORE YEAR, FIRST SEMESTER
Your firm commitment to your friends-or-normal-acquaintances charade with Oscar has taken you to many foolish places, but this is probably the most embarrassing of them all.
“Remember,” your sorority’s New Member Educator trills, “you should only do it if you want to!”
Bit late for that now, you think, staring at the garishly pink fuzzy handcuffs attaching your left wrist to Oscar’s right and a bottle of shitty champagne between you.
Throwing your name into the mix for Edward Fortyhands had seemed like a fun idea a few hours ago, when you were fresh off of the buzz of sorority initiation. It seemed harmless even forty-five minutes ago, when you’d stepped into the fraternity house to which Oscar now belongs, and early-2010s Kesha had you slut-dropping it up and down the dance floor.
Now, you curse your previous naïveté. Of course Oscar’s name would get called alongside yours for this stupid drinking game; of course he’d be dressed in some nondescript black T-shirt with his hair tousled like he’d just woken up, straight out of your guiltiest daydreams; of course you’re on some new birth control that is driving your hormones haywire, fantasizing about your friend-and-normal-acquaintance.
“Jesus, why are we doing this with champagne?” Oscar complains beside you. He’s glaring at the shitty champagne as if he could pulverize it with his eyes alone.
“They ordered too much for initiation,” you sigh mournfully, having already gone through all the stages of grief about this.
He glances sideways at you and purses his lips instinctually (a pout by any other name) at the sight of your forlorn expression. Well, that just won’t do. You’ve got a problem, and he can fix it. He tugs gently at your wrist with his and cocks his head toward the staircase behind him. “C’mon, let’s go up.”
Your brain stutters to a halt. Is he asking you to…? Really? Right now? It’s not like you don’t want it, but you’re not even two months into being friends-or-normal-acquaintances.
Your heart pounds in your ears the whole time you follow him upstairs, almost like white noise drowning out the sounds of the party: your sorority sisters laughing, the bass thumping from someone’s amateur Soundcloud remix, the clink of champagne bottles against each other.
He leads you into someone’s bedroom at the end of the hallway, dimly lit in blue and purple LEDs, and the sounds from the party truly fade to nothing when the door shuts behind you with a solid thump.
“Impressive soundproofing in here,” you remark, trying for casual and ending up somewhere near breathy.
Oscar barely reacts to your comment; he makes a beeline instead for a backpack sitting at the base of the futon sofa pushed up against the far wall. You make a confused sound as you follow, and you won’t lie—you’re a little disappointed he didn’t pick up on your brazen innuendo. But you sit down awkwardly when he does, and you watch the back of his head as he rummages around in the backpack one-handed. Frankly, you’re approaching offense; are you not entertaining him enough?
You’re about to open your mouth and snap something sharp at him when he pulls out a small, black case with a triumphant smile. “Knew I packed this today,” he says, apropos of nothing. “Hold still, ‘kay?”
Still one-handed, he works open the case and extracts a small tool. You’re momentarily captivated by the scrunch between his brows as he concentrates on the handcuffs linking you together, but then you realize what he’s trying to do. You’re not quite sure how to feel about it—impressed, if he really manages to pick the lock, or offended that he doesn’t want to be attached to you?
You gasp when the cuffs click open softly. He grins and pumps his fist in the air with his freed arm, which is horribly endearing and only adds to the tangle of emotions running through you—desire warring with resolve, a warm bloom of affection you’re barely willing to acknowledge warring with nonchalance you can barely fake.
Shaking your wrist free, you rub your freed wrist where the silly pink feathers had irritated your skin. “Where’d you learn to do that?” you ask, now firmly settled on impressed.
Oscar shrugs, but he can’t hide how self-satisfied he looks. “YouTube.”
“You find yourself handcuffed that often?”
He snorts even as he reaches for your wrist, fingers sweeping more gently over your skin than yours. “No, smartass. I, um. I like heist movies. And Logan bet me fifty a few weeks ago that I couldn’t get out of these costume handcuffs with the toolkits we use in materials lab. Easy money, really.”
“Still. Kinda cool, that,” you say lamely, all sophisticated syntax having departed from your brain at the soothing, methodic brush of his fingers against your wrist. No, this is ridiculous—you need to pull yourself together. “What’s your favorite heist movie?” you ask abruptly.
“It’s not one of the big ones, but I watched it with my sisters when we were kids, and we all loved it. The Italian Job. There’s such a sick getaway scene in it; I really wanted to drive a Mini Cooper after seeing it.” He gets more animated the more he talks about the movie, hands moving about (and no longer impeding your higher brain function, thank god) as he explains the heist to you.
That’s how you end up tucked into his side on the sofa, watching movie clips on his laptop, balanced between your knee and his. Eventually, you move on to random compilations of funny videos—Road work ahead? I sure hope it does! makes you giggle uncontrollably, and he doesn’t fare much better when it comes to videos of cats misbehaving.
The blue-and-purple lighting of the room makes time feel suspended, so much so that you find yourself nodding off against his shoulder. The cadence of his voice, calm and steady as he tells you a random story—something about practice running late tonight and rushing straight here, where his big, Danny, had offered his room to safely store Oscar’s backpack—only contributes to your sleepiness. It doesn’t take long before you’re completely knocked out.
Oscar trails off in his story when he notices the evening out of your breath on his shoulder, and then he’s studying you with an intensity that he rarely lets himself indulge in these days, when you’re so hell-bent on this friends-or-normal-acquaintances situation.
Asleep like this, you look so much younger and unguarded, free from whatever tower you’ve put your heart in. It’s an apt comparison—he really does feel like the prince in Rapunzel sometimes, if Rapunzel kept her window locked and the prince was just talking to the wall. He’d feel more pathetic about it if he didn’t catch you looking at him so often, staring him down like an experiment run out of your control. What that look means is beyond him; all he knows is that he likes that you keep looking.
Suddenly, his laptop starts blaring the familiar jangle of an incoming FaceTime call. It’s from Lando, which he declines immediately, cursing under his breath when it clearly wakes you up.
“Sorry I fell asleep,” you say, yawning and stretching against him in a way that he studiously ignores for the sake of his own sanity.
“No worries,” he manages to get out in a normal-sounding voice.
Lando—not so easily deterred—sends Oscar a series of exclamation marks that flash conspicuously across the corner of his laptop screen.
Lando: first of all RUDE u didn’t pick up so i could announce my news
Lando: which is that they’re gonna let me do the thing
Lando: THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE
Oscar sends him a thumbs-up emoji in response, then turns to you with a wry grin. “He’s going to be insufferable about this.”
“As he is with most things,” you agree lightheartedly. “What are they letting him do?”
“The ‘party’s over’ announcement. You know, the whole, ‘if you’re not a brother or fucking a brother, get out!’ That thing.” Oscar has the grace to look embarrassed as he says it, nose twitching a mile a minute. The tips of his ears are red, too, and your instant reaction is to coo at him—which would be insane, obviously, so you don’t.
Instead, you just raise an eyebrow. “You guys sure know how to charm a girl.”
“Yeah, well.” He coughs and raises his hand for a high-five. “Guess I’ll see you around?”
Your other eyebrow goes up. “Dude, are you serious?”
He winces as soon as dude leaves your mouth; though, considering the high-five, he thinks he probably deserved it. “Okay, never mind. Can you just, like, forget the last five seconds? Please?”
But you’re laughing outright now, almost as hard as you did at Road work ahead?, so he finds that he doesn’t regret it much.
“Alright, alright,” you splutter, still laughing. “I’ll see myself out before you try to, like, fist-bump me or something. Safe to say I’m not a brother, and I’m definitely not fucking a brother. Bye, Oscar! See you around.”
The sound of your laughter trails behind you as you go, leaving Oscar a bit stunned in your wake. That’s not an infrequent state of being for him when he’s around you, but—really? Are you comfortable enough with him to joke about your obviously not-platonic history now? And is that something he should be happy about? Should he joke about it?
Lando: mate i was trying to tell this girl like hey i’m sorry but u have to leave cuz ur not a brother or fucking a brother
Lando: and she goes… not yet!
Lando: so now i’m going to hers
Lando: life is awesome
Oscar groans and lets his head thunk back against the wall. If only his life could be so awesome. But then he remembers the shape of your laughter, the weight of your head on his shoulder, and, well—he wouldn’t change a thing.
PRESENT DAY
Thankfully, the heat wave ends, and AC is restored to full working order in your sorority house a few days later. Notwithstanding the heat wave, you had actually quite enjoyed getting work done on your balcony that one night, which is why you find yourself out there again a week or two later, noise-cancelling headphones on and music arrangement software running.
You’re so immersed in your work that you don’t notice Oscar’s bedroom light go on, nor do you see him coming to the window to wave increasingly harder at you.
He’s saying your name as loudly as he thinks could be acceptable in the neighborhood at 11pm (it’s just Greek row, but he was raised with manners), to no avail. It’s almost comical how hard he’s flapping his arms in your direction—until it’s purely comical, and then he has to stop out of preservation for his dignity.
Unfortunately, his fallback plan is not much more dignified, not to mention significantly more absurd, but these are the things you drive him to do.
You’re bopping your head along to a syncopated alto line when you feel something hit the side of your face. Startled, you look across the way to find Oscar frowning at you, looking a little out of breath. Now entirely bewildered, you slip your headphones off and bend down to retrieve whatever hit you in the face—
“Did you just throw a paper airplane at me?” you splutter.
He blows an errant curl out of his face. “Several, actually.” He juts his chin at where a few of his earlier, less hardy attempts had landed without contact at your feet.
You gape at the assortment of paper airplanes lying around you. “What is wrong with you?” you wonder, more rhetorical than not.
“I was calling your name for, like, two minutes straight,” he says, as if that’s any explanation.
“You didn’t think to text? Or, I dunno, actually call?”
He’s silent for long enough that you know his answer is no, he didn’t think of that, but he’s not about to admit it. You have to shake your head in disbelief—engineering boys, honestly. But then again, as you peer closer at the rather sophisticated folds of the paper plane, you figure there’s something to be said about a guy who’s good with his hands. You tell him as much, to which he just coughs and mumbles something incomprehensible.
“What?”
His ears are bright red. “I said, that’s what she said.”
You stare blankly at him.
He coughs again. “Sorry. Instinct. Too much time with Lando, probably.”
A grin splits across your face. “God, you guys are so lame. But I like that you think girls are so universally experiencing pleasure at the hands of men. If wishing made it so, y’know?”
He wrinkles his nose. “Okay, when you put it like that…”
“Sorry, was it better the way you put it, like a pre-pubescent boy?” You laugh at his disgruntled expression, and you pointedly do not mention how his hands were, as ever, too clever by half with you. That’s a can of worms you know better than to open right now. “Anyways, was there something you needed from me?”
His ears go redder, if that’s possible. “Um, no. I mean, yes, kind of. I have your… highlighter. From, ah, a few weeks ago. You left it in my room.” He trails off into a mumble again as he realizes how inane it all sounds. Truthfully, he just wanted an excuse to talk to you, outside of physics lab or office hours when there are other people crowding around for his help and attention, and outside of nights out that feel too cavalier for what he’s trying to do. Not that he really knows what he’s trying to do—he just knows that something broke between you two last year, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try to fix it.
To his surprise, you perk up immediately. “Oh my god, I’ve been looking for that everywhere! It’s my favorite highlighter.”
“You have a favorite highlighter?”
“Duh. Hand it over, Mr. Wright.”
“You know, it’s actually pretty hotly debated whether the Wright brothers really invented the first airplane, because technically speaking—”
“Oscar, I swear to—”
“Okay, okay, I’m going, I’m going!” He disappears from the window frame, then reappears a few seconds later with your beloved highlighter in hand. “Here, catch—oh, fuck.”
The two of you stare down at the bushes where your highlighter has landed, two stories below.
You breathe out deeply through your nose. “You’re so lucky you’re fast on the water. Your aim sucks.”
He grimaces. “It’s dark, and I don’t have my contacts in, okay? Just don’t move, I’ll get it for you.”
You watch him disappear from view again, presumably to go outside and retrieve your highlighter. You’re a little annoyed and a little amused, but mostly just confused, because you don’t know how to act around him anymore. Not that you’ve ever really known how to act around him; you’re self-aware enough to recognize that. But the web you’ve weaved between you is more tangled than ever now. He says he wants you, but he won’t kiss you—despite the multiple times you’ve made eye contact at parties in the last few weeks (three years ago, that’s all it would have taken). He says he’s always wanted you, but you remember why he has your highlighter, after all. And you remember all those unanswered texts, over a year ago.
And yet, you know he’s telling the truth about wanting you, and always wanting you. You know it’s the truth because he’s a shit liar, and he wears desire like he was made for it; if nothing else, the flush on his cheeks gives him away every time.
So he wants you, but he also doesn’t want you? Or maybe he wants you, but not in the way you’ve been offering? Or maybe the heat wave has fried your brain, and you’re seeing mirages in the mist.
Thankfully, his whisper-shout of your name breaks you out of your descent into madness. You peer down at where he’s standing at the entrance to your sorority house, motioning at the door. Right, back to business. But as you go inside and put your street shoes on, you remember the militantly perky representative from the national headquarters of your sorority staying in the guest room at the house this week, and you groan out loud.
you: shit you can’t come in through the front door
oscar: Wtf is with ur aversion to front doors
you: no i’m serious this time
you: our ldc is here this week and she’s staying in the house
oscar: Ur what
you: LDC??? like
you: “leadership development consultant”
you: basically a recent grad who works for national and she travels around visiting chapters to check in on them and help them do stuff? idk she’s here for rush
you: why am i explaining this to you omg don’t you guys have these too????
oscar: Ohhhhhh that’s who that random dude who shows up once a year is?
you: god
you: men do the bare minimum
oscar: But why can’t I come in thru the front door
you: technically national rules say we’re not allowed to have guys in the house after 10pm
oscar: Fr????
you: welcome to the patriarchy! it’s well and alive in sororities
oscar: That’s so fucking stupid
you: your allyship is noted
you: anyways no one follows the 10pm thing usually but we’re all pretending to while our ldc is here
you: so that’s why you can’t come in through the front door
you: her room’s right next to it and she’ll freak if she sees you
you: ….. oscar?
you: hello where’d you go
you: omfg if you’re coming in do NOT say you’re here to see me
you: say it’s delaney or something
“Boo.” His voice, so close to your ear, makes you jump about a foot in the air.
“Motherfucker!” you screech, smacking his (annoyingly solid) chest with some real force.
He grins and catches your hands in his. “Sorry, sorry. That was immature of me.”
“You think? How’d you even get in here, you freak?”
“I went back up to my room, then through the window to your balcony. Wasn’t as hard as you made it look last time, actually.” The cheeky bastard has the audacity to smirk, and you’d be more upset about it if he didn’t look so alive, like this is the most fun he’s had in weeks.
“Shut up,” you return weakly, flummoxed for what to say or do now that he’s in your room, broad-shouldered and present in a way you can’t escape.
He holds his phone screen up to your face, displaying your last text. “Delaney, really? C’mon, I haven’t talked to her in ages.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t think you ever did much talking with her, but okay.” Now you’re really in dangerous territory, but you only have yourself to blame. You’re not even sure why you mentioned her name; it’s petty of you, and unfair in the grand scheme of things.
He clears his throat awkwardly. “Well. Anyways. Um, here you go.” He puts his phone away and retrieves your highlighter from his pocket, pressing it into your hand gently; a peace offering.
You accept it equally awkwardly. “Thanks. It has, uh, glitter. The highlighter, I mean. That’s why it’s my favorite.”
He takes the abrupt change of topic in stride, recognizing it as your own form of peace offering. “Really? And it still works?”
“Well… here, hold on, I’ll show you.” You turn to grab a piece of scrap paper from your desk, and when you turn back around, you can’t suppress a giggle at the way he’s folded himself down neatly on your rug, back straight against the base of your bed and looking at you expectantly—a polite cat for all intents and purposes.
“What?” he asks, smiling automatically in response to your unimpeded laughter, even if he doesn’t know what it’s about.
“Nothing, you just—oh my gosh, you look so cute like this.” Your hands squeeze at your sides before you shake them out, as if clearing out the desire to kiss him on the nose.
He makes a face at you; half embarrassed, half pleased. “Thanks?”
Nope, you still want to kiss him on the nose. But you have more imminent priorities at the moment, so you settle down on the rug next to him and uncap your highlighter with a flourish.
“See,” you begin, drawing a line over the paper, “it works great! And it’s so fun.” You shift the paper slightly so he can see the glitter, then you feel immediately foolish for doing so.
He hums noncommittally, but when you turn to him, he’s not making fun of you. He’s not even paying much attention to the paper; he’s just looking at you. So warm, so familiar, the way he used to do so openly. Your heart lurches at the sight, like the air in your chest has its own turbulence.
“Oscar,” you murmur, “you’re not even looking.”
“Sure I am,” he says, gaze steadfast as ever on you.
“Okay, what color is my highlighter?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Pink.”
Your nose scrunches. “Fine. But you’ve had it for weeks, so. New question: what’d I just highlight?”
Finally, his gaze drops, and you will the rhythm of your heart back into regularity. He squints at the paper, then: “Your handwriting is awful.”
Your mouth drops open. “Are you serious right now? I’ve seen your chicken scratch on my lab reports. Pot, kettle.”
He grins and nudges your shoulder with his. “Yeah, yeah, alright. Is this next month’s sober monitor schedule?” He points to where you’d highlighted a pink, glittery line over a rough table of names and dates.
“Mmhm. Just trying to get ahead of initiation.”
He sighs. “Don’t get me started. I think I’m gonna have to stay up every night that week in case someone flakes.”
Right—you and Oscar are both risk chairs for your Greek organizations this year. It is, like most chair positions, a relatively thankless task. But it’s important: making sure there are at least two people from your sorority signed up to attend every night out sober and keep an eye out for anyone who needs help, keeping track of and enforcing everyone’s monthly quota of sober monitor duties, arranging the sober monitor schedule to fit with everyone’s availabilities and commitments, and rinse and repeat.
Usually, there are four designated nights out per week, but sorority and fraternity initiation bumps it up. And knowing how crazy it gets, you’re trying to get at least four people on sober monitoring duty for initiation. “I’ll probably just put in a bunch of shifts that week myself,” you explain to Oscar. “But honestly, I try to stay up every night out anyways, in case someone needs me.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Every night out?”
You wave him off good-naturedly. “Why do you think I’m always so tired in physics? But nah, it’s not that bad. I’m usually up anyways, to finish work I need to do, and I just keep my phone on in case something happens. Probably a quarter of the girls have gone through sexual assault peer support training with me, which I’m glad about, but still—I just want to be available if anyone needs me.”
Oscar shakes his head. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I think that’s really… good. It’s awesome—not awesome that you have to do it, but, I mean, fuck.” He runs a hand through his hair, flustered but no less earnest for it. “I wish I had a better way of saying it. You’re doing a great job. And everyone should be doing it, but they’re not. So if it was going to be anyone doing it, I’m glad it’s you.”
You shrug, cringing at how his straightforward praise makes you feel—seen too clearly, burnished too golden, like you’re on a pedestal with too far a fall from grace if you misstep. At the same time, you’re so pleased, so grateful to be acknowledged even if it’s for something everyone should be doing, so flattered that he thinks it’s something important, something good. You feel unnervingly transparent; all your selfish desires on display and sated when you only wish to be perceived as untouched by greed.
But his gaze never wavers in its warmth, its unashamed admiration of you. For the first time, you consider the possibility that you could misstep in front of him, and he wouldn’t think less of you. For the first time, you wonder if it’s okay to be motivated by selfish desires as well as pure. To be proud of yourself and not just what you put out into the world.
“You’re terrible at taking a compliment, you know,” he murmurs. “Although, I think there’s one you’re more used to… what was it again?” He pretends to think for a moment, then snaps his fingers and points at you. “Oh yeah, there it is—hey, gorgeous.”
You let out an undignified squeak and forcibly turn his face away from you. “Okay, okay, that’s enough!”
“What’s wrong, gorgeous?” You can feel the smirk in the curve of his jaw.
You release your fingers from his chin and huff, defeated. “If you’re going to be annoying in my own room, can you at least help me with the sober monitor schedule on your end for the nights we’re supposed to be at your frat?”
Thankfully, he relents. “Yeah, of course. Put me in, coach.”
Together, you work on scheduling for your overlapping schedules, and eventually your separate ones. You each contribute knowledge about who you know is more reliable than not, who has a conflict but probably forgot to submit it; unglamorous, tedious work, but somehow more enjoyable with him.
You don’t even remember falling asleep, but the next morning, you find yourself laying on top of your bedspread, shoes off, and a blanket you usually keep on your couch draped over you. You wake with a half-smile still lingering at your mouth; residual sweetness from last night’s dreams. The details are just out of your reach now, but you think there was something about paper planes, maybe, and a warmth you could live in.
SOPHOMORE YEAR, SECOND SEMESTER
“George Russell, prepare to die!” you announce upon entering the lab.
He barely looks up from his workstation. “You know, violence at such an hour is so unbecoming of a lady.”
You hover threateningly over his shoulder. “It’s 2pm, which feels like a great hour for violence, if you ask me. And you wouldn’t recognize a lady if she fell into your lap.”
George fakes a gasp. “I’m telling Carmen you said that.”
You scoff. “Carmen would be the first to agree with me. She says you only pulled her because of her strange attraction to gangly men. I’m sure she’ll be sad to hear that you died, but she’ll get over it—other gangly fish in the sea, and so on.”
He finally turns around in his chair to face you, a finger already raised in the air to argue his counterpoint. “Okay, before you resort to violence, I should note that I’m not the only one on the hook for this.”
“Oh, enlighten me, Georgie! Who else out of your merry band of idiots is in on this?” This, being, of course, the singing Valentines your acapella group does every year to raise money for a local charity. This year, you’d been looking forward to the chance to perform one of your own arrangements as part of the repertoire. But then the list of requests got sent out, and you saw a Valentine addressed to Oscar, from George, with your own arrangement as the requested song. You’re also the soloist on that song, and you know only nefarious forces could have conspired to have you singing a love song directly to Oscar Piastri.
And here come those nefarious forces. “Charles,” George begins, ticking off the names on his fingers, “Lando, Alex, and, um, Logan.”
“Logan? What the hell was he thinking—what the hell were any of you thinking?”
“Technically, Logan advised us against it. But he still contributed, uh, monetarily.” George coughs. “Charles loves love, Lando just thought it’d be funny, and we had to ask Alex’s girlfriend to get us the details on who was singing the solo in each song. I, of course, am doing this because I want the best for my friends, and I think you and Oscar should give each other a real chance.”
You’re already texting before he’s even finished, pointedly ignoring his last sentence.
you: does feminism mean nothing to you bitches
lily: sorry alex was so sneaky when he asked me about the arrangements i didn’t even clock it
you: DID YOU FORGET THAT HE’S A MALE MANIPULATOR
lily: … a little bit yeah
lily: but he offered to pay for a fancy dinner for u + me
callie: wtf not me?
you: do not even get me started with you, brutus
callie: hey it’s not my fault logan’s such a pushover
callie: the other guys asked if he’d chip in to pay for the valentine and he just said yes immediately
you: i need to lose my voice TONIGHT so i don’t have to go through with this tomorrow
lily: nooooooo you sound so good in the solo!!!
lily: and it’s for charity
lily: think of the children
you: it’s an alzheimer’s charity
lily: old ppl have children too!!
lily: and caroline would kill you if you “lost your voice” the night before
you: god you and alex are perfect for each other
you: manipulator4manipulator
lily: what can i say
lily: i’m a woman in a male-dominated field
callie: now THAT’S what i call feminism
“Are you planning our demise?” George asks carefully.
You look up from your phone to glare at him. “I’m witnessing the death of feminism.”
“Oooookay. So… we’re good?”
“No, George, we are not good. I better see double the donation from you guys.”
“Yes, ma’am, of course.” He grins sheepishly. “Truce?”
“Only because this is for charity. But seriously, you guys are so fucking dumb.”
He nods. “We’re aware.”
“Good afternoon, good afternoon!” Lewis enters the lab just then, greeting you both with a smile.
George mouths thank god up at the ceiling, and you think, not for the first time, that you are living in some kind of Shakespearean comedy. With a doomed romance, maybe.
Doomed or not, romance is the name of the game the following day: February 14th, which dawns so cold that your teeth chatter instantly upon leaving your dorm. Of course, it’s also a million degrees inside any school building and dry as hell, as college climate control is wont to do. This is where you’d like to place the blame for the heat suffusing over your entire face and down your neck a few hours later, as you’re approaching Oscar and his friends in the library café. But one look at just the back of his head already has your heartbeat ratcheting up, and there’s no HVAC excuse for that.
“Chin up,” Lily whispers from beside you.
“I’m writing you the most boring alto part imaginable in the next arrangement,” you hiss back.
“Oh no, I’m terrified,” she says dryly.
“Oscar? Oscar Piastri?” The president of your acapella group, Caroline, projects her voice into the café with her usual authority—and volume.
Oscar’s head pops up from where he’d been bent over some graph paper. Next to him, Alex, Lando, and George look positively gleeful, while Logan just looks resigned. At his side, Callie already has her phone out, recording.
You groan as loudly as you can without incurring Caroline’s wrath.
“I’m Oscar. Can I… help you?” Oscar looks at your group with some apprehension, but he relaxes when he spots you and Lily.
Caroline smiles perfunctorily at him. “George Russell wishes you a Happy Valentine’s Day, Oscar, and,” she glances down at the notes in her phone, “a lifetime of happiness.”
Caroline runs a tight ship; Oscar barely has time to turn to George with a bewildered look before she’s pushing you in front of the group and cuing everyone else in.
You start the song determined not to look at Oscar, training your gaze at the circulation desk in the distance instead. But as the song progresses, you can’t help but meet his eyes, and when you do, there’s such a tender awe in them that it nearly knocks the breath out of you.
Still I wonder why it is
I don't argue like this
With anyone but you
As you go on, you’re transfixed by the flush of color that spreads across his skin and the gentle curve of his mouth. Has he always looked at you like this? Like he can’t believe you’re real, like he’s counting his lucky stars just to be able to look at you? Like he could keep you warm with the reverence in his gaze alone? The raw emotion on his face is almost obscene for how honest it is, how unguarded. You’re struck with the sudden urge to kiss that look off of his face, if only to save yourself from the terrifying intimacy of it.
Just like a star across my sky
Just like an angel off the page
You have appeared to my life
Feel like I'll never be the same
Just like a song in my heart
Just like oil on my hands
The song ends on an unresolved chord. So, too, remains the tension between you and Oscar, still looking at each other so intently that everyone else seems to hold their breath.
“Wow, you lot sure can sing!” With a whoop, Lando breaks the spell.
Oscar glares instantly at him, while you laugh nervously. “Anything for charity!” you squeak out. “Gosh, we’d better get a move on. Places to be, people to deliver singing Valentines to, and so on. Caroline, shall we?”
Thankfully, she nods. “Yeah, let’s try not to fall behind schedule. We need to find Max Verstappen next.”
The rest of the day is jam-packed enough with performances that you don’t have any time to think about the insane events from the library until you’re lying in bed that night, staring at the ceiling. The memory of the way Oscar had looked at you during the song sits in your stomach like some precursor to a pearl: you want to protect yourself against it, but it transforms into something beautiful the longer you try.
God. A frat guy is inspiring poetry in you. The usual sear of embarrassment hits you, but it’s tempered by the memory of how Oscar had looked at you today, and it’s dulled by a whole stream of memories now: Oscar, last week, spotting you in the longest line you’d ever seen at the library café and taking you instead to his favorite bakery in town, whose chocolate croissants are objectively much better and whose existence he jealously gatekeeps; Oscar, a month ago, showing up without fanfare to the 40-hour, semester-long sexual assault peer support training course you help to run; Oscar, last semester, quoting the Road work ahead? video to you every time he wanted to make you laugh after a particularly brutal phone call with your family.
Oscar, and the mosaic of ways he has showed up in every corner of your life for as long as you’ve known him. Oscar, who you liked so much you could hardly stand to look at him in broad daylight last year. Oscar, who you still like so much, and really, you’re running out of reasons—arguments you raise against yourself, in your courtroom of one—for keeping up this friends-or-normal-acquaintances charade. That charade’s been so thin in recent weeks that it’s basically gone, anyways.
Inconveniently, your brain decides to remind you that Oscar’s due to leave immediately at the end of the semester for his study abroad in Australia. If there was ever a time to gather your courage, it’d be soon. Now. If you were ruled by your better angels, you would have done it a long time ago.
Instead, you have mostly been ruled by apprehension and cowardice. Some misguided attempt at self-protection, perhaps, because to be known is to be scared. Scared of all the ugly parts of yourself, scared of laying them out in the open for someone else to pass judgment upon, to be deterred by, to decide that actually, you’re weighed down by too much emotional baggage, scarred by too much sanctimonious self-sabotage.
But Oscar has never shied away from your worst demons. Maybe he should have; maybe his self-preservation instincts suck. But he has never backed down, never even flinched, never done anything but hold fast in the waters as the safest ship in the harbor, letting your tumultuous waves break over him.
You think you owe him at least some measure of your courage in return. You think you wouldn’t be able to stand it if he went halfway around the world, and you never even tried. So that’s it, then. Time to get in touch with your better angels.
PRESENT DAY
At long last, the dredges of summer heat dissipate into your favorite season: fall, with its perfectly crisp, perfectly temperate weather, and kaleidoscope of changing colors. Your balcony remains your favorite spot to work, especially when it gets cooler at night and you get to throw on a sweatshirt and enjoy the specific pleasure of being cozy in a slightly chilly environment.
There is, admittedly, another part of your balcony mise-en-scène that you’ve been enjoying lately: the Oscar Piastri-shaped conundrum sitting just within your peripheral vision.
Ever since you’d told him about your habit of staying up on the scheduled nights out, he’s been joining you at his window every time. You didn’t ask him to do it, nor does he make a big deal out of it, but it’s kind of nice to know that someone else is burning the midnight oil with you. Most of the time, he just works quietly at his desk (which you’re pretty sure he pushed closer to the window just to be able to keep you company, and you can’t think too hard about that without feeling kind of insane), a comforting addition to the vigil you used to keep alone.
He keeps his window open, screen long gone, and you’ll chat about whatever inane things come to mind. He’ll complain when a drink machine in the dining hall breaks and he has to drink coffee straight-up without his usual 50% ratio of hot chocolate, or you’ll get excited when the dining hall brings back breakfast for dinner. He’ll admit he doesn’t really like weight lifting much, but needs must for rowing, or you’ll rant about your new spin instructor who doesn’t seem to understand when to change songs (and you’ll refrain from confessing your own gratitude for his training regimen). He’ll tell you about a rainbow he saw over the science building, or you’ll give him a play-by-play of the most recent inter-sorority drama.
There’s something about the velvet-soft safety of nighttime that makes it feel more natural to talk to him like this—to get to know him, almost. Which is absurd, because you’ve known him for over three years now. But perhaps this is what you were looking for, back when you were trying to be friends-or-normal-acquaintances—not the actual presence of a platonic dynamic (because honestly, who were you trying to fool?), but this right here. This sense of simple ease, like you don’t have to think about what to say or how you’re coming off.
It’s not like your feelings for him have ever been unpleasant. But back then, it always felt like whatever wildfire that had sparked between you two could flame out into disaster with one wrong exhale, one overeager expulsion of oxygen. How nice, how luxurious, to be able to breathe around him without your nervous system flirting with fight-or-flight. Maybe it’s maturity, a combination of wisdom and time, soothing the volcanic, twin flames of your fears and desires, simmering into something steadier that could burn on and on forever. Maybe it’s the yawning expanse of the future—graduation hanging over your head like a guillotine, reminding you that there’s only so much time left before you may never see him again. Maybe you’re just tired of getting in your own way.
Whatever it is, the sky is cloudless and star-speckled tonight, and you’re feeling a little braver than usual. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”
Oscar looks up from his laptop and blinks bleary eyes at you. “Whassup?” he mumbles through a yawn.
“You don’t have to answer this if it stresses you out, but like… what are your plans for after graduation?” You wince as soon as the words leave your mouth. “Never mind, that’s obviously a stressful question. And I sound like a nosy relative! Forget I asked.”
He smiles faintly. “No, it’s okay—I’ve got a job lined up in Boston. September start date.”
So you will be able to see him again. A breath you didn’t know you were holding escapes you. “Not going back to Australia?”
“Nah, I’m staying here for a good long while, I think. Can’t get rid of me that easily, Lady Disdain.”
Your eyes roll automatically at the epithet, but secretly, you like the way it rolls off his tongue. “I’ve applied to some schools in Boston, too,” you blurt out. “For PhDs, I mean. I won’t hear back until the winter, so… we’ll see.” Your mouth curves into a wry grin. “I’m not that easy to get rid of, either.”
“Thank god,” he agrees easily.
Too easily—heat blooms across your cheeks, so you resort to changing the topic abruptly. “How are the pledges this year?”
Like always, he lets you get away with it. “Pretty much the normal kind of guys we get. Mostly international students, athletes, that kind of thing. My little this year is a French dude on the tennis team.” His gaze goes just a bit sharp, just a bit wicked. “But you’d know all about my littles, wouldn’t you?”
Damn, he’s not letting you get away with that. “How is Franco these days?” you ask. Gun to your head, you’ll admit it—your tone is a little shrill. Poor Franco (second semester transfer student, assigned to be Oscar’s little after he’d returned from his study abroad) had gotten caught in the middle of the cold war between you and Oscar last semester, and you haven’t been able to look the guy in the eye ever since.
“He’s doing alright for himself. Don’t worry, I don’t hold any of your actions against him,” Oscar intones archly.
“Oh, c’mon, like you were such a saint last semester?”
He opens his mouth like he’s really gearing up to get into it with you, then he sighs and shrugs. “Should we just agree that we were both not on our best behavior last semester? It’s late, and my brain is too fried to do battle right now, anyways.”
“Speak for yourself. My brain is always ready to do battle.” And it’s a testament to how far you’ve come this year with him that you’re smiling when you say it.
He grins lazily back. “Don’t I know it. What about you, then? Breathing a sigh of relief now that your LDC is gone?”
“God, don’t even get me started—she made my little change her outfit for initiation because it wasn’t formal enough, can you believe that? I felt like singing ding, dong, the witch is gone when she left.”
“Guess I won’t have to climb in through your balcony anymore,” he muses.
You stick your middle finger up at him. “It was one time, and what’s the point of being an athlete if you can’t put it to good use?” Then, thoughtlessly: “But sure, you can come through the front door next time.”
To his credit, Oscar barely reacts at the prospect of next time. “Nah, what’s the point of being an athlete if I can’t put it to good use?”
It’s unsaid, but there’s a shift in the air, and you both feel it. Some small acknowledgement of whatever magic is brewing between you, soothing old wounds without even trying; the stars as your witness.
SOPHOMORE YEAR, SECOND SEMESTER
Your better angels are probably not hiding out in a frat basement. But you’re done with finals, it’s the last night out of the semester, and you won’t see Oscar after this until next year because of his study abroad, so this is it. Now or never. Come hell or high water. And every other vaguely fatalistic idiom you can think of, because a strange sense of foreboding accompanies you as you migrate closer to the makeshift dance floor where Alex is leaning against the wall, gesturing animatedly to the person you’d come to see.
“... tasted kinda off, but I wasn’t gonna say anything with Charles smiling so hopefully at me like that,” Alex explains.
“Charles cooked again?” you ask, inserting yourself into the conversation with forced casualness.
Alex turns to you and nods. “Yeah, but we had Yuki supervise him. Hey, you dressed up for the theme!”
You point to the bright pink wig pinned haphazardly to your head. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”
Next to Alex, Oscar laughs lightly, looking absurd in an orange wig. “You look nice,” he offers.
You smile nervously. “No, I really don’t, but I appreciate the sentiment. Can I, um, talk to you?”
“Right, I’ll see myself outta here.” Alex sweeps into half a bow, blue wig almost falling off his head, then winks exaggeratedly at you over his shoulder as he shimmies his way onto the dance floor.
“He’s so subtle, that one,” you remark dryly.
Oscar has straightened to his full height now, posture uncharacteristically rigid. “Of course you can talk to me. What’s up?”
“Relax, it’s nothing bad. I mean, I hope it’s not bad. I don’t think it’s bad, even though I don’t think it’s necessarily good, either… it’s just the truth, I guess.” You trail off, fingers twisting into the hem of your dress.
He blinks owlishly at you. “Huh?”
You take a deep breath and square your shoulders. You’ve never believed in half measures, and if you’re going down, you’re going down swinging. “Let’s go somewhere quieter. There’s something I’d like to say to you.”
He nods, and somehow, you end up in Danny’s room again. “He should start charging us rent,” Oscar jokes lamely.
You ignore him firmly, laser focused on your goal. “I’m gonna tell you something, and I need you to just let me say it all at once, okay?”
Oscar starts to nod, then aborts the motion with a wince. “Yes, absolutely, but do you think we could take the wigs off first? I’d like to give you my full attention, but, y’know, the wigs are kind of distracting…”
He’s not even trying to be funny now; really, you can tell he’s 100% sincere about it. But the unexpected question startles a laugh out of you, popping the imaginary balloon of tension you’ve been holding onto all night and lightening the pressure in the room by degrees. “Yeah, okay, good point.”
Your wig’s been one bobby pin from falling out anyways, so it only takes you a second to get the pins out and shake your fingers through your hair. When you look up, he’s sporting a sheepish expression, hands twitching helplessly at his sides with a handful of bobby pins in each. “Mine’s stuck,” he explains. “There’s a possibility that Lando glued me into it.”
The thought makes you laugh again, and his eyes go soft around the corners watching you giggle. Then you step into his space and start pulling pins out from the back of his head, fingers more nimble than his, and his eyes flutter shut at the sensation.
“You know you can tell me anything, right?” he begins, eyes still closed. “I mean, I know things have always been a little… unconventional between us, but seriously. We’re kind of friends, aren’t we?”
“I don’t really want to be, to be honest.” You locate the last pin in his hair and pull it out, triumphant. “Done!” Then, you register what you just said. “Oh, fuck. I should give you some context for that.”
“Yeah, that’d be good.” The words come out strangled, his composure shot to hell.
“Okay, can you… maybe keep your eyes closed?”
His brow furrows. “You’re not gonna, like, prank me or anything like that, right?”
“What? No, why would you think that?”
“I dunno, why else would you ask me to keep my eyes closed?”
“Maybe I’m trying to kiss you—oh, damn it, you keep derailing me!”
“What?” he splutters, eyebrows comically high with his eyes still obediently closed.
You sigh. Of course your speech isn’t going as planned; you should’ve expected as much, what with how easily you and Oscar get caught in these back-and-forths. “Open your eyes, Oscar.”
He cracks one eye open and teases, gently, “So, no kissing?”
You roll your eyes to high heaven. “Can you be serious now?”
He opens his eyes properly, regarding you with a steady kind of attention that reignites your nerves. “Yeah, of course. What did you want to tell me?”
“Kissing might still be on the table,” you begin, only because he gave you that opening. “But that’s not why I asked you to keep your eyes closed. I asked because I thought it’d be easier to say this if I didn’t have to look you in the eye, but that’s kind of unfair to you, isn’t it? And I’ve been unfair enough to you.”
He makes a confused sound, opening his mouth to say something, maybe to defend you from yourself, but you shake your head and continue on.
“No, just let me say this. I spent a lot of time running away from you last year, and I’m sorry about that. It really was me, not you. But you never even got mad at me about it, even though I wanted you to, sometimes. I swear I wasn’t trying to see how far I could push you, but you always just… let me. So I’ve been unfair to you, and frankly, I’ve been straight-up mean to you, so you probably don’t want to hear this, but I… caught feelings. For you. Ugh, gross.” You cringe at yourself, then soldier on. “I have a lot of feelings for you. Too much. So much I couldn’t even talk about it, or admit it to myself, until, like, very recently. And I’m telling you now because I feel like you deserve a straight explanation, even if you don’t want to hear it.”
A maelstrom of emotions swirl in his eyes, but he doesn’t say a single thing. The silence prickles along your skin until you can’t take it anymore, pleading, “I’m done now, so you can talk.”
He exhales so hard it’s like a release valve has turned inside him. “You’ve gotta be a special kind of stupid if you think I didn’t want to hear that from you.”
“Hey—”
“No, seriously, everyone knew how I felt about you. All last year, it was, like, the team’s favorite thing to rib me about.”
“What—huh? How… How did you feel about me?”
“I liked you. That’s it. I just… I simply just liked you. Even when you made me work for it. Especially when you made me work for it.”
Your mouth drops open. “Really?”
He stares at you incredulously. “Yeah, of course. Why do you think I kept kissing you back at parties after you’d pretend not to know me the day before?”
“I thought you were just… I don’t know, horny or whatever.”
“You thought I was just horny?” He drops his forehead onto yours. “Unbelievable.”
“Aren’t most college guys?”
“Sure, but I think most college guys would find someone else to hook up with after having to introduce themselves to the same girl three times. You really didn’t know I liked you?”
You shake your head minutely, feeling him move along with you. “No? I mean, you never asked me for anything more—and, fine, I recognize how hard it would’ve been to ask me for anything. But I don’t know, I really just thought you… didn’t care that much. Like, if I wanted to hook up with you, great. If I didn’t, no worries. You were always so… nonchalant about it.”
He groans. “I swear, I’m gonna let you scan my brain in your lab just so you can understand what’s going on in my head, because clearly words aren’t doing it. Or actions.”
“Thanks? That’s kind of romantic, I guess. Not really how my lab works, but whatever—”
He interrupts you forcefully. “I’m not. I’m not whatever slick, nonchalant douchebag you made me up to be in your head last year. I got nervous around you, okay? Pretty girl wanted to kiss me—no way I was gonna say no. But you were so hot and cold all the time, and it was all I could do to keep up. Didn’t wanna scare you off. But I cared so much it made me stupid. I still do. And I still get nervous around you.”
Your heart thuds in your ears, hope rising in you like a tidal wave. But you can’t help yourself: “Still? D1 athlete, big, bad frat boy?”
He rolls his eyes and brings his hands up to your waist, squeezing like a warning. “Come off it, gorgeous. If anything, you’re way cooler than me. I just hide behind the varsity jacket.”
Suddenly, like a veil has been lifted from your eyes, you see it. Oscar, know-it-all nerd making it into the proverbial boy’s club because he happens to be fast in a boat; Oscar, always too straightforward and sincere for innuendo but playing along when he knows it’s expected of him; Oscar, holding his heart behind his teeth for fear of coming on too strong.
You’d go back in time and kick yourself if you could; you’ve been so blind, so caught up in your own head, spinning versions of reality to protect yourself from the bracing truth of it: he liked you, he always liked you, and you could test his patience a million times (and you probably got close), but he’d always come back for more. For you.
“And do you still like me?” you ask, breathless with possibility. “Do you like me now?”
His mouth quirks at the corners, resigned and a little self-deprecating. “D’ya even have to ask?”
Well, sure, you can feel how much he likes you, pressed against your hip. But you really, really need to hear it.
And he seems to understand why you’d asked, because he doesn’t make you ask again. “Yeah, I like you now. I liked you back then, and I like you now, and I probably never stopped, even when you wanted to be friends, or normal acquaintances.”
You groan at the reminder of that stupid phrase. “Who said that? That wasn’t me.”
He huffs out a laugh, half exasperation, half wonder, but he doesn’t say anything else. For a long moment, you just breathe together, letting electricity build up in the air between you.
You speak up first. “My timing is kind of horrible, isn’t it?”
He answers without hesitation. “Yes.”
“Okay, you didn’t have to agree so quickly—”
“I’m leaving tomorrow morning. I won’t see you until January, and you want me to pretend like it isn’t going to kill me, knowing I have to wait that long to kiss you again?”
You balk and take his words in the wrong direction. “Well, I’m not expecting you to, like, wait for me or anything, obviously, I mean, I don’t even know what you’ve got going on in Australia, and I’m sure you have better things to do than sit around pining for me—”
“Been doing that for ages, gorgeous.”
“—even though, to be honest, I’ll probably be pining for you, a little bit.” You cringe again. “Ugh, I hate saying shit like that, but…. I’m trying to be more obvious about it. Liking you, I mean. So you don’t have to guess anymore.”
Hearing you say it again makes him smile helplessly at you, pink suffusing across his cheeks like a sunrise, and that makes the discomfort still buzzing underneath your skin, so, so worth it.
“So, maybe you could reward me,” you murmur, a little coy now. “For trying. Like… you could kiss me once? Before you leave?”
He lets out a disbelieving laugh, eyes dark like you’ve never seen before. “I haven’t been able to get my mouth on you for a year, and I’m not gonna see you again for six months. Kiss you once? Are you insane?” And suddenly, he’s everywhere, hands running up your sides, mouth a flurry of movement between your chest, your neck, your jaw, panting words into your skin like he can’t be bothered to breathe if it means leaving you for even a second. “You make me feel crazy, literally out of my mind for how much I want you, okay? Don’t tell me you don’t expect me to wait—what do you think I’ve been doing all year? Now you’re going to have to wait, and I’d be sorry about it, but fair’s fair. Leave your schedule empty for a whole week when I get back, though. Don’t even think about leaving my bed.”
He ends his heart-stopping spiel by finally, finally kissing you, tongue instantly licking into you with a fervor that makes you whimper straight into his mouth. It’s just as well that you can’t talk like this, because there’s nothing intelligible in your mind right now, just heat and pressure and the slick slide of his mouth against yours. Falling back into old patterns is easy, and so is unraveling each other without care to where you are or what might come tomorrow. It’s only when you nearly pull him towards the bed in the room that you remember yourself, and then you have to tear yourself away with a heaving gasp.
He chases after you on instinct, muttering, “Too far,” right against your sternum where he sinks his teeth in and bites, reveling in the yelp you let out. Reveling even more in the whine that follows.
“We should—we should really leave,” you insist through a moan. “This is… Danny’s room? And I don’t wanna disrespect him—oh god, Oscar, please.” The sudden pressure of his knee between your legs is too much and not enough all at once.
“We’ll send him a fruit basket, or something. It’ll be fine.” He’s just mumbling nonsense now, charting a path with his tongue from your collarbone, up your neck, and over your ear.
“N-No, who even does that in this day and age?” Your breath comes in shallow bursts, but you still have the wherewithal to quip, “Weirdo.”
Oscar only pulls back far enough to nudge your nose with his. “Okay, genius, where should we go, then? My stuff is all packed, and I was supposed to stay in Charles’s room tonight, but he still has a paper to finish, so we can’t really—”
“My room. I have a single this year, and if I didn’t, I’d probably kick my roommate out, even though that’s awful, but I want you so much—”
He groans so loud it reverberates in your chest. “Keep talking like that, and let’s go, let’s go right now.”
It takes a while to get back to your dorm, because you keep stopping to kiss him, and he keeps stopping because, well:
“I can get myself off any time, but if I can’t touch you until January, I’m gonna need something to remember you by, yeah?”
So you stop in the stacks at the library, and he murmurs a steady stream of mind-numbing filth into your ear with his fingers inside you, and you stop at a bench underneath the massive tree in the middle of the quad, and he sits down and helps you work your hips against his thigh until you’re shaking apart, and you stop in the new science building, sneaking in under some construction tape and happening upon the new research labs, which almost distracts you before you’re bent over a workstation, breath fogging up a stack of safety goggles.
By the time you finally get into your room, you’re boneless and loose with affection in his lap, gasping his name into his mouth.
“How did you get so good at this?” you marvel out loud, in between kisses.
He smiles indulgently at you, hair a wreck and flushed everywhere you can see. “Learned all my best tricks from you, gorgeous.”
Your whole body shivers against him, undone as always by the way that particular word drips out of his mouth. And maybe you’re shivering about something else, too, something more reverent and true: the fact that you really did learn everything together, fumbling in the dark last year, not really knowing what to do except that you wanted to please each other, make it good for each other. There had been times when it was awkward, and times when it simply didn’t work, but it helped that you were both a little competitive about learning more—and faster—about what made the other tick. Thinking about it now makes you want to cry a little bit, because you should have known all along what he felt for you, what you felt for him. How else to explain such clumsy devotion, shaking through eager hands, committing every sound and jolt of sensation to memory so you’d know better what to do the next time? How else to explain such sweet care, such absolute safety?
His lips press gently against the corner of your eye now, whisper-soft against a tear you hadn’t even noticed had leaked out. “What’s wrong, sweet girl?”
Uh-oh. The new phrase sends your hips firmly down against his, even as you cry a little more. “Nothing, I just… You’re so nice to me, and you’ve always been so nice to me, and… and, oh no, I like you so much, and you’re going away for six months, and my timing sucks, and I think I’m gonna die if you don’t fuck me soon, like, really, really soon—”
He bursts out laughing, high-pitched and delighted. “Baby, baby, baby,” he croons, swiping your tears away with a thumb while he shakes with hiccups of laughter. “You’re the sweetest thing in the whole world, and if you thought I was nice to you before, you’re not gonna believe how nice I can be now that I know you like me so much, now that you’re crying for it—god, I can’t believe you’re real, and you’d be mine if I asked.” He speaks the last words around his thumb, sucking away the salt from your eyes.
“Gross,” you mumble hoarsely, not really meaning it and just needing something to say.
“Pretty sure we’ve shared worse bodily fluids than this,” he says, offhanded.
“Oh, seriously, Oscar, gross.” Suddenly, you’re mortified, slapping your hands over his face so that he can’t watch you squirm.
He grins, entirely unrepentant. “Oops, did I ruin the mood?”
“Did I ruin the mood,” you mock back at him, pressing your hips harder into his, heat layering into heat. “Obviously not, you idiot.”
He removes your hands from his face and looks at you with a new kind of seriousness. “I’ll ask when I get back. I’ll do it right.”
You laugh nervously. “Ask what?”
For once (for forever, you hope), he doesn’t let you run from this. “If you’d be mine. You know I’ve been yours since the beginning, right?”
Now you slap your hands over your own face, whining into your palms. “Shut up. No. Yes. I guess. Maybe. I don’t know. Whatever!”
He kisses the back of your hands. “You’ll know. I’ll make sure of it.”
You let your hands fall to his chest, defeated and petulant in equal measure. “All these promises, and you still haven’t fucked me yet.”
“Only ‘cause I know you like it when I make you wait, baby.” He smirks and anchors you more firmly in his lap. “But don’t worry, I’ll get you where you need to go.”
And he does—he always has, he always does, he always will. The hours you spend together on that last night are so perfect that all of your later resentment never touches them, never warps them into anything other than a snow globe memento of burgeoning adoration, frozen in a time when you thought your future together looked boundless.
But the next morning, when you text him, he doesn’t text back. And that’s fine, because he’s on a plane, and you hadn’t expected him to text back. You text again the next day, still without response, and the day after that, and you’re not trying to jump to conclusions, but you can feel yourself wilting with uncertainty. Maybe he hadn’t meant all the things he’d said and promised; maybe it was just a fun night before a long journey.
You text again the next week, having transitioned to petty anger at that point. Not that that’s much help against the humiliating shock of seeing your message go unmistakably green, a sore thumb in a sea of previously blue-and-gray texts.
So that’s it, then. He’s blocked you, without so much as a sorry, it’s me, not you.
You text him one final time the week after, cold fury in a simple message. Still no response, still green texts. The last tendril of hope within you dies out like that, doused by an uncaring iMessage interface.
Your first encounter with Jake Sim ends with ketchup on your clothes and his burger in his friend’s lap. The second encounter doesn’t go so smoothly, either. He thinks he might have gotten the hang of it by the third time, but as the saying goes: there is no easy way from the earth to the stars.
PAIRING: sim jaeyun x female reader
GENRE: college au, one-sided enemies-to-lovers (the e2l part is short-lived lol sry), friends-to-lovers, he fell first but then they both fell harder? lmao, soooooo much mutual pining, fluff, romance, jake as a star soccer player but also loser physics nerd, mc is an assistant manager on the soccer team because of Convoluted Reasons
WARNINGS: swearing, familial angst/generational trauma
WORD COUNT: ~11.8k
a/n: lol (said with no humor whatsoever) i decided to post the first half rn and when i say "first half" what i mean is that i intended for this to come out as a complete fic instead of in parts however school is slamming me so hard and i'm contributing by ruining my own life SOOOO who was to say when this would ever see the light of day if it had to be a full fic..... anyways part 2 is like 30-40% written but i probably won't be able to work on the rest until after my semester ends so maybe may? lol (once again w/ no humor)
“Don’t freak out, but I think the girl you stare at in the library is staring back at you.”
Jake freezes with his burger halfway to his open mouth. “What? Where? And I don’t stare at her in the library—”
Jay nudges his friend’s jaw upwards. “I said don’t freak out.”
“At least he didn’t turn in her direction,” Sunghoon offers. But he says it while looking disdainfully at the ketchup dripping from Jake’s burger onto the dining hall table, so Jake isn’t all that comforted by it.
Instead, he repeats “Where?” through gritted teeth.
“At your four o’clock, but I wouldn’t get too excited about it.” Jay squints. “I’m pretty sure she’s glaring at you, honestly. Okay, seriously do not freak out, but she’s coming over here…”
Jake tries to figure out what to do with himself as you approach with alarming speed— should he fix his hair, or tuck his shirt in? Damn it, he doesn’t even remember if he’s wearing something clean today. Before he can fully comprehend it, you’re standing in front of him, looking as pretty as ever in a silky dress that floats down to your ankles.
Your mouth opens to say something, and there’s a deep furrow between your brows that Jake longs to smooth out, but then his hands clamp down on his burger, and— “Oh shit, dude, I’m so sorry!”
Bright red ketchup decorates the front of your pristine white dress.
Your jaw drops, as does your gaze, fixated on the ugly red splotch spreading over the fabric covering your stomach. Everything you’d been meaning to say to him flies out of your head, replaced by blood rushing in your ears as your anger grows at the foolish oaf in front of you. “This is dry clean only,” you hiss.
Jake drops his burger in Jay’s lap, ignoring his friend’s squawk of indignation. Hurriedly, he wipes his hands on some napkins and tries offering them to you before cowing under your withering glare. “I am so sorry,” he repeats. His arms flail at his sides before he picks up the cardigan lying next to him and hands it to you. “You have a library shift coming up, right? Please feel free to wear this until you can get home and change. I have class until two, but I can take your clothes to the dry cleaners afterwards. I’m really so sorry!”
Your mouth shapes around air a few times as you work out exactly how to respond to him, but then your phone buzzes to remind you of your library shift— it is coming up— and you decide that you’ll deal with this— and him— later. Unhappily, you grab the proffered cardigan. “Two o’clock. Don’t be late.” And then you twist on your heel and depart, leaving Jake to stare sadly at the swish of your hair against your back.
“Are you gonna take my clothes to the dry cleaners, too?” Jay intones dryly from beside him.
Jake groans and sinks back down into the booth, covering his face with his hands and shaking his head repeatedly. “I can’t believe that just happened. I have to walk into traffic now.” Before Jay can say anything else, Jake tacks on, “And yeah, give me your pants.”
“Damn, take me to dinner first. Oh, wait, I guess you did offer me food.” Jay plucks the burger out of his lap and deposits it onto Jake’s plate pointedly.
Sunghoon lets out a whistle between his teeth. “Wow, I’ve never seen anyone fumble so badly. Like, seriously, that should be studied in a lab.”
“I got nervous!” Jake exclaims.
Sunghoon chortles. “Clearly. Cute girl comes over, and you not only call her dude, but you also squirt ketchup all over her.”
Jake kicks him in the shin, hard. “Can you not pile on?”
“Sorry, sorry.” Sunghoon holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Was that the first time you interacted with her?”
Unhelpfully, Jay pipes up. “Unless you count staring at her in the library interacting, I’d say yes. Speaking of, how do you know her schedule, bro? You’re creepier than I thought.”
Jake jabs him with an elbow. “My class got canceled once and I saw her at the library then, okay? Some of us actually have homework, Socrates and Warren Buffet.” He rolls his eyes at Sunghoon (philosophy) and Jay (business) in turn. “And again, I don’t stare!”
A few hours later, Jake stares at the back of your head.
He’s not in his usual spot in the library, which is a round table near the windows on the mezzanine level— straight line of sight to one of the reference desks, but he did not pick that spot on purpose, no matter how much his friends like to joke that he did. He’s been sitting in that spot since the first day of his freshman year; he’d chosen it because he likes being able to see out into the quad, and the noise level in that area is perfect for him (not too quiet, which would make him fall asleep, and not too loud, which would just make him want to join in on wherever the fun was). He couldn’t have known that you would show up halfway through last year, get a job as one of the students manning the reference desk, and then occupy the exact spot his eyes tend to rest on when he zones out.
And he really couldn’t have known that you would be so pretty.
It doesn’t help that you’re in practically all of his classes this year, and he’s had the opportunity to talk to you every day for the past two weeks if he wanted to. He’s not the most shameless person in the world (Sunghoon), but he’s also not scared of his own reflection (Heeseung), so why couldn’t he have just introduced himself like a normal person on the first day of classes and avoided this whole ketchup fiasco?
Someone comes up to the desk to ask a question, and your head tilts toward them as the afternoon sunlight frames your face just so; Jake gulps and thinks, Oh yeah, that’s why. So pretty. And dizzyingly smart, if the way he sees your pencil fly over quizzes is anything to go by.
As if sensing his eyes on you, you twist around fully to catch him staring. Jake blinks deer-in-headlights eyes at you; if this was a cartoon, there would be a ?! above his head.
Your eyes narrow at him and you jerk your head in your own direction. Get over here.
Jake gulps and straightens up before shuffling over to you. He kind of feels like he’s walking to the gallows, but on a flower-lined path, because his cardigan on you softens you around the edges, and you look right at home in it.
“Heeeeeeey.” He raises a hand and waves at you, though he’s right in front of you. He winces before you can even raise a skeptical eyebrow at him, but then you do, so he grimaces. “Sorry, that was weird. Uh, hi.”
You nod curtly at him. “Hi. I’m done in two minutes. Thanks for being on time.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he mumbles to the floor. Luckily, you don’t catch it because you’re packing away the problem set you were doing in between answering student questions, which he chances a glance at because hey, he’d been having trouble with page 157.
Of course, you catch that. “What are you, twelve? Do your own work.”
“Wait, what? Hold on a second, I’m not trying to cheat off of you— hey, wait up!” He scrambles to catch up with you where you’re already halfway down the stairs. Panicked, he speeds past you and plants himself in your path, greeted by your look of supreme irritation for the second time that day. “I wasn’t trying to cheat off of you,” he says, more firmly this time. “I was just gonna ask you how you did with page 157, because I was having some trouble with it earlier.”
You scoff and slide to the left to go around him, only to be met by him mirroring you. “Are you serious right now? Get out of my way.”
“We’re going to the same place!”
“Yeah, and now I’ve remembered that I can pay for my own dry cleaning. Move.” You go right, and he follows.
“I’m still coming— I gotta take Jay’s pants there. I dropped my burger in his lap earlier when, well, you know.”
You go left again, and he follows once more. “Okay, for real? Let me go, asshole.”
Jake drops his backpack off his shoulders and hoists it onto his knee, rummaging around in it while still blocking your path. You think he’s officially lost it, but you’re also never one to miss an opportunity, so you feint to the right and then go left, but he’s faster and blocks you again with his head halfway buried in his backpack. Damn it, he’s good. You don’t realize you’ve said that out loud until he looks up at you and smiles sheepishly. “Soccer team,” he explains. Oh— that reminds you why you were approaching him at the dining hall in the first place, and real anger resurfaces in your blood.
“Like I care,” you snap. You’re about to just shove him down the stairs and call it an easy day when you’re met with a crumpled piece of graph paper waved in front of your face. “What the hell is this?”
“Next week’s problem set! See, look, I finished everything except the problems on page 157, and I did get started, but I just wanted to check if I was on the right path, okay? I promise, I wasn’t trying to cheat off of you.” He frowns. “These aren’t even graded for quality. It’s just a submission for completion.”
Your eyebrows climb up your forehead. Though his handwriting is shit, you can see that he’s telling the truth. The fact that he’s doing the problem set for next week probably should have tipped you off in and of itself, but what surprises you is the simple elegance with which his calculations come out. “Hey, how’d you do that on number 89 on page 151—” You cut yourself off. “Never mind. Fine, I believe you. Can you move now? We’re blocking the entire stairway.”
Jake seems to finally notice the build-up of annoyed students in front of and behind you both. “Right, oops.” He zips up his backpack and slings it over one shoulder before descending the stairs with quick steps. He turns around and tilts his head quizzically at you when you don’t follow.
Truthfully, you’re trying to decide if you should make a break for it and go up the stairs so you can take a different set of stairs down, but then you realize how childish that sounds. So, it’s with less dignity than you’d like that you meet him at the bottom of the staircase. But you don’t stop where he’s standing; instead, you breeze past him so smoothly that he finds himself staring at the back of your head for a few seconds before springing into motion after you.
“Soooooo… dry cleaner’s?” He offers you a tentative smile once he’s fallen into step with you.
You seem to have made your mind up about something, because you turn to him with a dazzling smile that knocks the breath right out of his lungs. “Lead the way.”
“O-Okay.” He’s taken aback by your sudden about-face, but he’s not going to question it.
He tells you that he’s happy to drive there, and you’re perfectly agreeable about it. You even start talking about the problem set that had been the source of such strife just minutes earlier. At the dry cleaner, you give him the biggest surprise yet when you ask for his number. Obviously, he gives it to you, and he has to pretend like he isn’t perturbed by the cryptic, almost manic look in your eyes when you promise that you’ll be in touch.
But then you’re gone without so much as a goodbye, and it’s only when he gets back to his place that he realizes he doesn’t even know how you got home, and he can’t text you because he doesn’t have your number.
jake: this has been the strangest and possibly greatest day of my life
sunghoon: ur preaching to the choir ketchup boy
sunghoon: yizhuo told me i was hotter with blonde hair
sunghoon: so like hell yeah she thinks im hot but hell no now i have to dye my hair back
jake: ????? did i ask
jake: i’m talking about MY day
jay: she actually did not say you were hotter with blonde hair. in fact none of those words came out of her mouth
jay: you asked if she liked your new hair and she said no
sunghoon: hop off my dick tf????
heeseung: so what happened jake
sunghoon: oh i can tell u this it’s old news
sunghoon: jake fumbled his first interaction w/ the girl he stares at in the library
jake: BUT she asked for my number and said she’d be in touch!!!!
sunghoon: right so u can pay for her dry cleaning bill
jake: OR maybe she wants to be friends
jake: to lovers<3
jay: idk she kinda looked like she wanted to take you out when she was coming over to us at lunch today
jake: take me out… oh my god LIKE ON A DATE?????
jay: no like
jay: lethally
women’s rights and wrongs (you, minjeong, yizhuo, somi)
you: so you know how i was gonna confront jake today
yizhuo: yeah i heard that went poorly
yizhuo: sunghoon said something about ketchup????
you: nvm all that. i have a Better Plan. i’m gonna ruin his life
minjeong: cool
somi: noooooo he’s hot
you: HE RUINED MY BROTHER’S LIFE
somi: girl u have to let that go
somi: ur brother is 10 and made it to the B team for club soccer
somi: i think he’ll be fine
you: BUT HE SHOULD’VE BEEN IN THE A TEAM. I SAW JAKE’S BEADY EYES SINGLING HIM OUT UNFAIRLY
somi: he actually has like insane puppy dog eyes
you: anyways i’m going to systematically but subtly make his life more and more difficult as soon as i start assistant managing his soccer team on monday. but he will never know it’s me bc i’m going to be so nice and normal to his face BUT ACTUALLY i’m gonna make him my bitch
yizhuo: “nice and normal to his face” u have the worst poker face i’ve ever seen
minjeong: technically speaking if ur an assistant manager aren’t u THEIR bitch
For reasons you cannot fathom, the men’s varsity soccer team has practice on Monday mornings, at the crack of dawn. You’re beginning to regret giving up your reasonably timed library shifts where you basically got paid to sit there and do your homework and check out computer chargers to students every now and then, but these are the things you do when you’re trying to be a good sister.
Autumn has arrived abruptly— almost overnight, if the smattering of ambers and ochres falling from the trees lining the soccer field is anything to go by. You realize you’re dressed entirely inappropriately for the weather when your teeth are chattering and your eyes are watering from the sting of the cold. The dress you’d picked out last night for today seems laughable now.
“What are you doing here?” Jake’s voice, so unexpectedly close, makes you jolt and flail around a bit before turning to meet his confused expression— head tilted, eyes wide, and damn it, Somi’s right, he does have insane puppy dog eyes.
You gesture vaguely at the field. “I’m one of the new assistant managers. Surprise! Told you I’d be in touch.”
“Speaking of— did you get home alright the other day?”
“Yeah, of course, I just walked.”
He wants to be concerned about that answer— the closest student accommodations are at least a thirty minute walk away from the dry cleaner’s— but then he sees you hop from one foot to the other while rubbing your arms. You look so out of place with your heeled mary janes sinking into the dew-damp field with every hop, but it’s so cute that he has to bite the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from grinning too widely. In a move that now feels familiar, he digs around in his bag before pulling out a spare sweatshirt and handing it to you.
Appreciation for his kindness and irritation at his kindness play tug-of-war inside of you for all of two seconds before a particularly brisk gust of wind hits you, and then you’re yanking the sweatshirt over your head and breathing in clean soap and something else unfairly cozy. “Thanks,” you mumble.
“Sure thing. Here, take this, too.” Jake digs around in his bag some more and emerges triumphant with a thermos. He twists the cap off and pours some liquid into the cap before offering it to you.
It smells like… “Hot chocolate?”
“With two espresso shots, because we have intro to Python right after practice today.”
You grimace in unison at that reminder, and you’re kind of glad that that’s the last expression on your face before you sip at the drink, because it’s perfect, and you have to refrain from letting your eyes roll to the back of your head. So he’s practical, makes delicious hot drinks, and, because you’re not immune to those big brown eyes, attractive. It’s a pity he was such a jerk to your brother, because otherwise you’d be swooning.
But he must have seen something change in your face, because he lets out a giggle— oh no, it’s so cute— and hands you the entire thermos. “I think you need it more than me,” he explains.
You try to remind yourself of your brother’s disappointment after club soccer try-outs last week, which you had seen from your totally not-creepy position, brooding inside your stepdad’s car over how to best connect with this 10-year-old kid who was just old enough to recognize that girls had cooties and not old enough to share any genuine interests with you. It was less creepy because you were there to pick your brother up, but you feel like you’re not any closer to him than a stranger (in fairness, you hadn’t known that he existed before last year). You’ve tried, in fits and starts, to get to know MJ better, to actually form some sort of sibling bond with him, but most of the time, you’re his glorified chauffeur. He tries, too, and your heart goes all fuzzy when you notice it, but there’s only so far that a 10-year-old whose greatest joys in life are cookies ‘n cream ice cream (understandable), and soccer (more confounding) can get before he decides that his Nintendo is more readily enjoyable.
The look on MJ’s face after try-outs last week had spurred you to apply for the assistant manager position. He was so sad about the B team, and you did the whole comforting, cajoling song-and-dance as best as you could, but he had just snapped at you that you didn’t get it, that you couldn’t get it. And then he had burst into frustrated tears, and you vowed at that moment to learn everything you could about soccer, as well as to give Jake Sim a piece of your mind.
Jake Sim, whom you had only known as the guy that finished the first lab faster than anyone else in your extrasolar research methods class, until you saw him blowing a whistle on the sidelines of MJ’s soccer try-outs, looking like he had some sort of authority as he directed a group of kids, including MJ, in a series of drills. Later, you found out from Minjeong that Jake is a star player on your school’s soccer team, so he presumably has some basis for helping out with the local club soccer team, but you hadn’t been all that interested in finding out more. You’d seen enough from the way he took MJ aside after the teams had been announced, and MJ’s subsequent tears in the car, and you knew vengeance would be yours.
Unfortunately, vengeance is currently offering you hot chocolate with two espresso shots, and he is distressingly earnest when he wraps your hands around the thermos and points you in the direction of the other assistant managers who are supposed to onboard you. So, you bid Jake a stiff goodbye as you try to ignore the warmth spreading from the tip of your nose down into your throat. It’s definitely the hot chocolate, but you’re annoyed at even the possibility that it could be connected to Jake.
women’s rights and wrongs
yizhuo: so how’s world domination (ruining jake’s life) going?
you: hard to say. he gave me a sweatshirt and hot chocolate bc i’m wearing a stupid ass outfit and it’s cold as hell out here
minjeong: he said that?!
you: no I’M saying that
you: i need to change my entire wardrobe so i’m never caught unawares like this ever again. i let my guard down and this is what happens.
somi: a guy is nice to u? yeah god forbid
you: HE IS BESMIRCHING MY HONOR (AVENGING MJ)
minjeong: jeez you get so victorian when you’re distressed
somi: sorry are we ignoring the fact that he gave her a sweatshirt and hot chocolate????
minjeong: omfg YEAH that’s like. bf behavior
you: oh fuck there’s some sort of commotion going on out there in the field
you: omg they’re bringing a STRETCHER out
you: i gotta go guys ttyl xoxo etc.
yizhuo: notice how she never responded to the bf behavior allegations
Jung Sungchan, team captain, is down and out for the count after being wheeled out of practice on a stretcher with a torn ACL. This is reasonably concerning to everyone on the team, but none more so than to Jake, who finds himself at the receiving end of a Serious Talk about leadership qualities and such from his coach that ends with, “... and that’s why we want you to fill in for Sungchan while he’s recovering.”
“Huh?” Jake tilts his head at his coach. He must have misheard; there’s no way they want him to fill in for Sungchan.
“The seniors love you, the underclassmen look up to you, your peers respect you, and all the coaches agree. Sungchan will come back as soon as he’s able, but he won’t be able to actually play this season, so you’ll have to keep up the leadership on the field and off. We’re confident in your abilities. Good man.” His coach claps him on the shoulder, and that’s the end of it.
Jake is still staring dumbly in his coach’s departing direction when you approach him with his cardigan, sweatshirt, and thermos.
You had planned to just give him his stuff and leave, but curiosity gets the better of you after having witnessed the spectacle out on the field. “Everything alright? Who got carried out on that stretcher?”
Still a bit shell-shocked, Jake speaks without thinking: “Worried it was me?”
You look at him like he’s an alien species. “It clearly wasn’t, because whoever it was is much taller than you.”
Jake frowns up at you. “Okay, no need to go for the height. That was my captain, who’s gonna be out for the rest of the season, so now Coach wants me to fill in for him… I don’t know what he’s thinking. I mean, I get that seniority isn’t everything, but this feels kinda unfair to any of the seniors who could’ve stepped in for Sungchan.”
“How convenient to have everything handed to you on a silver platter,” you mutter. It’s an entirely unjustified thing to say— you barely know Jake or anything about his background, but then MJ’s tear-stained face flashes across your mind, and you don’t feel so bad about it.
Genuine hurt and a hint of actual anger sparks in Jake’s eyes. “Okay, what’s your problem? I get that I didn’t make the best of first impressions the other day, but I apologized and tried to make up for it— you can just text me the bill from the dry cleaner’s, by the way— and I don’t know what else I’ve done to upset you, but I’m sorry for whatever that is, too. Are we good, or is there something else you’ve got against me?” His last question comes out almost aggressively as he stands up, bringing him not quite chest-to-chest with you, but close enough that you notice the perfectly defined cupid’s bow of his lips, and then you’re disgusted with yourself. College hormones have made you fallible; it shouldn’t sway you that he’s cute (and kind, and smart, and considerate, your brain reminds you unhelpfully).
“We’re good,” you snap. “Here’s your stuff.” You shove the things he gave you into his arms before whipping around sharply to walk (stomp) away, pointedly ignoring his surprised yelp when your hair hits him in the face. Childishly, you think that it serves him right.
Sadly, your conscience comes back to haunt you approximately 18 hours later, at which point you’re pulling out ingredients and clanging whisks against bowls.
Minjeong sticks her head into the kitchen to ask, “What are you doing?”
You freeze in your movements, letting a particularly clumpy spot of brownie batter fall from your raised spatula back into the mixing bowl. “Cleaning,” you lie baldly. One unimpressed eyebrow raise from her gets you to clear your throat and put down your spatula. “Making brownies,” you amend.
“At midnight?”
“Yeah, I just had… a craving.”
Minjeong seems to consider pushing you on this, but the smell of the brownie batter wins her over. “Awesome, can I have some?” She moves to dip her finger into the batter.
“No!” You shriek, covering the bowl with your arms crossed on top of each other in an X.
Minjeong pulls her hand back and looks at you with alarm. “Why? What’s wrong?”
You sigh and retreat from the bowl. “Sorry, I don’t know what came over me. Um, I’m making brownies… for Jake—”
“For who now?”
“—’s soccer team,” you finish, turning to glare at Somi and her untimely entrance.
She only waves slyly at you from where she’s leaning against the doorway of the kitchen. “Y’know, it’s not really his soccer team. It’s the school’s soccer team, or maybe Jung Sungchan’s, but sure, let’s call it Jake’s, too.” She tsks. “Pretty privilege.” You give her a pointed up-and-down, to which she just shrugs.
Minjeong seizes you by the shoulders and peers aggressively into your eyes, ignoring your surprised yelp. “Why are you making guilt brownies for Jake Sim?”
“They’re not guilt brownies!” You splutter, waving your hands in front of her face as if that will stave off the gleam of interrogatory insanity in her eyes.
Drawn by her nose and her ears, Yizhuo chooses that point to wander into the kitchen, as well. “Who are the guilt brownies for?”
You groan and drop your face into your hands. Somi and Minjeong exclaim “Jake Sim!” in gleeful unison before dissolving into giggles.
Yizhuo decides to show you mercy, bless her heart, because all she does is come over to inspect the brownie batter and hum noncommittally. Of course, she ruins it when she spots what’s on the stove and gasps dramatically, “Guys, she made ganache! These are, like, mega guilt brownies!”
Back when the four of you first started living together last year, you were a mid-year transfer student whose sudden appearance had forced Somi, Minjeong, and Yizhuo’s two-room triple to turn into a two-room quad, and your guilt about disrupting their living arrangements had led you to bake them brownies from scratch— cocoa powder, chopped chocolate, browned butter, espresso, and everything. The girls had clamored for the recipe (your mother’s). Since then, you have happily moved out of the dorms and into a subsidized student apartment, but you each continue to make variations of the brownies for each other as peace offerings after a spat, or celebrations, or gestures of comfort.
And now, as an apology for being mean to Jake Sim, which is how you summarize it to your still-giggling roommates.
“Well, I’m sure he’ll like them,” Yizhuo offers, with a poorly-concealed smirk.
“They’re for the team,” you repeat.
“Riiiiiight, and is the team with us in the room right now?” Somi wiggles her eyebrows at you, then her shoulders, then her entire body, and it’s so absurd that you tear up from laughing too hard. You had moved across the country for your brother, and you hadn’t expected anything else would come out of it, but now you have the best of friends, who hold a piece of your heart, and you, theirs. The thought makes you unexpectedly emotional, so much so that you begin making another batch of brownies.
“These are just I’m really glad we’re friends brownies,” you sniffle.
Somi exchanges a look with Minjeong and Ningning, and then they’re all descending upon you in a hug; one big mess of limbs and love. It’s absolutely wonderful.
The next day, you carry multiple containers of brownies around with you all day, looking for a chance to offload them (and your guilty conscience) onto Jake. It shouldn’t be this hard— you share four out of five classes with him this semester, and you’re supposed to be at two soccer practices a week in rotation with the other assistant managers, as well as every other game. But everywhere you turn, Jake is either slipping out of class before you can get to him, or he arrives just before the professor starts lecturing and you’re already seated with your pencil poised over paper.
You’re not on rotation for practice today, so you spend a rather agitated handful of hours doing schoolwork after classes, until you get a last-minute text from your stepdad asking if you can pick MJ up.
Of course, you get the shock of your life when you get to the address your stepdad sent you and see Jake Sim playing soccer with your brother at some local park. You’re not alone in your surprise; Jake makes a full stop upon catching sight of you and gets a soccer ball to the head for it, knocking him fully down to the ground. Thankfully, he pops back up immediately, just in time to catch you speeding past him to fuss over MJ.
“What on earth are you doing here alone?!” You exclaim to your brother, looking around as if the rest of his soccer team will materialize out of thin air. “Did that bad man lure you out here?”
Jake’s eyes bulge out of his head as he looks around at the zero other people on the field before pointing to himself and mouthing Me? at you.
MJ just shrugs and points at Jake. “Practicing with Jake hyung.”
“Jake hyung?” You squint at the offender in question.
“Yeah, he’s been helping me get ready for next season’s tryouts.” MJ scuffs the toe of his shoe against the grass, clearly embarrassed by your fretting.
“Hey, Minjae, is this your… sister?” Jake asks tentatively. The question itself is innocent enough, but irritation and jealousy set your blood buzzing; MJ rarely lets you call him Minjae. He claims MJ is cooler, and he doesn’t let your mother call him Minjae, either, but your stepdad calls him Minjae freely and with an abundance of returned affection.
“Yep.” MJ pops the p as he looks between the two of you, now sensing that whatever is going on here is larger than him. “Uh, can I go to the bathroom?”
“Sure.” You and Jake respond in unison, which makes you glare and him blush.
“Okay, cool. See ya.” MJ races off to the porta-potties with unusual enthusiasm, but you suppose he’d rather be there than here to witness the breakdown of normal social interaction between you and Jake.
The instant MJ is out of earshot, you whirl on Jake and demand, “How do you know my brother?”
Instinctually, he puts his hands up in surrender. “He looked like he was pretty down on himself after club try-outs last week, so I talked to him and offered to run drills with him, like, once a week, okay? I’m not some…. bad man!”
“Oh.” You deflate in front of his eyes as you realize the depths of your misunderstanding. “Well… okay.”
He eyes you apprehensively. “We’re good?”
“Yeah, yeah, we’re… good.” The words remind you of the acerbic encounter you had with him the day before, which reminds you of the guilt brownies, which reminds you of the guilt. Like everything else in your life, you decide to get over this with clinical efficiency. “Listen, I owe you an apology. Probably several. I was picking up MJ from try-outs last week, and I saw him with you, and then he was crying in the car, so I jumped to conclusions about you and your role in the try-outs. That’s why I came over to you at lunch the other day, to tell you off.” You take a deep breath and barrel on, mindful of your brother’s likely imminent return. “I shouldn’t have assumed. I’m sorry, Jake.”
“Oh, no, that’s okay, really, don’t worry about it.” Jake rubs the back of his neck and looks anywhere but at you. He’s never seen you like this before— contrite, sincere, and concentrating so fully on him that he wants to either hide his face from you or do something even stupider, like ask you out. Instead, what comes out of his mouth is, “I think the dry cleaning is ready, if you want to go pick it up right now. With me. Or without me, I guess. I can just, like, be there. And you’ll be there, too. But we’ll be there separately. Wow, should I stop talking?”
That prompts laughter from you, and his breath catches in his throat at the wonder of watching delight unfold across your face. In that moment, sunlight emerges from behind a patchwork of clouds, but it’s your laughter that warms him from head to toe.
“Let me just drop MJ off at home, and then I’ll come with you to the dry cleaner. Together, not separately.” Your eyes twinkle in residual amusement at him, and he lets himself break out into a goofy grin.
MJ makes his presence known by loudly asking why the two of you are just standing there smiling at each other, and if Jake can walk home with you all. Jake manufactures a coughing fit and you ignore MJ’s first question, but you say yes to the second one.
MJ cheers and starts tugging Jake along in the direction of your mother and stepdad’s house. You trail behind them in bemused amusement; they talk about soccer the whole time, and Jake is playful and patient but never condescending with the boy that clearly idolizes him. Watching Jake interact with your brother is bittersweet— it’s so easy between them, in a way that you’ve never experienced yourself. By the time you reach the house, MJ has extracted a promise from you both that he can attend Jake’s next home game.
At the door, MJ fist-bumps Jake and is magnanimous enough to allow you to kiss his cheek goodbye. You send him off with a, “Be kind!” and he hollers back, “I know!”
And then it’s just you and Jake, who’s looking at you with a newfound curiosity that makes you nervous. “What?” You snap, and then you instantly backtrack. “Sorry, I, uh, I’m still a little wound up from—” thinking you were a jerk— “… earlier.”
“All good.” Jake tips his head towards the sidewalk, and you realize you’re still on the doorstep of MJ’s house. You follow Jake onto the sidewalk, where he asks, “Do you always tell him to be kind?”
It’s the last thing you expected him to ask. “Um, yeah. Not that he’s a mean kid or anything, but my mother always told me to be good, and I’ve heard her say the same thing to him, so I just… want him to hear something different.” Because be good just means be quiet and perform well, and you already go to therapy every other week for that.
Jake beams at you. “That’s awesome. You’re a great sister.”
He’s saying all the things that would be right for someone else, but for you, they’re all the wrong things. Still, there’s no way he could know that, and it’s not his fault, so you try to tone down your wince. “Thanks, but I barely know how to talk to MJ. He’s old enough to find it lame to just hang out with his sister, and we don’t have a lot in common. That’s why I applied to be an assistant manager, actually— I’m trying to learn more about soccer.”
“Sounds like best-sibling-of-the-year behavior to me. Seriously, I have an older brother— he’s the one who introduced me to soccer— and we have a great relationship, but he never joined the orchestra for me, or anything like that.” Jake nudges your shoulder with his. “And hey, if you want to learn more about soccer, you can ask me anything, anytime.”
He turns eyes so kind and earnest on you that your thought process halts and then restarts like a broken record. You have to grab onto the closest coherent thought before you stare at him for too long. “You were in the orchestra?”
Jake wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, but I was pretty average with a violin. Dumb jock, you know?” He smiles at you to let you know he’s joking.
Thankfully, you smile right back. “Soooo true. Remind me how long the first extrasolar research methods lab took you?”
He blushes and waves you off. “Ah, well, that’s the kind of stuff I want to do in the future, so I better get good at it, right?” He lowers his voice, even though there’s no one around who could possibly overhear his nerdy confession. “Honestly, I cried a little when the first images from the James Webb telescope came out.”
In equally hushed tones, you respond, “Me, too.”
Jake grins. “Aerospace engineering, right? Your brother did say that his sister loves machines and stars.”
The fact that MJ talked about you at all is enough to have you floating on air. “Yeah, that’s me. And hey, this is us.” You point to the sign for the dry cleaner.
“Oh. We got here fast.” Jake tries— and likely fails— not to sound too disappointed. But you’ve already gone ahead into the store, so he leaves behind his foolish desires (walking back to where you’d dropped your brother off and then here again, if only to spend more time with you) at the door.
In the store, Jake gives Jay’s pants a perfunctory once-over to check that they’re fine, but his attention is mainly focused on your dress— it comes back perfectly clear of any ketchup stains, to which he lets out a loud, relieved sigh.
You eye him strangely for that reaction. “I know I was a bit high-strung about it at the time, but it wouldn’t have been the end of the world if my dress was ruined. I wouldn’t, like, come after you with a pitchfork.”
He pauses for a second to let that image play out in his mind. “Y’know, I didn’t think you would, but now that you’ve brought up the possibility…” He grins when you laugh and shove lightly at his shoulder. “But seriously, it would have been a shame. You looked really nice in that dress.” The words tumble thoughtlessly out of his mouth, but he can’t bring himself to regret it when he sees your mouth part in surprise before flattening into a tiny, pleased smile.
“I would hope so. I have excellent taste,” you say, trying to sound haughty and ending up somewhere near flustered. There’s heat in your cheeks; you’re stuck between wanting to wipe that boyish smirk off of his face and wanting to frame the way it looks.
“So… are you headed back to your house?” Jake tries out what he wants to say next in his head, first: And would you mind if I walked you there?
“Oh, yeah. It’s getting kind of late. I think your friend— Sunghoon? Yizhuo invited him over for dinner tonight, actually, if you… also want to come.” You cringe at how awkward that sounded. “I mean, not that it’s going to be a big thing, or anything. Minjeong and Somi are making an insane amount of mac ‘n cheese, because there was a really good sale at the grocery store, so we’re just trying to offload it, really. There’s gonna be a bunch of people there.”
Jake’s head tilts in confusion. “Your friends live with your family?”
“What? No, we’re in an apartment on Maplewood. MJ lives with his parents, but I don’t live there.” You grimace. “I go there for family dinner once a week, so that’s where I went after we came to the dry cleaner for the first time. But that’s only on Wednesdays, thank god.”
Jake hums noncommittally. There’s more he’d like to ask, to know, to understand, but then his stomach growls, and he laughs sheepishly. “I’ll gladly take you up on the mac ‘n cheese. I need some fodder to tease Sunghoon with, anyways. Seeing him with Yizhuo always does it.”
“The will-they-won’t-they childhood-menaces-to-who-knows show?”
“Exactly. So, tell me about aerospace engineering…”
The walk to your apartment is long by any measurement, but it passes by quickly. Jake asks you genuine questions about propulsion systems and your friends, and you learn that he loves superhero movies, his family dog, and poetry, of all things. He’s endearingly bashful about the last one.
“Physics is pretty dry at the undergraduate level, even when it’s astrophysics. But the way that poets talk about the stars… It takes my breath away, a little bit. Reminds me that it’s a marvel to just look heavenward, I guess.” He rubs the tip of his reddening nose. “Silly, right?”
“Not at all.” Romantic, actually, is what you want to tell him. Romantic, because he talks about space like it’s a reverential thing, like a telescope can be a paintbrush through the night sky, like constellations are more than just sets of stars connected by the human eye. But you’ve reached your apartment, so all you say is, “Hold on, let me get my keys.”
“Oh, hey, I can help you with that—”
“No, it’s okay, I got it—”
In the fumble of dry cleaning, backpacks, sports duffels, and totes between you two, somehow every single container of brownies tumbles out of your bag. Jake’s eyes catch on the hasty letters you’d scrawled on duct tape on the lids of each container last night to distinguish between the brownies you ended up making for your roommates: FOR JS & TEAM. His eyebrows shoot up as your face burns; he doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, but…
“There was also a sale on baking supplies at the grocery store,” you lie. Then, you shake your head. “Okay, no, that’s not true. I made these last night and I meant to give them to you today but I never got you at the right moment during classes, and then there was the whole thing with MJ, so I almost forgot… Anyways. You said you were worried about the seniors on the team being upset about you for stepping in as interim captain, and I’m sure they’re not so easily swayed by just baked goods, but I thought maybe you could give these to them, as a way to, like, soften the beaches, or something. It’s not much, but I promise, they’re really good.”
Jake’s jaw drops. “You made these… for me? Even when you hated me?”
“I made them for you to give to the team,” you insist. “But, yeah… I did.” You frown at the ground. “Look, I really am sorry about the way I treated you before. I wasn’t going to, like, trauma-dump on you, but I guess I will, now, because I want you to know that I never hated you.” You take a deep breath. “MJ’s mom is my mother, too, but she left my dad and I when I was in elementary school. I didn’t hear from her for a decade, until last year, when she reached out and told me I had a brother on the other side of the country, and she had been pregnant with him when she left my dad and I.”
You chance a glance at Jake. “Please don’t look at me with pity. My dad’s a great guy, and so is my step-dad. I moved out here to be closer to MJ, and you can see how that’s going, but I love him purely, without complication. It’s just my mother who’s… complicated. Anyways, I just got MJ, so I’m a bit overprotective over him, and I was quick to paint you as the bad guy, but that’s no excuse. These are I’m-sorry-for-jumping-to-conclusions brownies. And bribe-your-team brownies.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not looking at you with pity.” It’s awe, he thinks. Awe for your heart, loyal to the point of changing schools and moving across the country for a brother you had never met. Awe for your diligence in making enough brownies to feed an entire team. And most of all, awe at your goodness, for doing all of this because you knew you were in the wrong.
“Can you look at her somewhere where you’re not blocking the doorway?” Sunghoon’s voice pierces through the strange moment. You and Jake move into action all at once, collecting containers of brownies while juggling your other things.
“Thanks for the help, dude.” Jake punches Sunghoon’s shoulder sarcastically.
Sunghoon shrugs and holds up the shopping bags in his hands. “Precious goods, my man.”
Jake peers into one of the bags. “Tiramisu?”
“Yeah, Yizhuo was on my ass about contributing to dinner.” Sunghoon rolls his eyes fondly. “She also told me to marshall the troops for the mac ‘n cheese, so Heeseung and Jay are a couple minutes behind me. Seriously, did you guys buy out the entire grocery store, or something?”
You laugh as you unlock the door and usher them inside. “Or something.” You had heard that the sale really was quite good, but truthfully, you suspect there’s more to it than that. Based on the way Somi exaggeratedly darts her eyes between you and Jake, you think you’re probably right. You get the sense that even if you hadn’t invited him for dinner, he would have shown up with Sunghoon’s contingent anyways.
“Ladies, you are so not slick,” you mutter to your friends when it’s just the four of you in the kitchen.
Minjeong smiles beatifically at you. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. This is just an impromptu but no less lovely dinner party for our friends… oh, there’s the door! I’ll get it.”
In a sense, you suppose she’s right. It’s not like Jake is the only other person at this semi-spontaneous gathering; eventually, there are almost 20 people eating mac ‘n cheese on various surfaces in your apartment. It’s an eclectic bunch— pretty much anyone you or your friends knew who was available to come eat mac ‘n cheese. But Minjeong insists that you and Jake share an armchair in the living room because there’s nowhere else to eat, even though there is clearly an open chair next to Heeseung and a free spot on the rug next to some kid from your programming class last year.
“This is really good!” Jake enthuses. He says it while shoveling food into his mouth, so it sounds more like Vif iv weally good! He’s also eating with his non-dominant hand to keep from spilling anything on you where you’re pressed up against each other in the armchair, though that turns out to be fairly counterproductive because he keeps missing his mouth with the fork.
Your head tips back in a fit of giggles. “You look ridiculous,” you inform him. He just grins at you with chipmunk cheeks stuffed with tiramisu. “Here, let me.” You take the fork from his hand and feed him a mouthful; it’s much more efficient this way, you reason to yourself.
He’s so startled by this that he starts choking on the dusting of cocoa powder atop the dessert. You end up thumping him on the back until his airway is clear again, and he hopes you chalk up the redness of his face to the choking.
“Um, you have a little…” You motion to a spot of cocoa powder at the corner of his mouth. He wipes at entirely the wrong corner, and you’d think he was doing this on purpose, except he starts choking again when you use your thumb to wipe the powder away.
He gets over it much more quickly this time, though. Once he’s finally back to normal, he wills himself to summon all— or any— of the charm he has ever possessed to turn warm eyes on you. “Thanks for inviting me here tonight,” he says. There’s a slight rasp to his voice that is probably due to all the choking, but he hopes you think it’s sexy, or something.
“Oh, it’s no big deal. Thanks for helping us eat the food, and for, uh, coaching MJ, I guess?” Your voice is approaching a squeak, which makes you want to die, a little bit. He’s just looking at you so sincerely.
His gaze holds yours. “Easy day. And hey, you’re totally welcome to come join us whenever you want. I was just gonna keep meeting him at that park, so you know where to find us.”
“Thank you,” you repeat, quieter this time. “My mother… she’s hard on him. Always be good, be the best, you know? So he was pretty torn up about not making the A team.”
“I kinda sensed that he was tense during try-outs. Not that it’s bad to try hard, or to want to be on a certain team, but at his age, he could benefit from just… having fun, I think. If you don’t mind me saying that.”
You nod. “Believe me, I agree. MJ’s way too serious for his own good.”
“Some may say he gets it from you,” Jake teases lightly.
“Some may say that’s not how genetics work, but we’ll leave that to the pre-meds.” You tip your head toward Yizhuo, who is arguing about some memory from hers and Sunghoon’s childhood with him. Your heart glows with contentment as you look around the room; all of your favorite people (plus or minus miscellaneous others) gathered in one place on a random Monday night.
Jake carves out a piece of his tiramisu and holds it up to you like a toast. “To the pre-meds. And old friends, and new ones.”
“And new ones,” you echo.
As it turns out, the soccer team is exactly as easily swayed as a container of brownies.
You’re at practice when it winds down and Jake holds up your stack of containers like Simba in that one scene in The Lion King. “A gift from the lady,” he intones grandly to the team gathered in front of him. You nudge him with your hip. “Okay, and me, I guess, but seriously, she did all the work. Listen, guys, I’m not gonna lie— it’s gonna be rough without Sungchan. But I believe in us, and I believe in these brownies!”
“Brownies!” The team roars back. Said brownies are demolished in a matter of minutes, and then every player makes it a point to sing your praises and give Jake a hug or a fist-bump on their way out.
You’re still gaping by the time it’s just you and Jake left on the field. “That’s all it took?”
Jake turns to you with his arms crossed smugly over his chest. “Hmm? Oh, yeah. The way to the heart is through the stomach, and all that.”
“Otherwise known as: men are so easy.” You bemoan all the fancy ingredients and time you put into those brownies; you’re sure the team would have been just as happy with boxed Betty Crocker.
“Yeah, but these taste like care and love,” he insists.
“Alright, buddy, I wouldn’t go that far. And how would you know? You haven’t even tried one yet.”
“Oh my god. You’re right.” Jake looks aghast. “Are there any left?!”
You make a show of looking around at all the empty containers around you. Jake’s face falls so comically and he pouts so fervently that you can’t keep up the ruse for long. Laughing, you pull out one last ziplock bag of brownies from behind your back and present it to him. “Saved one just in case.”
He plucks the bag out of your hands with exaggerated delicacy, which vanishes when he bites into the brownie and lets out an honest to god moan. Heat floods your face immediately.
His eyes are closed when he tells you, quite seriously, that you are a goddess amongst mortals. “Did you drug this? I feel like I’ve ascended to a new plane of existence.” He moans, again, eyes still closed.
“Hello, stop making that sound, you weirdo,” you hiss.
He cracks one eye open to wink at you. “Where is your mind? Get out of the gutter, ma’am. Ow, okay, I get it!” He jumps away from your jabbing elbows. “Seriously, these are incredible. You could make money off of them.”
“You’re just saying that because you want me to make them again, for free.”
“Will you?”
“... Maybe if you let me look at how you got to your answer on number 89 on page 151.”
Jake’s hoot of delight carries you all the way to the library, where he shows you his usual spot and apologizes for ever making you uncomfortable with his staring— it’s just that you used to occupy the spot to which his eyes zoned out.
You give him a blank stare of your own. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I never noticed that you sat here. Or that you stared.”
Jake’s blush starts from the bridge of his nose and spreads out across his cheeks. “Oh, well, that’s good, I guess.”
“But I can sit next to you now, and you can stare all you want,” you offer jokingly.
His blush only intensifies. “Nope, that’s fine, I’ll just keep zoning out at whoever they replaced you with at the reference desk. Great, it’s… Huening.” He waves unenthusiastically at the lanky boy.
“Who?” You squint at your replacement.
“Huening Kai. He’s on the basketball team with Heeseung.”
“Are all of your friends athletes?”
“Not all, but most of them, yeah. Sunghoon and Jay are doubles partners on the tennis team, and they were roommates with Heeseung and I, respectively, so that’s how we all became friends. But I’ve got other friends in the physics department. And now, you.” Jake smiles softly at you, letting the words linger in the air for so long that your pulse starts to pick up speed.
“So, this is the famous staring, huh?” You mean for the words to come out friendly and light, but instead they come out low and musing.
“The one and only.”
“Hmm. It doesn’t make me uncomfortable, if that’s what you’re wondering.” And you mean it. His gaze is warm and easy, like the blanket a loved one draws up over your shoulders when you’re half-asleep.
Confidence returns to him like a boomerang as the corner of his mouth tips up in a smirk. “Are you giving me permission to stare at you?”
“Five minutes of staring for every problem you let me look at in your notebook.”
“We’re bargaining now?” He tsks and pulls out his work, though his shoulders are shaking with laughter. “How about this: you can look at my notebook for as long as you want, if you let me do the same for yours.”
“That’s just called working together, Jake.”
“Sure, but I also get to stare at you.”
“Tough deal for me.” But you’re staring at him, too, and there’s something hesitant and wanting brewing in your chest. It goes away when you clear your throat. “I’m feeling benevolent today, so I’ll allow it.”
Two hours pass by as you work on problem sets in companionable silence. He does stare at you more often than is perhaps necessary, but half of the time it’s because he really is zoning out. The other half… well, just because you’re friends now doesn’t mean you stopped being pretty.
When you finally decide to call it quits, it’s almost 8pm, and both of your stomachs are growling loudly. Jake yawns and stretches leisurely, like a large puppy. You’d laugh at the sight if you weren’t so transfixed by the ripple of a toned stomach exposed by his stretching. Suddenly, you remember that the soccer team does strength training for an hour every other day, and Jake is no exception.
Thankfully, he’s too busy complaining about being hungry to notice your wandering eyes. “Ugh, I think the dining hall is closing now. I have ramen back at my place, if you wanna—” Jake cuts himself off abruptly as he realizes the innuendo behind his words. “I mean, not like that. You probably have food at your apartment, what am I even saying, haha!” His voice goes high-pitched towards the end.
Mercifully, you ignore his slip-up. “Yeah, actually, we still have mac ‘n cheese left, so I’m probably going to microwave some of that. You’re welcome to take some home with you, if you want.” You shake your head immediately after the words come out of your mouth. “What am I even saying? You have ramen back at your place.”
And then you’re back at square one, both staring at each other with wide eyes and heat creeping up your necks.
Jake is the first to break the silence with peals of laughter that dissolve into giggles. You’re not far behind, and it isn’t long before Huening is glaring at the two of you and miming zipping his lips shut.
The two of you make your way out of the library still giggling, but right outside the library doors, Jake asks if he can walk you home. There’s a shy, boyish look on his face when he asks; it stirs up that strange, stumbling desire in you again.
“I really don’t live that far,” you murmur.
“I’m trying to get my steps in,” he jokes. He knows you saw him running back and forth across the field for two hours during practice today.
“I really don’t live that far,” you repeat, already starting in the direction of your apartment. When you don’t hear him follow, you turn around and quirk an eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you coming? Can’t have the star player missing his steps.”
He grins and catches up to you quickly, and then he spends the next ten minutes badgering you for more compliments. You have never felt so warm on the walk home.
Just as promised, you let MJ come to the next home game. It’s your first game as an assistant manager, so between keeping an eye on MJ and keeping an eye on your actual responsibilities, you’re pretty frazzled before the game even starts.
You’re settling MJ into a spot on the bleachers when someone taps your shoulder. You turn around to gasp at the sight of Jake. “Your hair!” The jet-black strands are no more; his hair is now a silvery-tinged blonde.
His smirks as he runs his fingers through his hair. “Team bonding thing we do every year. Jay did it for me this time, though, so it looks better than it normally does.” He crouches down to MJ’s seated level. “Hey, buddy, be kind and stay put for your sister, alright? She’s got a big job today.”
MJ stands up and nods solemnly, then salutes Jake with two fingers that turn into finger guns. The whole display is so ridiculously adorable that everyone around you in the bleachers laughs.
Jake repeats the gesture back at MJ through his own giggles before straightening up and turning to you. “Feeling nervous?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
“Nah, the playing is easy. Well, it’s not easy, but it’s second nature. I actually find it harder watching from the sidelines, not having any control over the action.” He peers closer at you. “Are you nervous, assistant manager?”
“A little,” you admit. “I still feel like I don’t know much about soccer.”
“MJ could explain everything to you, right?” Jake high-fives your brother. “Sadly, he can’t be with you on the sidelines, but do you see that cat-looking guy over there?”
You squint in the direction Jake points in— a group of his teammates milling around on the sidelines. The cat-looking guy sports amateur-ish frosted tips which make you suppress a chuckle, but he’s easy enough to spot. “Yep, I see him. And the consequences of not having Jay around to dye your hair.”
Jake lets loose a burst of tiny giggles. “He tried his best, okay? And his name is Jungwon. Freshman with a lot of potential, but he sprained his ankle yesterday, so he’s sitting a few games out. He can tell you anything you want to know during the game.” Jake holds his pinky out to you. “You’ll be just fine. I’ll see you after the game, yeah?”
You’re speechless as you nod and wrap your pinky around his. It’s not clear to whose benefit this promise is, but your heart is tap-dancing in your chest at the realization that he came up to the bleachers just to reassure you about the game and ask to see you later.
He releases your pinky and is halfway down the bleachers before you muster up your words to yell at his back, “Good luck!”
When he turns around, he’s beaming. “Don’t need it! You’re here, aren’t you?” Then he’s off to be with his team, and there are people whispering all around you, but all you can do is smile stupidly after him.
“You guys are acting weird,” MJ declares.
“So weird,” Sunghoon agrees.
His sudden appearance makes you yelp. “Sunghoon? When did you get here?”
He wiggles his eyebrows at you. “Just in time to see that whole display.” He points his thumb behind him. “Yizhuo’s just getting snacks from the car. I know you wanted her to watch MJ during the game— do you mind if I tag along? I wanted to see Jake exercise authority as captain, anyways. It’s gonna be hilarious.”
“Knock yourself out. Hey, MJ, this is Sunghoon, one of Jake and Yizhuo’s friends. He’s on the tennis team, so don’t give him too much of a hard time for doing that instead of soccer, okay?” You ruffle MJ’s hair. “I’m gonna go, but I’ll see you after the game. Be kind!”
“I know!”
Down at the sidelines, you meet Jungwon and the rest of the players not in the field today. You’re tentative at first about asking Jungwon questions, but you find that he’s an enthusiastic— and entertaining— commentator. It isn’t long before the other players are clamoring to give you the low-down on what’s happening out on the field, as well as all the latest team gossip.
“... and that’s why Jisung’s girlfriend is ignoring him,” Sohee explains as the first half of the game comes to an end.
“Should you be telling me this?” You laugh, but the question is somewhat genuine.
Beomgyu pats your shoulder. “There are no secrets on the team, and you’re part of the team now!”
“There are no secrets on the team because everyone is a nosy little shit,” Jake says loudly from behind you.
As one, you and the other players turn to face him.
“Heeeeeeey, cap’n!” Jungwon salutes him with a cheeky grin.
Jake eyes him with suspicion. “You’re not scaring off our new assistant manager, are you? We just got her.”
Mischief glints in Jungwon’s eyes. “Absolutely not. We were just telling her about Jisung’s girlfriend. We can move on to talking about the girl you stare at in the library, instead, if that’s better—”
Jake shuts him up with a (light) slap over the head. “No need, thanks!” The blush blooming over his cheeks is not lost on the team, who giggle like schoolchildren.
“The staring really is famous,” you muse out loud.
“I just came over here to make some substitutions,” Jake huffs. Then, like he can’t help it, he shoots you a small smile. “You doing alright?”
You salute him like Jungwon did. “No complaints, captain.” To your delight, he appears flustered by the title coming out of your mouth.
“O-Okay, so Beomgyu, you’re gonna sub in. Wonbin, too, and…”
The second half of the game goes by in a flash; before you know it, Jake has assisted Beomgyu in scoring the final goal, and your team wins 2-1. The crowd is jubilant, and you’re more animated about the win than you had expected. You join in on all the cheering and applauding with enthusiasm to rival that of MJ, whose screeches of delight you can hear all the way down the bleachers.
You can’t even try to look for Jake at first— every player seems to have welcomed you into their hearts now, so you’re bombarded with a chorus of congratulatory hollers and See you tomorrow! and Thanks for the advice! as they gradually leave the field.
You’re reassuring Anton that it’s not embarrassing to go to the writing tutors at the library for help when Sunghoon and Yizhuo approach with MJ skipping in between them. Anton thanks you profusely before running off to the locker room, and then MJ is talking your ear off about how cool the game was. In between his exclamations, you thank Sunghoon and Yizhuo for staying with him.
“MJ’s pretty cool. Text me anytime you need someone to hang with him during a game,” Sunghoon offers. “Or Heeseung or Jay. We come to these pretty often, since we’re all on our off seasons right now, so there’s usually one of us here.”
You smile genuinely at him. “That’s really nice of you, Sunghoon. Thank you.”
Yizhuo tsks. “Men do the bare minimum.” She ignores Sunghoon’s half-hearted protests and kisses your cheek in farewell. “We have to go— double date. I’ll see you at home!”
You wave goodbye with equal parts amusement and bemusement, and then you turn to the field. At this point, MJ has run off to play with the few stragglers still kicking a ball around, so you watch them for a few minutes with a content smile on your face.
“Hey.” Jake sidles up to you without a sound and then chuckles when you jump in surprise.
You swat at his shoulder halfheartedly. “You just missed Sunghoon. He and Yizhuo are going on a… double date.”
“With each other? Or, like, they’re each going with someone else?”
“Y’know, it wasn’t clear.”
“Man, I’ll have to interrogate him when he gets back. But besides that… how’d you like the game, lucky?” Jake looks expectantly at you.
“I think I understood, like, 60 percent of the game, which is pretty good if you consider that I was probably at 10 percent before today.” You give him the same look. “What does ‘lucky’ refer to? Is that some kind of soccer slang?”
He looks away and runs a hand through his hair, suddenly bashful and bambi-eyed. “No, it’s just me being dumb, I guess. This is the first game we won this season, and it’s the first one you were at, so you’re like… a lucky charm.”
There are many things you could say. Correlation doesn’t equal causation, for one; every fledgling scientist knows this. And there has only been one other game this season, so your data set is quite sparse to begin with. Instead, all that comes out of your mouth is a slightly skeptical but mostly teasing: “I thought you said you didn’t need luck. And what if I was here and you lost instead?”
“Then I would’ve been lucky just to see you on the sidelines,” Jake murmurs.
You are not usually moved by sentiment. But this one is so sweet and sincere tripping off his tongue, delivered with those warm brown eyes; once again, you’re rendered speechless by Jake Sim.
Beomgyu coughs loudly, thoroughly dispersing the pink clouds you half expect to see floating around you and Jake. “Sorry to interrupt,” Beomgyu snickers. “But I think your brother is ready to go home.” He points to where MJ is slumped over on a bench, eyes droopy and hair sticking to his forehead.
The sight makes you smile fondly. “He’s had a big day. We’ll get going, then. Bye, guys!” You wave to the rest of the players on the field and get a few hollers in return as you and Jake walk over to MJ, who seems to have nodded off completely by now.
He looks so young like this— and so peaceful that you don’t want to wake him. You’re debating how to get MJ home with the least amount of disturbance possible when Jake solves the problem for you by crouching down and putting MJ on his back.
“Did you drive here?” Jake asks you in a whisper.
“Yeah,” you whisper back.
Jake hoists MJ further up on his back and secures his arms under the little boy’s legs. “C’mon, I’ll take him to your car.”
He starts walking in the direction of the parking lot, but you’re stuck in place, struck by the sight of Jake moving so slowly, careful not to disturb MJ’s sleep. Here is this guy you lambasted endlessly in your mind and multiple times to his face, all because of an assumption you made, and he’s holding your brother like a treasure. The sight makes your heart ache with inexplicable tenderness.
Dusk bleeds into night as the stars peek out across a velvet sky, and the poets would say that the stars bear witness to this— the moment when that stumbling, hesitant desire in you begins to bloom into full-bodied love.
But you will not realize this until much later, because the heavens are fickle, and there is no easy way from the earth to the stars.
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devils roll the dice, angels roll their eyes (pjs)
Jay needs someone to pretend to be his girlfriend, and you’re just the person for the job— seriously, you’re almost a professional at this point, regularly charming the families of your idiot twin’s friends who need your help getting their parents off their back. Of course, leave it up to Jay to blur the lines of your fake relationship so smoothly that you catch real feelings; falling in love has never been this easy.
PAIRING: park jongseong x female reader
GENRE: acquaintances to partners in crime to fake dating to lovers i guess? lol, college au, vaguely greek life au, vaguely rich kid au, fluff fluff fluff, jake is the mc’s twin bc i thought it would be funny
WARNINGS: swearing, kissing and suggestive content/sexual themes
WORD COUNT: 14.4k
A/N: ik the ages don't line up here shhhh just ignore that okay
NOW AVAILABLE: hang your head low in the glow (companion fic/follow-up)
“WHY DO YOU LOOK SO NICE?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?” You scoff, tossing the apple you were just about to eat at Jake’s head. Annoyingly, he catches it in mid-air, then makes a show out of polishing it with his shirt and taking a big bite out of it. “Hey, I was going to eat that, asshole.”
“Shouldn’t have thrown it at me, then.”
You roll your eyes at your twin, then go to retrieve another apple from the fruit bowl. It’s surprisingly well-stocked, given that you’re in a frat’s kitchen. Honestly, it’s surprising that there even is a fruit bowl in a frat’s kitchen, but the president of this frat runs a tight ship.
Said president appears in the doorway just then, snatching the apple from your hands as well as the one from Jake’s hands. “Guys, seriously, you have to wash these before you eat them.”
You and Jake both whine simultaneously. “Chan!”
“I already took a bite out of that, bro,” Jake complains.
“I’m starving; please have mercy,” you beg.
Chan whips his head around from where he’d begun washing the apples in the sink to fuss at you. “What? Why haven’t you eaten yet? It’s almost 9pm!”
“Which reminds me— why do you look so nice?” Jake repeats.
“I had a thing with Mark,” you sigh.
“You can just say you were pretending to be his girlfriend; we all know what you mean,” Jake snorts.
“I had a thing with Mark,” you repeat, resisting the urge to throw another apple at Jake’s head. “It was at this ballroom downtown, and of course he had nothing to wear, so I had to take him shopping first, which made us late, and then his parents wouldn’t stop talking my ear off about how I need to convince him to give up the music major, so I couldn’t touch any of the food there. Not even the foie gras torchon,” you recall mournfully. “We just got back, like, five minutes ago.”
Chan hums sympathetically— he knows how much you love foie gras torchon. “You can probably ask for an endless supply in return for your appearance at today’s thing,” he suggests, only half-joking. It absolutely sounds like the kind of thing Mark Lee would agree to, what with his ridiculously large inheritance and hapless generosity (last month, Mark lost thousands of dollars in some animal shelter-related pyramid scheme, marketed to him by none other than Lee Haechan).
You wave a hand dismissively. “Nah, I’m keeping Mark’s favor for something else.”
Jake raises an eyebrow. “What else?”
“Whatever it turns out I need in the future, dumbass. What’s it to you, anyways?”
“Just wanna make sure the poor guy doesn’t end up trapped in your snares forever, little sis. Yo, can I have that apple back?” Jake turns to Chan with characteristic puppy eyes.
“You’re only older than me by eight minutes,” you grumble, the age-old retort slipping out of you before you can help it.
“No, Jaeyun, you cannot. And don’t talk to your sister like that— oh my god, why do I sound like Taeyong,” Chan mutters, thinking about his predecessor frat-president-slash-mother-hen.
“Jeez, government name and everything.” Jake holds his hands up, relinquishing his claim to the apple.
“In fact, your sister gets to have both of these apples, after I clean and cut them up, because she is a saint for continuing to save our asses from our parents like this,” Chan lectures, unceremoniously carving out the chunk of the apple with Jake’s bite marks and tossing it into the trash bin.
“Real ones get it!” You reach out and high-five Chan.
“That is so unfair, c’mon, man!” Jake splutters. “She gets just as much out of these fake relationships— seriously, didn’t you drive her around everywhere for, like, a month after she went to that wedding with you?”
Both you and Chan shudder at the memory. “Ugh, my worst cousin and the worst guy he was ever with. They’re still married, by the way.” Chan shakes his head. “God knows why.”
“Love conquers all…?” Jake offers.
“What the hell are you talking about love for,” a new voice grumbles. Park Jongseong strolls in through the doorway, hands full with plastic bags promising wonderful things based on how your stomach reacts to the smell.
“Oh, hell yeah, chicken!” Jake cheers. “Took you long enough, bro.”
“Traffic was hell; something about a ball downtown, and— oh. Hey.” Jay stops abruptly at the sight of you, now munching on the apple slices Chan hands you, one by one.
You wave vaguely in his direction, too busy eating to respond. Jay is one of your brother’s friends who you don’t know that well, since you’ve never pretended to be his girlfriend. It’s strange that you two don’t know each other better, actually— as the social chairs of your sorority and his fraternity, respectively, you would usually have a lot to work on together. But this year has been particularly busy for you, what with your senior thesis and your various things with Jake’s frat brothers, and you had delegated most of your social chair responsibilities to your co-chair, Yunjin, who was far better suited to the social part of the job, anyways. You suspected Jay had done the same thing, since the two of you only ever texted to confirm budgets for any joint events.
“You need to have more than one-and-three-quarters of an apple for dinner,” Chan scolds you, parental instincts back in full force.
You shrug, about to turn around and rifle through the cabinets to see if you can find some peanut butter to add to your apple slices when a takeout container appears in front of you. Tired and still starving, you react rather slowly, your eyes tracing up the hand on the container to the veins of an arm belonging to none other than Jay.
“You look hungry,” is all he says, before popping the container open for you and rearranging the rest of the plastic bags on the counter. “Jake, tell the others to come down for food.”
The others means that soon, there will be an influx of hungry frat brothers in the kitchen, and you have no desire to be anywhere near that, so you mumble a quick thank you to Jay, plop the rest of the apple slices into the takeout container (against Chan’s complaints about the contamination), and move to leave the kitchen, eager to be on your way to your sorority house.
The last thing you overhear before you leave is Jay asking, “Why did your sister look so nice?”, and Jake and Chan responding in unison, “She had a thing.”
A few days later, when they’re doing work in the library, Jay asks Jake, “So how long have Mark and your sister been seeing each other?”
Jake’s pencil jerks across his graph paper, a jagged line appearing on the page at the same time that he swears. “Dude, what the fuck?”
“Dude, what the fuck,” Jay echoes flatly. “Didn’t you say she had a thing with Mark?”
Jake blinks. “Well, sure, in the same way that she’s had a thing with Chan, and Yeonjun, and Vernon, and all the others.”
Jay gapes at him. “Your sister dated all of them? And all the others?”
“What, no, she didn’t date them, she fake-dated them! Just a couple of times, mainly showing up to things with their families so their parents would leave them alone about finding a partner and all that. You know how the parents are.” Jake gestures vaguely, referring to the oddities of the world of wealth they were born into.
Jay nods slowly, understanding dawning upon him. Does he know how the parents are? Oh, does he ever. He has always had a good relationship with his own, but they had been more pushy on the whole love thing as of late, with the not-at-all subtle questions his mother asks about any special someones in his life and the unfunny jokes his dad cracks about how he’s still spry enough to help raise grandchildren. Especially unfunny, given the health scare his dad had given them all in the last year.
Jake’s voice brings him out of his veering-towards-morbid thoughts. “But seriously, bro, how is this news to you? My sister’s been doing this… Cinderella-genie thing for two years now.”
Jay’s eyebrows furrow. “Cinderella-genie thing?”
“Yeah, I mean, she transforms our frat brothers into respectable young men with a respectable relationship, but only for three occasions, and she gets the same number of favors back.” Jake wrinkles his nose. “It sounds weird when I say it like that, and don’t get me wrong, I love to give her shit for it, but it’s all above-board stuff. Sunghoon bought her bubble tea for like, three months. Oh, and no one’s allowed to catch feelings, so everything ends clean and neat.”
“She fake-dated Sunghoon?”
At the mention of his name, Sunghoon pops one side of his headphones off. “What’s up?”
“You fake-dated Jake’s sister!?”
Sunghoon shushes him before responding. “Yeah, don’t you remember? It was a couple of months ago.”
Jay’s ears flush, both at how loud he had unconsciously gotten, and at the reminder that he really has been out of it for a while now. It’s not like he’s been living under a rock, but he has definitely been spending a lot more time with his parents and away from his friends ever since his dad’s health scare.
“She was great, though,” Sunghoon continues. “My mom still thinks I made the biggest mistake of my life ‘letting her go.’ But she’s also been leaving me alone about ‘finding love’ because she thinks I’m heartbroken, so yeah, Jake’s sister works wonders.”
Jake smirks. “Sim genes, man. Elite stuff.”
Sunghoon scoffs. “You wish. Didn’t I hear your mom yelling at you on the phone the other day for not having settled down yet?”
“Ugh, don’t remind me. Does she not realize what decade this is, I mean, we’re still in college—”
Jay interrupts what looks to be the beginning of a long rant from Jake, cutting him off with, “So where can I sign up?”
Jake stares blankly at him. “Sign up for what?”
“The Cinderella-genie thing.”
Sunghoon scrunches his face awkwardly. “Uh, she kind of has a waitlist, buddy.”
Jay waits for him to laugh and say he’s just kidding, but he doesn’t. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, she doesn’t do the fake-dating thing for multiple people at the same time, and she’s pretty busy with all her shit, so I’m not sure how long of a queue you have ahead of you…”
“Okay, but Jake could get me ahead, right? Cut the line, or something? C’mon dude, I’m your best friend.” Jay is suddenly desperate, remembering the conversation he’d had with his mom on the phone last night, where she had dreamily recalled meeting his dad in college and delicately reminded Jay that he could have a plus-one to the Parks’ upcoming 50th wedding anniversary celebration.
Jake eyes his friend warily. “I dunno, she really doesn’t like stuff like that. Unfair advantages, I mean.”
“My parents aren’t getting any younger, Jake, and you know, with my dad last year and everything…” Jay does his best approximation of batting his eyelashes at Jake.
“Are you guilt-tripping me?”
“A little?” Jay’s smile turns a little maniacal. “For real, my parents have their 50th wedding anniversary coming up, and it would be the perfect event to bring her to so I can reassure them that things are going well in my love life.”
“Are things going anywhere in your love life?” Sunghoon’s tone is skeptical, and reasonably so.
Jay has been distant lately because of his family, but even before that, he had always been known as somewhat aloof and unattainable. Devastatingly handsome, yes, with killer grades and fierce ambition, and a business empire to inherit to boot, but he is also his parents’ one and only miracle child, born after years of trying and almost giving up. Jay’s parents are older than all of his friends’ parents, and their family business has always been that— a family business. Jay has two years after graduation to learn the ropes in the business, and then he’ll be due for an MBA, and then a return to helm the business, but this timeline has recently felt more urgent than ever with his parents’ flagging health. They would never say it, but he knows the only reason they haven’t retired yet is because they don’t want to hand over control of the business to anyone but him. Jay has worked his ass off in college, trying to get there as fast as he can, as well as he can. But his parents also want him to enjoy college and find true love, and while he’s been doing pretty well with the former, the latter has been on the backburner for, well, forever. Who has time for true love, in between classes, fraternity duties, the various shenanigans his friends get up to, internships, networking, TA-ing, volunteering, being on the executive board of two clubs, and eating, sleeping, dreaming, and thinking?
So. No. Things are not going anywhere in his love life, and he confirms just as much to Sunghoon with a grunt, to which Sunghoon wheezes out his amusement.
Jake eyes Jay with pity, now. “Alright, that guilt trip was successful, but more so because you just admitted to being bitchless for so long. I’ll put in a good word to my sister for you.”
Jay perks up instantly. There is light and beauty in this world after all! “Awesome, thank you bro, you won’t regret this, I promise!”
“I wasn’t planning on it, but those are famous last words, Park.” Jake raises an eyebrow at him. “Are you sure you can handle my sister?”
“Why not? She seems… nice.” Jay is slightly evasive in his answer, and truthfully, it’s because he isn’t really sure what you’re like. All your interactions to date have been cordial, almost business-like, and you and Jake are fraternal twins, so it’s not even like he’s really familiar with what you look like. He is, however, sure that you look beautiful in a ballgown, even if he only saw you in one in his frat’s kitchen.
Jake chortles outright. “No, my sister is not nice. Yeah, I’m definitely going to convince her to help you, just because I think it’ll be hysterical watching her turn you inside out. Good luck, my brother in Christ, because you’ll need it!”
you: hey jake told me abt ur predicament
jay: … good morning, how are you? i’m pretty good myself
you: ???
jay: just being polite. and it’s not a predicament i’m just… interested in your services
you: good for you? anyways i’m super busy right now and don’t really have time to be taking on anything else so i’m just letting you know that i can’t help you out. good luck though
jay: how about coffee?
you: what?
jay: do you want coffee?
you: like right now?
jay: yeah i’m on your porch
You almost throw your phone to the other side of the room. True, Jay’s fraternity house is across the street from your sorority house, but it still feels absurd to think that he’s right there, less than twenty feet below your room. Is he stalking you?
Accordingly, that’s the first thing you ask him when you throw the door open to him. “Are you stalking me?”
He scoffs. “As if. I asked Jake to ask Yunjin for your location.”
“That’s not not stalking.”
Jay shrugs, though he has the decency to look a little embarrassed as he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Whatever. I just walked across the street; that’s all. So, coffee?”
You stare at him for a few moments, weighing your options. Truthfully, you were about to leave to get coffee before your first class, anyways, but you’re not sure how long you want to entertain Jay. You decide to split the difference. “I’m on my way to Nat’s, so you can tag along. But I’m just grabbing a coffee to go, and then I have class.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
“Gimme a second; I’ll grab my stuff.” For some reason, your heart is beating a little faster than usual when you reach your room. You’d like to blame it on the stairs you just climbed, but something about Jay coming to find you at your front door feels old-fashioned and sweet, though your rational mind reminds you that he literally just walked a couple hundred feet. He even said so, himself.
But when you come back down to see him leaning against the doorway with his hands still in his pockets, looking out into the street, you suddenly remember that Jay is, like, really good-looking. Despite yourself, you find yourself admiring the cut of his jaw and how nice his hair is styled. It’s not like you don’t know plenty of attractive guys— hell, the guys you usually fake-date are all objectively hot. It’s just inconvenient that you now recall how Jay has always seemed to be the most mature out of Jake’s friends, even from what little you know of him. Unhelpfully, your brain also conjures up the image of him sliding a takeout container to you last week, and the way your eyes had lingered on the veins of his arm.
God. It’s been too long since you’ve gotten laid.
Jay’s voice breaks you out of your bizarre trance. “Ready, Cinderella?”
“Excuse me?”
“Jake told me about your whole Cinderella-genie thing. It would be weird to call you ‘genie’, so…” Jay trails off, scratching the back of his head and looking actually embarrassed now.
You can’t help but laugh. “Right, because Cinderella is totally less weird. Alright, big guy, let’s go.”
The walk to Nat’s, your favorite local coffee shop, takes about 15 minutes— 10, if you’re walking fast, which you usually are. Jay’s legs are uselessly long, but he seems determined to walk as slowly as possible, while also staying silent the whole time. Finally, you reach the end of your patience and step out right in front of him, intending to ask him what the hell he’s doing. Unfortunately, you find that you misjudged the distance, and he almost collides right into you.
“Whoa,” he mutters, reaching out to grab your arms to steady the both of you.
“Sorry,” you huff, embarrassed at yourself. A lot of that going around today. “I just… what’s your deal? I already told you I can’t help you, and then you show up at my door and ask me to get coffee, but you don’t say a single word. What do you want from me?”
Instead of answering your question, he asks, “Why do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“The Cinderella-genie thing.”
You roll your eyes. “Jake has got to stop calling it that. It’s a long story, honestly.” Sighing, you reach into your backpack to pull out your planner. “Alright, we’re already past the amount of time I scheduled to get my coffee and get ahead on some readings before class, so I guess we can sit down inside.”
Jay raises an eyebrow. “You have time for me now? Also, that’s the most insane planner I’ve ever seen.”
You gesture around you. You had stopped Jay almost at the door of Nat’s, and you’re clogging up the sidewalk. “We should at least get out of the way of these people. And yeah, I’m sure it is.” You are a live-and-die-by-your-planner kind of person. Everything is in there— social events, studying time, your various things with Jay’s frat brothers, even things like eating and showering and sleeping. It seems psychotic, sure, but you’re a busy person, and there’s no way you’d be able to handle everything without the strict schedule you set for yourself.
When you walk up to the counter inside Nat’s, your favorite barista— a cute high school kid named Riki— is manning the register. You smile warmly at him. “Hey, Riki. The usual, please.”
You expect Riki to tease you about your usual, which contains an admittedly concerning amount of caffeine, but instead he calls out, “Jay! What’s up, my man!”
From behind you, Jay reaches out and fist-bumps Riki. “Hey, long time no see, buddy. How’s history going?”
Riki groans theatrically. “Horribly, ever since you stopped tutoring me.”
Jay frowns. “Wait, really? What are you having trouble with? I know I’m kind of swamped right now but we can always find some time and—”
Riki bursts out laughing. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Jeez, you should’ve seen your face. Relax, I got a 94 on my last paper!”
“Oh, very funny, you menace!” Jay punches Riki’s shoulder, but his expression eases up. You wonder at the fondness that twinkles in his eyes.
Riki laughs some more, then he turns to you. “Noona, one cup of liquid death coming up! Hyung, what about you?”
“London fog, please. And seriously, text me if you’re having trouble, okay?”
Riki waves the both of you off, telling you that he’ll bring your drinks over to you.
You make a beeline for your favorite spot, right by the large window that overlooks the sidewalk. Jay surprises you for the umpteenth time that morning by easily striding ahead and pulling your chair out for you, then coughing and turning red when you give him a weird look.
“Sorry, I, uh, yeah. Instinct,” he explains, which is really no explanation at all.
“Are you courting me or something?” You try to keep your tone light and joking, but confusion inevitably slips in. Nothing Jay has done today has made sense.
He seems to have regained his composure when he sits down, because he hits you with, “I guess you could say that. It’s just something I think I’d do for my girlfriend.”
You stare at him blankly. “Thanks for telling me…?”
“I mean, if you’re going to fake-date me, you can probably expect me to do stuff like that, right?”
You groan. “I’m not going to fake-date you, Jay, how many times do I have to say it? I—”
“— don’t have time, I know. But what if I could make it worth your while?”
“Jay, you know I’m Jake’s sister, right? We have money. Besides, I’m helping Mark right now, and I don’t do this for multiple people at the same time.”
“Oh yeah, Jake told me about that rule. What if I could take care of that for you?”
You raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll help Mark find a real girlfriend, and then you can help me, instead.”
“If it were that easy, don’t you think Mark would have done it himself?”
Jay waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, please, Mark’s been crushing on the girl in his music class for ages. He gets too into his head about asking her out, so he chickens out every time. They’re partners on a project right now, though, so I’ll just give him a push in the right direction.”
You have to admit that you’re intrigued by his proposition. Everything Jay just said lines up with what you know about Mark, especially the chickening out part. You’d like to see Jay try, and you figure it can’t hurt either way, so you nod. “Okay, fine. If you can help Mark, I’ll help you. But seriously, what’s your deal? Why do you want my help so badly?”
Jay blinks, then he leans back into his chair. “Oh. Honestly, I haven’t 100% decided that I do, yet.”
“But you’re willing to agree to help Mark Lee with a girl in order to secure my help?” You shake your head. “You’re really strange, Park.”
“I get overly invested in challenges really easily,” Jay confesses, showing you an unexpectedly bashful smile. “So I got a little caught up just now in the idea that I could change your mind about helping me. But now that you’ve brought it up, I’ll still help Mark, no matter what. I’m sick of him writing lovesick songs about that girl, anyways.”
“Large iced Americano, no water, four shots of espresso. And a London Fog,” Riki announces. He sets the drinks down on your table right as the bell above the shop’s door chimes and lets in the pre-9am work crowd. He groans and bids you both a hasty goodbye.
Jay eyes your coffee with disgust. “Liquid death, huh? That’s disturbing.”
“Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” You tilt the cup in his direction, laughing when he shudders.
“Absolutely not. I can’t believe you order that enough that Riki knows it’s your usual.”
“I usually see him in the afternoons when I order this, actually, so I’m sure he’s going to give me an earful about getting one in the mornings, too. Speaking of— doesn’t he have school?” You whip around in your seat to stare at Riki.
“He has two free periods on Mondays this year, so I guess he picked up an extra shift. He’s a hard working kid,” Jay says.
You turn back around to see him with that same fondness in his eyes. “How do you know him, by the way?”
“Ah, he’s my little’s friend from high school. My little is Jungwon— cat-looking dude?”
You let out a squeal. “Oh my gosh, he’s the cutest!”
Jay crosses his arms and grins, looking amused. “Yeah, he is pretty cute. Anyways, Jungwon mentioned his friend was having trouble with his history class last year, so I started tutoring him a bit, just casually, since I’m studying history.”
“Not economics?” You’ve heard about Jay’s family’s notoriously tightly-controlled company. Everything is within the family, so you’re surprised that he isn’t getting ready to take over.
“Both. I can have two majors, you know. What’s yours?”
“Linguistic anthropology. And studio art. I can have two majors, you know.”
Jay rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay, I know that was pretentious. What’s linguistic anthropology?”
You clear your throat, not expecting to talk about your hopes and dreams so early in the morning, and with someone who’s only a few steps away from being a stranger. “Languages, and the social and cultural foundations of them. Basically. I want to do linguistic archaeology in grad school, and this is the closest thing you can get in undergrad.”
Jay leans forward and nods enthusiastically. “That sounds really cool. What kind of art are you doing?”
“Oil paints, mostly, and some charcoal drawing…”
Like that, an hour flies by. You don’t even notice the blocks in your calendar getting overwritten by what is essentially a coffee date with Jay until you get the reminder that you have class in thirty minutes.
“Shit, I gotta go soon.” You say it with some regret; surprisingly, you’re really enjoying yourself with Jay. He’s smart, and funny, and a little awkward in a way that makes you think he’s the most sincere person you’ve ever met. And he has interesting thoughts and opinions on history, some of which you even make a mental note to follow up on later for your thesis.
“Before you go, will you tell me why you do the fake-dating thing?” Jay puts his head in both his hands and smiles at you, and…
“Are you batting your eyelashes at me?”
Jay squints at you. “Maybe. Is it working?”
“Not really,” you lie, like a liar.
“Didn’t work on Jake, either. Man, I gotta work on it.” Jay gives up the act and relaxes back into his chair. “Will you tell me, though?”
“Sure, it’s not like it’s a big secret or anything. It’s not even that long of a story, now that I think about it. Not something worth trying to seduce me over, but I like your hustle,” you joke.
“So it was working!”
“I wouldn’t go that far. Okay, so it started with Chan. He just didn’t want to go to his horrible cousin’s horrible wedding, but his sister had been arguing with the cousin about Chan and was, like, defending his honor or something? And one thing spiraled into another and all of a sudden Chan needed to show up to the wedding with an impressive partner to prove to his cousin that he could pull.” You make a face. “Boys. I’d actually met this particular cousin before, through some convoluted situation at one of those holiday parties that our families throw, and I knew he was insufferable, so I was willing to help out. Other guys in the frat heard about it, and you know, it’s surprising but not shocking that your frat has a lot of guys with some sort of weird baggage that prevents them from actually seriously dating someone. It’s weirder that a significant number of them also find themselves in situations where they need to pretend to have a girlfriend, but as it turns out, I’m really good at it— being a fake girlfriend, I guess. I haven’t had much time to date myself, so it’s kind of nice hearing how much everyone’s families liked me as their potential daughter-in-law. Plus, I always get favors in return, so it’s not the worst thing in the world. It’s like the fun part of dating, without the actual time commitment.”
Jay looks skeptical. “Going to family events and schmoozing with distant relatives is the fun part of dating?”
You scoff. “Whatever. You’re the one who asked why I did it, and I told you. It doesn’t have to make sense to you.”
“Sorry, sorry. I’m not judging, I swear. I just think that there’s probably better parts to dating, but who am I to talk,” he mutters.
“Ah, yes, Jake mentioned that, too. Bitchless all these years?”
Jay deadpans at you. “I know you aren’t making fun of me for that when you basically just told me that you fake-dated all these guys because you have a raging praise kink specifically for people’s families.”
“Oh, fuck off.” But you’re laughing, almost— giggling? Ugh. Maybe you do need to back off on the caffeine. “Alright, I have to go now, for real. Text me when Mark is good, and then we can talk about our two fake dates.”
“Isn’t three the max?”
“I was serious about not having time, Jay. I have a thesis for linguistics, and a portfolio to put together for art. Mark was going to be my last… thing this year. I went to one event with him, so if you can get things squared away with him, you can have his other two.”
“Okay, fine. Pleasure doing business with you.” Jay salutes you with two fingers.
“You haven’t even succeeded with Mark yet, and you haven’t heard what favors I want in return, either. Don’t get ahead of yourself, hotshot.”
And then you’re gone, leaving Jay to ruminate on the last hour and a half you spent together.
Jake’s right— you’re not nice, not in the traditional sense of the word. You’re kind of prickly, and you seem to run your life like a drill sergeant, but Jay thinks you must be really kind. Aside from Chan, the others you’ve helped (Mark, Yeonjun, Vernon, Sunghoon, good lord) are all variants of pretty boys who can’t talk to women to save their lives but live and die by the words of their parents, who all hope to see them get married sooner rather than later (Jay elects to ignore how he fits into that mold pretty well, too). No wonder you felt bad for them in their plights and wanted to help them; and Jay really believes that you did it to help them, not because of whatever favors you got in return. Like you said, you have money, so it’s not like you couldn’t buy your own bubble tea or pay for a driver. No, he’s seen your calendar, and it’s crammed with volunteering events in between everything else, and he’s seen the way you fuss over Riki, someone you only see a couple times a week while ordering a coffee. He’s pretty sure you’re just a classic do-gooder, and he doesn’t even need your help that badly, but he does love a challenge. Get Mark Lee together with the girl of his dreams is the first one. The second one is to figure out why he cares about proving himself to you so much— it’s not like he’s swimming in free time either, but somehow you’ve gotten under his skin, and he wants to see where this goes.
(Plus, he thinks you’re really pretty.)
When you enter your studio art workshop class, you find Yunjin immediately and pout at her. “Thanks for revealing my location to Jay, traitor,” you whine.
Yunjin grins. “It’s not like the sorority house is a state secret, babe. And I have zero regrets— he’s hot!”
“So?”
“So, I’m sick of you fake-dating these guys because you love to be the most helpful person in the room, and I want to see you actually date someone!”
You snort. “Joke’s on you, then, because he also wants to fake-date me.”
“Eugh, really? What the hell, I thought he was a good one,” Yunjin groans.
“He is a good one,” you respond instantly. You’re not sure why you’re so defensive about him, but from everything you’ve witnessed today, you know that Park Jongseong is the definition of a good guy.
“Well, maybe this will finally be the one that goes from fake-dating to real dating!” Yunjing wiggles her eyebrows at you. “You already think he’s nice, and you didn’t say he isn’t hot, either.”
“I have a pulse, Yunjin, I can tell that he’s hot.”
Yunjin whistles between her teeth. “Wait ‘til I tell Jake to tell Jay that.”
“Do not— and since when are you and my brother so close, anyways?”
She flashes you a conspiratorial wink. “New boytoy.”
“Ew, seriously? Jake?”
“Hey, it’s not that deep. He gets around, too, doesn’t he? Friends with benefits, no strings attached, etcetera.”
“Famous last words, honey.” You start pulling out your art supplies, chewing on your lip as you consider whether to ask her what you’re dying to know. “... So, what do you know about Jay? And do not tell Jake about any of this, Yunjin, I swear.”
“We’re really not close like that, babe, and I’d never betray your trust for dick.” Yunjin puts her hand over her heart solemnly.
“I want you to know that I’m throwing up in my mouth.”
“Noted.” Yunjin sticks the pencil she was using in her hair, then leans back and hums thoughtfully. “Now, Jay… I know what everyone knows about him, I guess. Good guy, nice family, kind of detached, if I had to say so? Not in a bad way, though. I just mean that he seems to hang out with his friends and that’s pretty much it. He’s involved in a bunch of stuff on campus like you are, but I know he had to pull back recently because one of his parents had a health thing— oh no, I can tell you’re already Cinderella-ing.”
You huff. “Jake is so annoying for that. What do you mean, Cinderella-ing?”
“You feel bad for him and now you want to help him!”
“I already agreed to help him, if he helps Mark Lee get a girlfriend, first.”
“Wow, he must really need your help if he’s willing to do that.”
“Funny, he said he isn’t sure if he needs my help, yet.” You shrug. “He’s confusing.”
“Oooh, but you’re interested, aren’t you?” Yunjin peers closer at you. “Oh my god, you whore! You want him!”
“Yunjin!” You shush her, cognizant of the other students around you. “I’m just curious, okay? I wanna know what I’m getting myself into.”
“Sure, sure. I believe you!” Yunjin insists, looking entirely unbelievable. “That’s not surprising about Jay, though. His family is, like, super family-oriented. Introducing them to a fake girlfriend seems like it wouldn’t go well, so it makes sense that he’s hesitant about it. You should ask him for more details when you guys fuck—”
You cut her off with a hand slapped over her mouth. “I’m going to murder you in your sleep.”
Yunjin laughs underneath your hand and flicks you off. “But seriously, the rumor is that he’s never dated anyone in college because his parents had the perfect college romance and want the same thing for him, and he’s always been too busy being the prodigal son and heir apparent for true love to just, like, fall into his lap. Despite the valiant efforts of many girls on campus,” she finishes dryly.
“That’s… a really detailed rumor.”
“Chaewon’s little is obsessed with him, so I’ve heard it a million times.”
You both cringe. Chaewon is far too nice to say it, but her little is stuck in a phase of boy mania so all-consuming it borders on clinical.
“Enough about boys; how’s it going with the portfolio?” Yunjin nudges her chin towards your empty canvas.
You sigh. “Pretty good, except for the human portrait part. It’s really not my thing, but Professor Song was so adamant that I try to include at least two of them by the end of the year. I did one of Jake already, but he doesn’t know, so it’ll be hilarious to see him cry at the senior showcase.”
“Oh, he’s totally going to lose it,” Yunjin agrees. You stay silent on the curious display of knowledge she just exhibited on your brother’s behalf. “Who are you thinking for the other one?”
“Beats me. I’d use my parents, but that feels a little bit too on the nose, especially after the one of Jake. It’d be weird to ask our friends, right?”
“Not really, but your portfolio theme is family, isn’t it? Very sweet of you to think of us as family, but then you’re talking about an entire group of people.”
Instantly, you shudder. “That’s way more than two humans. Love you guys, but no thanks. I’ll figure something else out.”
Yujin smirks at you. “If you and Jay date and fall in love and get married, you’ll be family, and then you could do one of him.”
“That is so not the solution!”
You don’t hear from Jay until a week later, at which point you figure he has given up, so you’re shocked to find him at your door again.
“Morning, Cinderella,” is all he says to you before handing you a cup.
“Good morning,” you return, too dumbfounded to say anything else. “What’s this?”
“Coffee. Large iced Americano, no water, four shots of espresso,” he recites. “I got Riki to text it to me,” he admits quickly.
“I appreciate it, but what’s this for?” You narrow your eyes at him. “You can’t possibly think that one of the favors I’ll ask from you is coffee, right? I’m not that easy, Park.”
Jay looks offended. “Hey, you let Sunghoon buy you bubble tea!”
“Yeah, but he was really pathetic about the whole fake-dating thing.”
“... Fine, I’ll give that to you. That does sound like him. But no, this is because I wanted to ask you something, and I figured I’d take up the time that you usually schedule for getting your coffee.”
“Ooookay. So, what’s up?” You start on the walk to the library, and he’s quick to fall into step beside you.
“I’ve been thinking about how to help Mark with his crush, and I have the perfect idea, but I need your help.”
“You need my help to help Mark so that you can get my help for yourself?” It sounds absurd coming out of your month, and before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “Wow, try saying that ten times fast.”
A surprised laugh erupts from Jay’s chest. “That was corny as hell,” he says, but he’s still laughing, high pitched and delighted. Laughter transforms his whole face, his eyes slipping into crescents and his nose scrunching with the force of his happiness, and you’re left dazed looking at him like that.
“Don’t tell anyone you witnessed that. I know where you live,” you threaten him half-heartedly. It really doesn’t carry much weight when you’re beaming in response to the mirth in his expression.
He stops laughing to grin at you, still bright and lovely. “Yeah, right. Who’s been coming to whose front door?”
“You don’t think I could walk across the street? I’m there all the time, Jay. So many people in that house owe me; it’d be a piece of cake to get your room number.” You say this with a stupid smile still on your face.
“Right, consider me properly frightened.” The wattage of his grin finally turns down a couple of notches, giving you room to breathe properly. “So, about Mark,” he starts.
“Yeah, this just sounds like more work for me,” you respond skeptically.
“Hear me out, okay? Mark has all these love songs written about this girl, and I found out that she always eats lunch at the same table at the same time in the dining hall on Tuesdays, so I figured he could play one of his songs over the dining hall speakers and then confess to her.” Jay makes little jazz hands at the end of his sentence, and it prompts a giggle out of you.
You have to fight your smile down when you speak. “A couple of things. One: that is so incredibly over the top for a confession, but sure, I like your spirit. Two: there’s no way Mark is slick enough to pull this off. Which leads me to three: what do you need from me?”
Jay nods. “Exactly, Mark could never do this on his own, which is why I’ve enlisted a bunch of guys from the frat, and you, of course.”
“Me, of course?”
“Sunoo and Jake are going to sweet-talk the lady at the dining hall who has the keys to the staff office with the dining hall audio hookup and microphone— she loves Sunoo, and Jake will flash her the ol’ puppy dog eyes to keep her sufficiently distracted. Heeseung will walk past and swipe her keys, and Jungwon is going to make sure that Mark’s crush is actually in the dining hall at the right time. Chan is going to apologize on everyone’s behalf if this goes wrong.”
You tut. “Poor Chan.”
“It’s his presidential duty, god bless.”
“And where do I fit into this?”
“You and I need to hold Mark’s hand, figuratively, and keep him hyped up enough to actually go through with it. He agreed to the plan, but I can totally see him chickening out again, which is why Sunghoon and Yeonjun are also going to stand guard outside the staff office so he can’t escape.”
“I feel like you could hold Mark’s hand on your own,” you argue, but you don’t really mean it. This sounds so chaotic and harebrained that you would normally want to stay a mile away from it, but Jay’s enthusiasm and seriousness about it is rubbing off on you. Plus, it would be nice to see one of your fake boyfriends actually succeed in their love life.
“He has two hands, and I can’t hold them all by myself because I have to operate the audio hookup,” Jay proclaims solemnly. “And I said figuratively! He trusts you, clearly, or at least he trusted you enough to be his fake girlfriend.”
“I come highly recommended,” you intone dryly.
“And he trusts me enough to go along with the plan, so I think we’re the best suited to be his moral support,” Jay continues, ignoring your smartass comment.
“This is a ridiculous plan, Jay.”
“So you’re in? Oh, wait. Are you free at 12:30 today?”
You stop to check your planner and confirm that you are. “What would you have done if I wasn’t?”
“Reconfigure the time-space continuum so you could be in two places at once. Mark’s future happiness depends on this,” Jay insists.
"I see what you mean about getting overly invested in challenges really easily… Alright, text me where I should meet you later, then?”
“You got it. Have a good day, Cinderella!” He yells this part as he jogs away from you.
“Stop calling me that!” But you can’t remember the last time you smiled this much this early in the morning.
Hours later, you smile instinctively upon seeing Jay’s name pop up in your notifications.
jay: coast is clear. meet me outside the dining hall staff office in 5 minutes. operation is a go
you: omw, 007
jay: stop ur making me blush
you: fr?
jay: no this is just banter
you: omfg mark just texted me to say that ur actually blushing
jay: im going to end him. after he gets a gf, ofc
“Hey,” you whisper in Jay’s ear, making him jump.
“Holy shit, how’d you get here so fast?”
You shrug, jostling his shoulder as you’re pressed up against him in the tiny recessed alcove across from the staff office. “I’m a fast walker. Places to be, people to see, you know? Speaking of…” You motion to the open office door. “Should we go inside?”
Jay clears his throat. Up this close, he can count the eyelashes that flutter against your skin. “Yeah, Mark’s already there. I’m surprised he found the composure to pop his head out and see me, or text you, honestly. He’s been a nervous wreck since this morning. Oh, finally, way to be on time, losers!” Jay beckons Sunghoon and Yeonjun closer from down the hall.
“We’re fine; Jungwon says Mark’s crush hasn’t even sat down at her table, yet. Hey, how are you? Long time no see.” Yeonjun flashes you a smile.
“Committing questionable acts in the name of love, you know, just living the dream,” you joke. “How’s your mom?”
“Great! She still asks about you. By the way, if I had known being a little more pathetic would get me this level of commitment,” Yeonjun gestures around him, “I would’ve asked for a real girlfriend, too.”
“I’m told I was pretty pathetic, and even I didn’t get this kind of treatment,” Sunghoon reminds you.
You pat his arm consolingly. “Maybe if you had Jay on your side, buddy.”
“Yeah, what the hell, best friend?” Sunghoon eyes him accusingly.
Jay pats his other arm. “Sorry, I have ulterior motives with Mark.”
“Oh, so now Mark gets a girlfriend and a secret male lover?”
Jay scoffs. “Not those kinds of ulterior motives, but please. As if Mark could bag me.”
“Ladies, ladies, there’s plenty of Jay to go around,” you say placatingly.
“Guys, I’m freaking out in here!” Mark wails from inside the office.
“Fuck, Jungwon said she’s sitting down now. Go!” Yeonjun pushes you and Jay towards the office.
In quick order, Jay gets the audio hooked up to Mark’s laptop, and he starts the song. While Mark hyperventilates between the two of you and you actually do share in the holding of his hands, Jay finds himself staring at you as you try to encourage Mark. You really are quite kind— he doesn’t think many people would have agreed to be dragged into this silly scheme, but here you are, throwing yourself into it wholeheartedly because there’s a chance it might secure Mark’s future happiness.
The sun reaches its highest point in the sky just then, streaming in through the windows behind you and drenching you in golden light. Jay’s not sure if he’s nervous about getting in trouble for this or if he’s just been looking at you for too long, but he can feel his heart stuttering in his chest. It’s positively outrageous how pretty you are.
“Bro, what the fuck do I say?” Mark hisses, interrupting Jay’s very important investigation of the color of your eyes. “The song is almost over, please, you gotta help me!”
“Just tell her how you feel,” Jay offers. It’s not his best attempt at advice, but he’s distracted by the way your hair brushes against your neck.
Mark splutters and fumbles and curses under his breath, but then the song is over, and Jay is turning on the microphone for him to speak. “Um, hey, so, yeah! Yeah. Uh, I’ve liked you for a long time… which you can probably tell, because of the song and everything.” Mark giggles nervously. “There’s, like, at least five more where that came from. Because I like you a lot, but I’m not great at talking in person, so I wrote all these songs, and oh god, this is super weird, isn’t it? I’m sorry if it’s weird, I just, well, I wanted to tell you. What I feel for you is so big I think I might explode; it makes me lose my mind and my breath and my ability to speak, and it leads me to do stupid stuff like this. And now you know. Okay, cool!” Mark reaches over and slams his hand to turn off the microphone.
You and Jay share an exasperated look over Mark’s head.
“Mark, you didn’t even say who the song is for,” you remind him.
He pales. “I didn’t?”
“Or who it’s from, but I think that part is pretty obvious,” Jay sighs. “Just text her right now, and tell her it was from you, and ask her out!”
“What? No, I can’t do that, I think I’m gonna be sick,” Mark moans.
You roll your eyes. “Mark, do it right now, or I’m telling your mom you cheated on me.”
“What? But I didn’t! And we weren’t even dating for real! And I just told her we broke up!”
“Right, I’ll say we broke up because you cheated on me.” You stare him down. “Seriously, I’ll call her tonight.”
“Nonono, I’ll text Mina, okay? See, I’m texting her right now.” Mark pulls out his phone and types frantically.
Jay throws his arm around Mark’s shoulder, using the leverage to hit the send button on his phone. “See, that wasn’t so hard!”
“I need to go walk into traffic,” Mark declares.
You smile breezily at him. “Sure, whatever. Love conquers all!” Behind his back, you and Jay high-five.
Jay says you should have dinner to celebrate Mark and Mina’s new romance (ignoring Mark’s pained “What romance? I’m dying.”), but you tell him that you’re volunteering at the community kitchen that night. Jay doesn’t miss a beat. “Sure, I’ll be there. We should talk about my thing, anyways.”
That’s how he finds himself in a hairnet and disposable gloves that night, making funny faces at the head of the community kitchen’s daughter, who’s running around underfoot. He’s been put in charge of chopping vegetables, while you’re stirring a huge pot of stew at one of the stoves.
“Watch your fingers,” you scold him half-heartedly. He’s devastatingly cute like this.
He has the audacity to wink at you. “I know my way around a kitchen, don’t worry.”
“Very cool, trophy husband.”
“What, no more 007?”
“Depends on the outcome of Mark’s text to Mina. Did you hear anything from him?”
Jay scoops up his vegetables into a large bowl and brings it over to you, nudging you aside with his hip so he can add the vegetables to your pot. “Not yet, but I don’t have him freaking out in my messages either, so I’ll take that as a win.”
You let him take over the stirring and turn around to lean against the countertop. “Cute hairnet,” you quip.
“Thanks. You think they’ll let me take it home?” he jokes.
You nudge your chin in the direction of the little girl giggling at Jay. “I think she wants to take you home.”
He winks at her, then lowers his voice so that only you can hear him say, “She’ll have to get in line.”
You swallow and wonder if the stove is turned on too high. “Right, so what’s your thing about?”
“Later, yeah?” Jay gestures around you, and you suddenly remember that you’re in the middle of a busy kitchen, with everyone hustling to get ready for the dinner service starting in half an hour.
You spring into action again, embarrassed at how easily you’d been absorbed into conversation with Jay. Something about the way he talks to you makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world— he’s always so attentive, nodding and responding to your every comment. You have to wonder why he hasn’t dated anyone seriously in college; he seems like he’d be the dream boyfriend. Hypothetically.
He only proves this point further when he reveals two containers of mac and cheese that he had picked up before getting there, which he microwaves for the two of you to eat after the dinner service is over. You turn on the lights in one corner of the cafeteria and sit at the only table that’s still left out: a children’s table where you have to balance precariously on seats that are too small for you. But it’s entirely worth it, knocking knees and elbows together, laughing too hard for what the situation warrants.
“I would’ve made you something myself, but I didn’t want to use up the kitchen’s ingredients,” Jay comments off-handedly.
Your heart glows in your chest. “That’s really thoughtful, Jay.”
He smiles and scratches the back of his head, suddenly shy. “Nah, it’s common sense, right? Come on, eat before it gets cold.”
Right then and there, Jay learns that he loves to watch you eat. You make exaggerated faces and ooh and ahh over something as simple as mac and cheese from the 24-hour diner down the street, and he finds himself itching to make something with his own two hands that will make you react like that.
When you’re done eating, you sit back and sigh in satisfaction. “That was exactly what I needed. Now, tell me about your thing— what kind of mess have I gotten myself into?”
Jay hems and haws for a good minute before finally telling you about his parents’ upcoming 50th wedding anniversary. “It’s a little complicated because they had this, like, fairytale relationship, and of course I’m happy that they’re still so in love all these years later, but it’s kind of… a lot to live up to. Not that I’m complaining, because they’re awesome, but I don’t have that kind of relationship with anyone yet, so I haven’t brought anyone home to them.”
“So the rumors are true,” you mutter under your breath.
Unfortunately, Jay seems to have heard you. “What rumors?”
Flushing, you explain what you’d heard from Yunjin, who had heard it from Chaewon’s little. You’re quick to add, “I wasn’t asking around about you or anything!”
Jay just smirks at you, something wicked and slow that only contributes to the heat in your cheeks. “I didn’t say anything.”
You hesitate before speaking up again. “So, if you don’t mind me asking… How come you haven’t dated anyone long-term in college? You’re, you know, perfectly okay to look at.”
Jay deadpans at you. “Wow, thanks, that really means a lot to me.”
You let out a huff of a laugh. “Shut up, it’s not a secret that you’re hot.”
Jay’s eyebrows shoot up, and you swear to god, he blushes to high heaven. “Th-Thanks.”
“Mm.”
It’s silent for a few long moments, then Jay clears his throat. “If I’m being honest, I haven’t dated anyone long-term in college because my parent’s relationship is a lot to live up to, and it’s not like I have a ton of time to find my perfect life partner in between everything else.”
“Ugh, tell me about it. Yunjin tells me I should try actually dating again, but it’s kind of a lot, right? Putting in the time and effort to get to know someone from scratch, when you’re not even sure how it’s going to pan out? And you’ve seen my calendar.” You laugh quietly. “And, honestly, I have this problem with dating where I get bored pretty easily.”
Jay leans forward, pushing into your personal space close enough to count your eyelashes, again. “Are you bored right now?”
“No,” you answer, although you’re not sure why he’s asking. “Um, so, why do you need a fake girlfriend, then? I don’t think it’ll pass muster with your parents, if they want you to be in love for real.”
Jay fidgets with his fingers on top of the table. “Yeah, it’s kind of stupid, to be honest. My dad was hospitalized for a month last year, and it really shook us all. My parents are on the older side, and I’m their only child, and, well, I’d like to make them happy while they’re still around. Sorry, that was morbid. And I know it’s not like we’d be doing this forever, and it’s wrong to fake it, but still. They’d be overjoyed to see me in a relationship. I want to give that to them, even if it’s only twice.” He tells it to you like it’s a secret, and your chest caves in with the force of his sincerity.
“I don’t think that’s stupid. It’s sweet, Jay, really.” You reach out and still his fingers. “Listen, you know I’m really good at being a fake girlfriend, right?”
“You come highly recommended,” he mimics you from earlier, mouth quirking up in the beginnings of a smile. It lifts the atmosphere slightly, and you’re glad for it.
“Right, so don’t worry. Leave it to me. Your parents won’t suspect a thing,” you promise. “When’s the anniversary celebration?”
“Six weeks.”
You pull out your planner to start scheduling. “Great, so you can send me information about yourself, and I’ll do the same for you, and then we can find time to meet up and quiz each other about it and get our answers on our relationship straight—”
Jay’s hand lands around your wrist, stopping you from writing further. “Not that I don’t appreciate your… efficiency, but I don’t think that’s going to work. Like you said, my parents want to see a true relationship, and I don’t think flashcards are going to cut it. How about we just… get to know each other?”
You blink. “What, like daily one-on-ones, or something? Office hours, but just for each other?”
He bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, you’re serious, aren’t you?” He lets go of your wrist to hide his face behind his hands as he continues to laugh, which makes you smile despite yourself. He’s so goddamn cute.
You decide to humor him. “What do you suggest, then?”
“As much as I would love to monopolize your time, I don’t actually want to take up any of the precious few free spots on your calendar. You need to set aside more time for yourself, by the way. But for now, how about you give me the thirty minutes you schedule for getting to Nat’s and then back to campus every day? We can get to know each other then.”
“You want to walk me to the coffee shop and back?”
“Among other things.”
“… Such as?”
“Just you wait, Cinderella. I’m going to sweep you off your feet so hard, you won’t know what hit you. I’ll be the best fake boyfriend you’ve ever had.”
In the dim light of the after-hours cafeteria, with his long legs stretched out on either side of yours and the soft crescents of his smiling eyes twinkling at you, you’re inclined to believe him.
Jay keeps his word. He shows up on the sorority house’s porch every morning, backpack slung over his shoulder and hands in his pockets at 7:45am. He doesn’t even have class until 11am (you know because you asked Yunjin to ask Jake), so his dedication impresses you. Sometimes, you’ll watch him approach the house from your window, bopping his head along to whatever he’s listening to in his earbuds.
When you open the door to greet him, he always smiles sleepily at you and reaches out to grab whatever’s in your hands (usually art supplies or heavy reference books for your thesis). It’s a small gesture, but it shoots through your cotton-candy-soft heart as true and straight as an arrow.
Most mornings, the two of you will chat about anything and everything, swinging from homework to Greek life drama to pet peeves to Mesopotamian history. Occasionally, you’re both tired from your busy schedules and just end up sharing his earbuds, listening to something slow and soothing. More and more often, you find yourself stuffing supplies and books into your backpack until it’s grossly misshapen, just so Jay can have his hands free to brush against yours on the walk to Nat’s.
It’s not just the coffee shop, either. Suddenly, he’s everywhere in your life, as if someone had penciled in his name as one long continuous block in your calendar. He comes to the library with you, and you work on your assignments in companionable silence. He’s now a regular volunteer at the community kitchen, and he’s helping them design a new menu for the colder days coming soon. He even shows up outside the studio art workshop, bringing you takeout when you’ve forgotten to eat. At parties, the two of you dominate beer pong, with him bouncing balls off of his bicep into the cups just to make you fake your fawning adoration at him. He doesn’t have to know that it comes easily to you, especially when he’s constantly looking at you the way you know you look at beautiful works of art.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were actually courting me,” you comment thoughtlessly one day. You’re perched on the kitchen counter at the frat, watching Jay make ramen for the two of you. It’s almost three in the morning, and neither of you should be awake, but there’s something special about the quiet privacy afforded by the strange hour.
Jay forces himself to keep stirring the pot like usual. If he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t know any better, either, but he doesn’t want to look too closely into that at the moment. Instead, he opts to flirt. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he murmurs.
“Yeah, that’s why I said it, smartass.” But you let him off the hook, now preoccupied with reaching over to re-tie his apron.
“Ooh, ramen!” Jungwon’s face lights up as he walks into the kitchen, led by his nose. He looks like he just woke up, rubbing at his eyes with the ends of his sweatshirt sleeves. You have to stop yourself from cooing at him.
“What are you doing up so late?” Jay scolds him gently.
“Oh, hey, Dad. Hey, Mom. I just woke up; I had a weird dream.” Jungwon nods at you both and takes a seat at the kitchen island.
You gape at him. “What?”
Jungwon blinks a couple of times, looking more alert by the second. “Oops. Did I say that out loud? Sorry, Niki’s been rubbing off on me.”
“Niki calls us Mom and Dad?” You’re not sure if that’s sweet or weird.
“As a joke! In a jocular manner. Jovially.” Jungwon throws up a peace sign, as if that helps.
“I’m glad to see the English degree is paying off,” Jay remarks dryly. He looks like he took the Mom-and-Dad thing much more in stride, except for the tips of his ears, which burn red. It’s a dead giveaway that makes you smile fondly, because it’s so him.
“Will you make some more ramen?” Jungwon bats his eyelashes at the two of you.
“See, it works much better when Jungwon does it,” you tease Jay.
“Can’t argue with you there, honestly.” Jay puts another pot of water on the stove to boil. “You should have more than just sodium and carbs, though,” he tells Jungwon.
You nod, hopping off of the counter to rummage through the fridge. “Yeah, you don’t eat enough vegetables. Maybe that’s why you’re having weird dreams. Aha!” You emerge triumphantly with a salad kit.
Jungwon laughs. “And you wonder why Niki calls you Mom and Dad.”
Jay scoffs. “That’s just because he hasn’t met Chan.”
“Fair enough. What are you guys doing here so late, anyways?”
You pause in assembling the salad to point a salad tong at Jay. “This guy just follows me everywhere.”
“We’re in my frat house,” Jay retorts.
“I could be here for someone else,” you argue.
Jay’s gaze pins you down, warm and earnest. “You’re not, though.”
You smile at him. “No, I’m not.”
Jungwon coughs. “Get a room.”
You reach over to ruffle his hair. “You’re standing in it.”
The three of you eat your ramen and salad in silence for a bit, all falling victim to varying degrees of sleepiness. Without noticing it, you’re scooched up next to Jay, shoulders and knees and ankles pressed together in one long line of comfortable intimacy.
Jay thinks about Jungwon’s question as he slurps at the noodles. What are you guys doing here so late? The answer almost eludes him. These days, he finds himself drawn to you like a magnet, pulled in by forces far stronger than himself.
He remembers that the two of you had been doing work in his room after the main library had closed, and you had fallen asleep on his bed at some point, a sketchbook dangling from your fingers. He had spent a ridiculous amount of time admiring your sleeping form, indulging in his favorite pastime of counting your eyelashes and resisting the urge to lay beside you. Eventually, your stomach had woken you up, and he insisted on making you some food, even if it wasn’t as nice as he would have liked to do for you. Now, looking at you chatting and joking with Jungwon, Jay feels his heart expanding into his lungs. You fit into his life so perfectly, and he’d like to think that he fits into yours, too. It’s almost too good to be true— could this be what his parents started with?
When you’re done eating, Jungwon waves the two of you away, insisting that he should do the dishes since you cooked. You’re not about to argue with that, so you pat him on the shoulder before following Jay back up to his room.
“He’s a good kid,” you tell Jay as you hop on his bed again, grabbing your sketchbook to pick up where you left off.
“He is.” Jay tuts at you. “And you should go to sleep.”
“I will, I will, just let me finish this sketch, okay? Besides, I don’t see you turning your laptop off, either.” You jut your chin out stubbornly.
Jay glances at the Wikipedia rabbit hole he’d been going down before your stomach had growled loudly an hour ago. He’s done with his work for the day, and he had just been keeping you company for the last two hours. “I have super important, time-sensitive work to finish,” he lies solemnly.
“Jay, I can see that you have the Wikipedia page for sinkholes open.”
He slams his laptop shut. “Actually, I’m done,” he declares, flopping down on the bed beside you. He turns his cheek from where he’s level with your stomach to look up at your hands moving across the page. “What are you working on in there?”
You make a displeased face. “People. I have to do one more human portrait for my portfolio, and it’s driving me nuts. Here, this one is of you.”
Jay lifts his head, astonished to see himself reflected back on the page. In smooth, sure strokes, you’ve captured him in tender detail: strong jaw, sharp eyes, and mouth twisted in concentration, probably from earlier when he’d actually been doing work. Jay’s jaw works as he struggles to figure out what to say. He’s unbelievably touched that you would draw him. “Can I keep this?” he asks finally.
“It’s not even done yet. And it’s not that good,” you warn him.
“It is to me. C’mon, please?”
“Maybe when I finish…” You trail off, swayed by the senseless patterns he’s tracing on top of your knee. “Which I won’t, if you keep distracting me.”
He smirks and stills his hand, looking like he’s about to tease you before he interrupts himself with a yawn. “Alright, goodnight, Cinderella.”
“'Night, 007.”
When he wakes up the next morning, he finds the lingering scent of your shampoo and a complete sketch of himself, now decked out in a tux worthy of James Bond. It makes him laugh out loud, and he knows he’s in trouble when he slides out a picture of him with his cousins from a picture frame to put your sketch in the frame, instead.
Before you know it, the day of the Parks’ wedding anniversary celebration has arrived. You’re on a four-way FaceTime call, with Chaewon lounging on your bed as you try on various dresses.
Kazuha is more invested in asking you about your relationship than helping you decide what to wear. “I’m just saying, I think it’s interesting that you and Jay have been, like, glued together for well over a month.”
“We’re getting to know each other better, so we don’t mess up in front of his parents,” you explain for the millionth time.
Kazuha wiggles her eyebrows at you. “Suuuure. Why didn’t you just send him one of those scarily detailed questionnaires like you did with all the other guys you fake-dated?”
Chaewon motions for you to spin in the billowy dress you’re currently in. “Too beachy,” she decides. “But ditto to what Kazuha said.”
“It’s because she like-likes him,” Sakura sing-songs.
You stick your tongue out at her. “Grow up, will you?”
“Forget about that— have you guys hooked up yet?” Yunjin demands.
“Yet? No, Yunjin, what the fuck,” you complain.
“Gross,” a familiar voice groans from Yunjin’s corner of the FaceTime. You, Kazuha, Sakura, and Chaewon all zero in on her square.
“Jake?” You exclaim.
Yunjin giggles and moves the camera to show Jake sitting at his desk in his room, wearing his nerdy glasses and hunched over a textbook.
“Did you guys just hook up?” Kazuha blurts out.
“Gross,” you repeat.
Yunjin rolls her eyes. “Grow up, will you? And no, I’m just here because it was too loud at the house.”
The rest of you fall silent on the call, especially you and Chaewon, demonstrating how decidedly not loud it is in the sorority house.
Yunjin blushes and clears her throat. “Whatever. Hey, you should totally wear that sparkly navy velvet number! The one that cinches at your waist.”
You rummage around in your closet and pull out the dress in question to try it on. “This one?”
Sakura whistles. “Oh, for sure. Good eye, Jen.”
Yunjin blows her a kiss. “Of course, of course.” She points at you. “That’s the one, babe. You have, like, the sluttiest waist ever, second only to Sunghoon; you have to wear that.”
Sounds of agreement abound, except from Jake, who whines, “You guys don’t think I have a slutty waist?”
“You’re a whore in other ways, don’t worry,” you reassure him dryly. You do another spin for Chaewon. “This isn’t too much, though?”
Jake suddenly pops into view of the camera. “It’s a formal event, and Jay is going to lose his mind no matter what you wear, trust me.”
“That’s not the point,” you insist.
The girls respond in unison, “Yes, it is!”
And you have to admit, the way Jay’s mouth stays open as he gives you the once-over a few hours later is gratifying, to say the least. For good measure, he does it again, letting his eyes linger at the dip between your collarbones and the curve of your mouth.
Molten heat spreads through you in response to his wandering eyes, ratcheting up in intensity when he smirks at you, purposeful and knowing.
You elect to check him out, too, knowing that you’re not the only person who can get flustered here. He cuts an unbelievable figure against the setting sun, leaning against his sleek black car, hands in his pockets and legs crossed at the ankles. The tuxedo he wears fits criminally well, emphasizing his broad shoulders and long legs, and you can’t stop yourself from wondering what he’d look like taking his tie off. On second thought, this may have backfired; you only find yourself feeling warmer the longer you stare at him.
Thankfully, he starts moving, coming up to the porch to hand you a bouquet of baby’s breath.
“Oh, good idea— should I hand these to your mom or your dad?” You ask, taking the flowers from him.
He laughs, surprised. You are too cute for his own good. “The flowers are for you, Cinderella. My parents and I are allergic to pollen, actually.”
“Oh.” You hold the flowers closer to your chest, giddiness touching you from head to toe. He got you flowers, even though he’s allergic. “Thank you, Jay.”
He hums and reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “Happy to do it. I saw the flowers in your room dying the other day. Go put them inside; I’ll wait out here. I can feel Chaewon’s stare drilling into the top of my head, anyways.” He looks up and waves at Chaewon, who’s hanging out of your window shamelessly.
She shouts, “Have her home by midnight, or she’ll turn into a pumpkin!”
“I don’t think that’s how it goes, but okay!” He throws her a thumbs-up.
Inside the house, you’re seized with the urge to splash some water on your face, just to calm yourself down, but that would ruin your makeup. Instead, you place the flowers in a vase of water and trust that Chaewon will bring them up to your room for you, after she’s done heckling Jay.
“Leave my guy alone,” you yell in her direction, pulling at his arm to get him down the stairs and to his car.
“Your guy, huh?” Jay looks at you with uncontrollable fondness.
“Just for the night,” you say, but you don’t miss the way his smile widens at the way you don’t deny it.
Ever the gentleman, Jay opens the passenger door for you, helping you gather the ends of your dress and tucking them in under your legs. He remains crouched for a moment, looking like he’s debating with himself about something, and then he goes for it, leaning over and buckling you in.
When you raise an eyebrow at him, all he says is, “Precious cargo,” and then he’s shutting the door, leaving you flushing once more.
The car ride to his parent’s place is easy and comfortable, even with the charged atmosphere that lingers between the two of you. Conversation always flows like water with Jay; you’re debating the finer points of how to determine provenance for historical artifacts when you arrive. Guests are littered across the front lawn, conversing with each other but centered around his parents.
Suddenly, you’re nervous. “Do you think they’ll like me?” You ask Jay.
He looks at you like you’ve grown another head. “Are you serious? Of course they will. You’re you.”
You swat at his shoulder even as you smile widely. “Your unconditional faith in me notwithstanding, I’m serious, Jay. I want to be able to live up to this fairytale romance thing.”
He takes your hand in his, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Believe me, you’re a dream come true. Let’s go, Cinderella.”
You gulp and curse your thundering heart, but then you’re five feet away from his parents, and you’re exclaiming at how in love they look, all these years later. Jay’s dad is distinguished in salt-and-pepper hair, and his mom is all smiles when she tells you that you’re too pretty for Jay.
“Mom,” he whines.
“Oh alright, come here, my beautiful boy.” She brings him in for a hug and beams when he kisses her cheek. Your heart melts like ice cream in the summer; he’s a mama’s boy, through and through.
Jay’s dad asks, “So, how did you meet?”
You open your mouth, prepared with your story. “I’m Jay’s friend’s twin sister, and then we kind of got caught in a scheme to help one of our other friends ask out the girl he liked, and we just got closer after that. Jay’s easy to like.” So far, it’s all true.
Jay doesn’t look like he’s faking anything when he continues, though. “She’s easy to love.”
“Way to one-up me,” you joke, but you feel like you’re floating, cradled by the buoyancy of the affection in his eyes.
“Seriously, she’s so smart it makes my head spin, and her heart shines brighter than the sun. She makes me laugh and work harder to keep up, and I’m lucky to just stand by her side. Being with her is the most natural thing in the world, like breathing, or my heart beating.” Jay doesn’t take his eyes off of you the whole time he’s speaking; he wants to commit every change in your expression to memory, from surprise to fondness to something deeper.
Jay’s dad hums approvingly. “Good work, son. You sound like I did when I met your mom.” He brings his wife in to kiss her temple.
“Enjoy the party, lovebirds,” she coos at you, and then they’re gone, off to greet other arrivals.
You’re frozen in place, with one hand still clutching at Jay’s like a lifeline. “We didn’t practice that,” you mumble.
He shakes his head and rubs his thumb over your cheek with his other hand. “No, we didn’t. Are you mad?”
“Mad? I think I’m jealous of your future girlfriend,” you say, forcing a laugh. It sounds wooden even to your ears.
He frowns. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act as if you don’t know how much I like you.”
The world stops turning on its axis. “What?”
His gaze slips down to your mouth, tracing your cupid’s bow. “You heard me.” He turns hopeful eyes on you. “Do you… feel the same?”
Just like that, the world resumes its motion, and you can’t let him go a second longer without knowing how much he is loved. “Desperately.”
He breathes a sigh of relief, and you think he’s going to kiss you— you need him to kiss you— but he hugs you close instead, lips hovering against your ear. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear that,” he murmurs.
“If it’s anything close to how happy I am, I probably have a good idea,” you laugh. You’re surprised at how quickly the burning urge to have his mouth on yours has tempered into something more grounded and permanent.
“I have to go do something for my parents, but I think I’ll die if I have to leave you. Will you come watch?”
You’d go anywhere with him. “Of course.”
He squeezes your hand. “Thanks, doll.” Against your will, your hand spasms in his. He giggles, delighted. “Duly noted.”
“Shut up,” you complain, but you follow him all the way to the tented dance floor set up on the grounds behind the house, only letting go after he kisses each of your fingertips in turn.
You’re surprised to see him pull out an eight-string guitar, and even more surprised when he explains to the gathered crowd that he’ll be playing the song from his parents’ first dance. They look perfect, swaying in the center of the floor, but you only have eyes for Jay.
You watch as his fingers pluck deftly at the strings, a romantic Spanish melody that barely reaches your ears over the rush of all your adoration for him. As soon as the song is over, he catches you in his arms, lifting you up and spinning you around twice before setting you back down, hands at home around your waist.
He asks if you want to dance. You teeter back on your heels, looking at the graceful curve of his mouth and thinking back to the nimbleness of his fingers. “Honestly? I want to kiss you. Really badly.”
He exhales and holds you tighter. “You won’t let me take you out first?”
“If you count the last few weeks, you’ve taken me out, like, a million times.”
“But a real date, doll. I want to cook for you, and we can get tea lights, and a picnic blanket, and— god.” Jay sucks in a sharp breath when you move his hands higher to cup underneath your chest. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he sighs, pressing his forehead to yours.
“I hope so. Stop being so nice, and take me to your room, please?”
Jay’s eyes flick heavenward. There’s only so much self-restraint left in him. “You win.”
And when he finally kisses you, pressed up against the door of his childhood bedroom, you nearly cry from how tender it is. He kisses you slowly, reverently, like you’re one of the saints from his history books.
“Sometimes, I think I’ve dreamt you up,” you confess to him. The words hang precious and delicate in the space between your lips.
“Let me show you I’m real then, yeah?” He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then licks right into you, eliciting a gasp from the back of your throat. Your fingers find purchase in the soft hair at the back of his head, and you realize that you’ve been breathing the wrong air your whole life; the groan that passes from his mouth to yours is the only thing you want in your lungs from now on.
Liquid desire pools in your stomach, rising until you think you might choke on it. “Jay, please.”
“Please, what? Use your words, doll.”
“Touch me.”
That’s all he needs to hear. Quicker than you realize it, but just as urgently as you need it, you find yourself laid out on his bed, and then he’s demonstrating that he knows more than just how to play guitar with those thick fingers.
When you make it out of his room an hour later, you’re still glowing with happiness. Jay knows he looks equally lovestruck, not least because his collar is hiding several lipstick stains from you.
You offer to help him redo his tie, so he anchors you unnecessarily close to him, hands sweeping up and down your side. “I don’t think I told you yet, but you look really nice tonight,” he murmurs. “You look really nice all the time, actually.”
You bury your face in his chest. “I’m going to explode if you keep sweet-talking me like that.”
He presses his smile to the top of your head. “Nooooo, you’re too pretty to explode.”
“Jay!” But you’re both laughing, bathed in the soft magic of newfound devotion. You couldn’t dream up anything better.
(Dating Jay is a lot like fake-dating Jay, as it turns out. In some ways.
In other ways, Jay still manages to take your breath away with new and inventive methods. He really does make you dinner, with tea lights and a picnic blanket, ensconced in the twilight of a park you drive an hour away to get to. He even makes foie gras torchon for the occasion, from scratch, and he watches you intently as you moan in delight at the taste. You joke about your breath being fishy when you kiss later, but he just shrugs, unbothered and already moving so that his head disappears underneath your dress, making you moan in a different way.
So, yes— there’s a lot more kissing, and sex, and intimacy that makes you want to curl up in a ball and hiss at how vulnerable it makes you. But Jay is always welcome in the prickly patches of your soul, and he wants those parts of you as much as he wants the parts of you that paint him in aching affection.
When he finally tells you he loves you that winter— in so many words, because it shows in his every action otherwise—, it’s three in the morning again, and your hands are fluttering across his brow, smoothing out the creases from a night of worrying about whether he’s really good enough to take over the family business. Your fingers, lovely and dear to him, stitch together the cracks in his self-resolve, and he can’t help but let the words out. His heart absolutely sings when you repeat the words back to him.
Some time later, you ask him to sit for a portrait for you. He doesn’t think too much of it, especially as the seasons bleed into one another and spring brings an influx of senior events, pollen, and the impending question of the future. He’s at your senior thesis, asking you detailed questions during the audience Q&A and wrapping you up in the biggest hug when it’s over, and you sit in on the final class he TAs, applauding when he’s done.
At the showcase of your final portfolio, his jaw drops when you reveal the second portrait (after having laughed his ass off at Jake blubbering over the first one and Yunjin kissing him in public to shut him up).
The second portrait is of him, and his parents. From his dad’s strong brows, to his mom’s smile lines, to his own hands; every detail is captured, shimmering in loving light.
He finds that his eyes are wet when you come up to him and brush your thumb against his eyelashes, smiling brightly at him. “Do you like it?”
“I love it. I love you, so much, like crazy, you don’t even know,” he rambles, laughing through his tears now.
You kiss him quickly but firmly, just a reminder that your mouth was made to fit against his. “Love you more, London boy. Speaking of…” You lean back to stare at him through your eyelashes. “I got the Rhodes,” you whisper.
His eyes widen like saucers. “You’re coming with me?”
“More like you’re coming with me,” you say, knowing that Jay had requested to be placed at his family business’s England location to be close to you in the event that you got the scholarship.
“Obviously,” he relents without missing a beat. “I’m going to follow you everywhere. Can’t get rid of me now.” He dips his head to kiss you longer. Lightning still shoots through his fingertips, just like the first time, and every time after that.
At graduation, you tell him, “You know, I think I’ve decided what I want your favor to be.”
He smiles at you, familiar and true. “Yeah? What’s that?”
In this moment, you’re glad that you’re anchored in his lap, because otherwise you think you might float away into the night sky, on your way to join the stars in the cosmos. Jay is so crushingly sweet; sometimes, you just don’t know what to do with the weight of all his sincerity. For now, you settle for a fervent, “I like you so much.”
OR: A selection of moments in between the parentheses at the end of devils roll the dice, angels roll their eyes (some things may not make sense without reading that first, but it's up to you!).
PAIRING: park jongseong x female reader
GENRE: established relationship, fwp (fluff without plot), no like seriously this is just straight up fluff and romance and making out with scant narrative
WARNINGS: swearing, kms/kys jokes, kissing and suggestive content/sexual themes
WORD COUNT: 10k (derogatory)
to all the boys i’ve fake-dated before (you, jay, sunghoon, yeonjun, chan, vernon, mark, and 5 others)
jay: peace out losers (except for my REAL gf whom i adore and cherish)
*jay has left the chat*
sunghoon: omfg no way???? jay bitchless era no more?
you: are u calling me a bitch
sunghoon: NOOOO i would never haha btw do u still talk to my sister
you: yeah
sunghoon: right so i’m just ur humble liege
chan: congrats, you two! well i guess jay can’t see this
you: i will accept your congratulations on his behalf :DD i’m really happy you guys
mark: stop i’ll cry
vernon: no rly i’m next to him rn and he’s tearing up
mark: they deserve it so much!!! after everything i put them through
you: excuse me it was mostly me
you: all jay did was orchestrate an elaborate scheme to get you and mina together (okay so he did a lot)
you: but we ALL participated
you: and i had to pretend to DATE you
mark: only for like two hours!!!!
yeonjun: wait this reminds me i’ve always wanted to know what ur ranking of us as fake bfs would be
you: in first place: park jongseong
yeonjun: and then?
yeonjun: hello??????
“Can I ask you something?”
Jay turns his head to you. “Of course, baby.”
Baby. Hearing it still makes you all silly and giddy, though it’s been four days since you started dating him for real and hearing it all the time. Baby, doll, Cinderella, mine. He sure has a way with words. You clear your throat, hoping that your voice won’t crack when you say, “Why were you so weird about the fake-dating thing in the beginning?”
He makes a face at you. “What do you mean, weird? You’re telling me you thought I was weird about it, even after you had to endure Sunghoon?”
“Sunghoon was just awkward. Really awkward, but still. You stalked me to my front door—”
“Your front door is, like, 90 seconds from mine.”
“— and walked with me to Nat’s at a glacial pace, while not saying a word. And then we talked for an hour about random stuff before you promised to help Mark with Mina, even though you weren’t sure you wanted my help. Why were you so weird about it all?”
“Pretty girls make me nervous?” He offers you a winning smile.
“Flattery won’t get you everywhere, Park Jongseong.”
“Yeah, but it’s getting me somewhere, isn’t it?” He rolls all the way over to hover above you and then dips so low that the pendant on his necklace swings in front of your face. The two of you had escaped the party in the frat’s basement after it had gotten too hot down there; Jay said he “knew a spot”, which made you laugh when it turned out to just be his bedroom. But then he pushed open his window and coaxed you out onto the flat roof, and that’s where you had settled on your back, gazing up at a cloudless sky, scattershot through with faint stars.
Well, you were gazing up at the stars— now, Jay occupies your line of sight, and he’s all smiles and hearts in his eyes. It’s not an unwelcome substitute.
Your hand slips between your bodies so you can rub your fingers over the pendant on his necklace; you laugh when you realize what it is. “J as in Jay? Like T as in Troy?”
He huffs, rolling off of you to sit back on his heels. “No, J as in Jopping. Yes, J as in Jay!”
You hold your hands up, still laughing as you sit up to face him. “Okay, okay, sorry! Didn’t realize my boyfriend was also a preppy high school girl.”
He rolls his eyes even as he pulls you into his lap. These days, he’s hopelessly afflicted with must-be-close-to-my-girlfriend syndrome. “I have layers, Cinderella. Like an onion.”
“... Are you paraphrasing Shrek?”
Jay flicks at the tip of your nose. “You know, it reveals just as much about you as it does about me that you caught the reference.”
“You’re not helping yourself in the high school girl category,” you tease, but it’s all syrupy sweet fondness, punctuated by a playful tug at his reddening ear.
He turns his head to kiss the inside of your wrist. “Do you want to hear my answer or not?”
You nod and straighten your spine with your hands folded neatly against your chest; the picture of propriety, if it weren’t for your legs straddling his waist as he leans back on his hands. “Yes, please.”
“I was… sussing you out, I guess. You know why I wanted to bring someone to my parents, but I couldn’t just bring anyone. I wanted to get to know you a little better, to see if you were someone I could actually see myself wanting to be with, because anything less would be a disservice to my parents. I didn’t want your help if I couldn’t confirm that you were the real thing. And then I saw how patient but also no-nonsense you were with Mark, and how quickly you were willing to help with a frankly crazy plan, and you just… felt right. You felt right to me; you felt like the real thing.” Jay blushes, ducking his head to avoid your gaze. Everything he said is true, of course, and he doesn’t regret telling you any of it, but saying it out loud like this makes his heart feel like it’s going to fall out of his chest.
In this moment, you’re glad that you’re anchored in his lap, because otherwise you think you might float away into the night sky, on your way to join the stars in the cosmos. Jay is so crushingly sweet; sometimes, you just don’t know what to do with the weight of all his sincerity. For now, you settle for a fervent, “I like you so much.”
Jay’s confidence comes back like a boomerang. He leans up and catches your hands in his, draping your arms around his neck before gliding his hands up and down your back. “Who’s flattering who, now?”
You shrug. “Where’s it gonna get me, gorgeous?”
“Well, only because you called me gorgeous.” And then he’s kissing you, lush and lovely.
Fall trickles into winter, and there are final exams and goodbyes to your friends before you and Jake leave on a two-week trip to see your family in Australia. You and Jay FaceTime almost every day; he complains about getting pasty staying indoors in the cold while you’re out tanning on white sand beaches.
“Should I fly out there?” he muses one day close to the end of your trip. “You could be, I dunno, in danger! Because of the sun. No one to help you put sunscreen on your back… or check that you’ve applied enough on your legs… or your chest… It’s really important, you know. Skin cancer awareness.”
You laugh. “Thanks for the PSA, baby. I’m coming back in a few days, though, so I think I’ll be okay.”
Jay sighs mournfully. “I’m not. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too,” you confess. Living across the street from each other at school and seeing him in person almost every day for the past few months has spoiled you.
“I miss you, too,” Jake mimics beside you. You’re in an Uber on the way to dinner with your parents, so you can’t commit much physical violence against him, but you do punch his shoulder.
Jay pipes up with, “Was that Jake’s voice I heard?”
You glare at your twin before popping out your earbuds to put the call on speakerphone. “Unfortunately.”
“Yo, what’s up, my man!” Jake cheers, shoving his face into view of the camera.
Jay and Jake chatter about some game they started playing with Heeseung, and you have to admit that you’re really happy about how well you and Jay have integrated into each other’s lives and communities. Of course, Jake had never been a big concern; secretly, you think he loves that his best friend is dating his sister. You’re two of his favorite people in the world, though he’ll only admit it when he’s four shots in.
Soon, you approach the restaurant, and you have to say goodbye to Jay. He encourages you to keep sending videos of Jake falling into the ocean while surfing, which prompts a loud bout of complaining from Jake.
“You better not have shown that to anyone else,” Jake grumbles.
“Yunjin loved it,” you remark casually, just so you can laugh loudly when he jolts in his seat and turns to you with panicked eyes.
He whisper-shouts, “Why would you say that word? And why the fuck would you send it to her?”
“What word— love? Oh my god, grow up. And she asked for updates on you.” Your eyebrows furrow. “I think she missed you, or something.”
“She did?” Jake beams; he’s entirely a different man now. “What else did she say about me?”
You point at him accusingly. “You have a lot of questions for someone who claims that they’re just buddies with my girl Jen. Which, again— grow up. Anyways, Jay, we have to go, but we’ll see you soon! Love you!”
“Love you, baby. And you, too, Jake,” Jay adds, before Jake can whine.
A few days later, you’re finally reunited with Jay at the big New Year’s Eve party his family throws every year. The Parks always get to host the last party of the holiday season; you’re excited to experience it with Jay for the first time.
An hour before the party is set to start, you let yourself into the Park estate and make your way surreptitiously to Jay’s room. His back is turned to you when you open the door slowly, and you stop for a moment to just drink in the sight of him, comfy and cozy in a cable-knit quarter zip sweater— the definition of huggable. Quickly, you sneak in and wrap your arms around his waist. “Hey, handsome.”
Jay cranes his neck around to look at you. “Hey! You’re here early.”
You let go of him so he can turn around and hug you back properly. “Couldn’t wait to see you,” you confess.
“Thank god.” He drops his head into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply. “Mm, the world is finally rightside up again.”
You laugh softly. “We are so dramatic.”
“Unavoidable for hot people,” Jay reasons. He pulls back up to wink at you; it’s so cheesy that you have to hold your hands up to his face to avoid looking at him. He laughs outright, and the return of that sound so close to your ears— as opposed to through the phone across an ocean— makes you smile uncontrollably wide.
“I really missed you,” you murmur. Finally, finally, he leans in and kisses you. It starts as something innocent and comforting, then quickly gets subsumed into fire and passion. You fist your hands into the collar of his sweater, hauling him closer to you with an enthusiasm that makes his fingers dig into your waist.
“Missed you so much. Missed this so much,” he says, right before sliding his tongue against yours. Soon, he transitions to sucking your bottom lip into his mouth, breathing a litany of love you, love you, love yous into you. The kiss is so deep it makes you go lightheaded, and when you separate for air, the sound of your mouth parting from his elicits a faint pop that makes you shudder. He’s considerate enough to back off briefly for you to catch your breath, though he doesn’t make it easy. “Pretty, so pretty,” he whispers against your cheek.
You have to close your eyes to calm yourself down. Right now, you think you could power a whole city with the desire that vibrates underneath your skin. “As much as I want to keep going,” you begin, already doomed with how hoarse your voice is, “I think you have to start getting ready.” The way your fingers pull at the zipper of his sweater is wholly unconvincing.
He sighs and straightens up to rest his chin on the top of your head. “I should really learn how to reconfigure the time-space continuum. Time needs to stop when I’ve got my girl with me.”
You hum in agreement, curving around him slightly to scrape your teeth over the birthmark on his neck and grinning when he hisses into your ear. “You’re a smart guy; I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” you offer, continuing to tug at his zipper until you’re met with the end of the quarter zip. A frustrated sound escapes your throat at the obstacle.
“What’s your new year’s resolution?” Jay asks suddenly.
“What?” You blink hazy eyes at him; he has to pinch his own wrist behind your back to fight the urge to kiss you again.
“Just trying to kill the mood so I don’t go out there with a hard-on,” he explains, half bashful and half serious. “I have to make a speech, you know.”
“Thanks for coming, everyone! Hope you had a great last year, and here’s to an even better new year. There, speech done.” You withdraw your hands from his sweater to make jazz hands at him. “Wow, I’m such a speedy speechwriter! With all this extra time, we should keep going.”
“Brilliant,” he says dryly. “But you were right before; I do have to get ready.”
You frown and rest your cheek against his chest. “Past me was such a cockblock.”
Jay chuckles. “So, tell me, what is your new year’s resolution?”
Your eyes drift to the offending sweater in your peripheral vision. “Throw out all of your sweaters.”
“Very noble of you.”
“And get into grad school,” you say, more serious now.
“They’d be crazy not to take you for the Rhodes, baby.” Jay presses a final kiss to the top of your head. “I, um. I already asked to start in the London office of the company.”
You whip your head up so fast you almost give yourself whiplash. “Really?”
“Really. I want to be wherever you are.” He smiles so tenderly at you that your heart breaks and then mends itself back together in an instant; shattered and restored all at once by the strength of his devotion.
Sadly, there’s only so much time you can spend swooning at your boyfriend (Jay’s right; you do have to learn how to reconfigure the time-space continuum). He truly does have to give a speech soon, so he starts getting changed, pulling his sweater over his head and swearing when it gets stuck on the wire frame of his glasses.
You laugh a little breathlessly at him, distracted by the strip of toned stomach revealed by his current position with his arms stuck above his head in his sweater. “My last new year’s resolution is to close the gyms,” you announce, finally moving into action to help him unspool the yarn of his sweater from his glasses.
“All of them?” His voice comes out muffled from inside his sweater before it’s over his head at last, and he’s shirtless in front of you.
You drag your fingertips from the top of his waistband to the warm skin of his sternum. “Especially the ones you go to. You’re too tempting like this.”
He shivers at your touch but still manages to smirk when he says, “Just for you, doll.”
You groan. “Seriously, don’t call me that if you want to make it out there in time for your speech.”
“We should get rid of speeches, too,” he declares. He eyes the top of your fingers against his chest forlornly. “But I guess I’ll have to give the last one. Now, for real, tell me something extremely unsexy.”
You quip, “To help you get flaccid?”
He wrinkles his nose. “Excellent work; we’re headed in the right direction.”
Your phone vibrates with a barrage of texts at that moment, which you check as Jay disappears into his walk-in closet to get dressed. It looks like your friends have arrived, and they’ve brought your outfit with them (you had come straight from the airport, dressed in leggings and a sweatshirt from high school). You tell Jay just as much, raising your voice slightly to be heard in the other room. “I’m gonna go get my stuff and change!”
He sticks his thumb out the door of the walk-in closet, pointing it upwards in assent. He assumes you saw it when he hears the door close, and then his phone goes off as well, inundated with a flood of texts from his newly arrived friends.
hsm 3’s most underrated song: the boys are back (heeseung, jay, jake, sunghoon, jungwon, and sunoo)
jake: alright i have to k*ll myself
sunoo: why r u censoring all of a sudden
jake: i don’t want my fbi agent to take that seriously. although i do wanna kms
jungwon: why what happened
sunghoon: oh it’s HILARIOUS
jake: stfu
jake: so there’s eggnog being passed around right? and i see yunjin so i go to hand her a cup to be nice
heeseung: ~to be nice~
jake: kys
jake: anyways then i realize that the cup was really hot so i go and blow on her drink, like a fucking weirdo, and then i blow on SUNGHOON’S drink to make it seem less weird, except he’s drinking a HIGH NOON like an absolute idiot
sunghoon: hey i got the bartender to put it into a nice glass at least
sunoo: that’s my big (derogatory)
jay: perpetual bachelors jake and sunghoon! who’s surprised
sunghoon: NOT true i’m pretty sure the student government’s social media chair was flirting with me in the library before finals
jungwon: ??? wonyoung is a lesbian
jungwon: and she was just asking u to get out of the way bc u were spacing out in front of the printer
heeseung: L + me personally i’d kms
sunghoon: oh i know YOU are not talking
sunghoon: lee “the only time i feel the touch of a woman is when i go to yoga class at the university gym once a week” heeseung
heeseung: THE WOMAN WHO TEACHES IT IS HOT OKAY
sunghoon: oh heeseung mommy kink era?
heeseung: SHE IS MY AGE
sunoo: shouldn’t u be more concerned about breaking ur back every time ur there, grandpa?
heeseung: uncalled for wtf
heeseung: also tbh i wish SHE would break my back
jake: okay i’ve recovered from my earlier embarrassment. upon seeing what heeseung is texting, i’m thinking what i did wasn’t that weird
sunoo: bffr
jungwon: jake why don’t u just ask her out? instead of being emotionally constipated
jake: ew why would i ask her out i don’t want to be in a relationship that’s for pussies (respectfully) (i love women)
jungwon: yeah that’s definitely super emotionally mature of u
sunghoon: it’s 2023 pussy is a gender-neutral term
jay: you rly just say whatever the hell you want don’t you
sunoo: oh hey i see felix flirting with yunjin
jake: WHAT
jake: suddenly i have to go
sunoo: u r literally so pathetic
jay: btw i’m coming down now but if any of you see my gf before i do can you tell her she can change in my room
jake: gross
jay: GROW UP + stay single + kys
heeseung: GET HIS ASS
Jay’s idiot friends aside (he loves them so much), he actually is looking forward to seeing a bunch of his classmates and their families at tonight’s holiday party. Senior year seems to have crept up on him unannounced, and now he’s feeling slightly (a lot) sentimental about the idea of not living down the hall or at most across the campus from all the people who have made the last few years so formative (and entertaining as hell).
He’s still thinking about how much he’s going to miss that place and those people when he hears your voice floating down from the top of the staircase. It sounds like you’re arguing with Kazuha about how many jello shots is too many for the after-party of the next phase of new member initiation at your sorority, which makes him chuckle quietly to himself. With four humanities and fine arts majors between the two of you, neither of you sound like you have the correct math.
He opens his mouth, ready to give his two cents, but then he freezes at the sight of you descending the stairs. Vaguely, he processes the fact that Kazuha seems to have stopped arguing and even stopped coming down the stairs herself, just so she can give you two this moment.
This moment, which is making his brain short-circuit, because you are incandescent in a slinky, silvery dress that reflects all the candles that he’s now glad his parents made him light around the place. Countless points of light impart an otherworldly glow upon you, and you’re smiling at him; Jay thinks he must have saved the country in a past life.
When you reach him at the bottom of the stairs and he still hasn’t said anything, you tilt your head quizzically. “Jay? Everything alright?”
“You look like you just stepped out of a fairytale,” he breathes out. He moves on autopilot, bending at the waist as he takes your hand and kisses the top of it before straightening up to simply look at you some more.
“And right into the arms of my Prince Charming,” you respond, only half-joking. Right now, the dreamy look in his eyes makes you want to believe in happily ever after, as if it’s something he could forge with his own two hands. You kind of think he could, with the force of all his ardor.
Multiple phone cameras going off breaks the two of you out of your spell; you turn towards your nosy friends, who hold up variations of thumbs-ups and finger hearts.
“Sorry, you guys are just too cute,” Yunjin says, not sounding sorry at all.
“Your parents would never forgive me if I didn’t get that on camera,” Sunghoon insists.
“Speaking of, I gotta go find them to make sure everything’s set.” Jay kisses your cheek. “See you later, Cinderella.” His fingers hold onto yours until the last second; your arm and his stretch out absurdly, as if you were parting for years, not minutes.
“So dramatic,” Kazuha teases, joining you at the bottom of the staircase.
“Unavoidable for hot people,” you explain wryly. You turn your attention to your gathered friends next. “I’m so glad you’re all here!”
“In 50 years, you could be hosting this party,” Sakura quips. Secretly, you hope it’s a lot sooner than that.
“New Year’s Eve on Mars?” Jake suggests.
Heeseung groans. “I’m scared of heights; can we not?”
“How many times do I have to tell you, dude, that’s not how space works!”
Half an hour passes happily like that, chatting and joking with some of your favorite people in the massive foyer. You don’t know exactly where Jay went off to, but the answer to that becomes clear when the music goes low and Jay clears his throat into the microphone set up at the front of the foyer.
“Thanks for coming, everyone! Hope you had a great last year, and here’s to an even better new year.” Jay pauses to chuckle. “My girlfriend and I were joking earlier about me just saying that and calling it a night, but unfortunately for all of you, I am much more verbose than that.” Another pause for a light round of laughter from the gathered crowd.
Jay works the audience like a pro as you watch with unbridled pride. A few minutes later, he winds down to the end of his prepared remarks, which you only know because he has asked you to proofread the speech weeks ago. You’re expecting him to wrap up with a final Happy New Year!, so you’re surprised to hear him keep going.
“A couple of last things. To my parents, and everyone at the company, thank you for putting your trust in me.” Jay bows deeply. “I won’t let you down next year.” He straightens and looks right at you. “This year has been nothing short of wonderful. I’ve been so lucky my whole life, but the last few months have been particularly special to me. I’ve gotten to know people who I want to continue knowing for the rest of my life, who make me feel like my heart is too big for me, because I couldn’t possibly fit all of the kindness and love they give to me in the confines of my chest. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but I do know that my life would be bereft without it.” Jay has to tear his eyes from yours because he knows he’s liable to cry if he sees you do so. “Bereft without you,” he continues, sweeping his gaze across the foyer. “All of you, who I’m so glad to call my friends and family. So, please stay healthy and happy this year, and I hope the new year treats you as well as this year has treated me. Happy New Year, everyone!”
Champagne glasses clink around you and people applaud, but all of it sounds far away. The only thing you can focus on is Jay, who’s making his way slowly through the throng of well-wishers to get to you.
When he’s finally in front of you, you have your misty eyes under control. He drops his hands to your waist and smiles gently. “Hi, pretty lady.”
“Hello, my favorite hopeless romantic.” Your palm goes to the sharp curve of his jaw. “You just had to go and say such sweet things. What’s gonna happen to my cool and unbothered reputation?”
“Right, your reputation.” He leans into your touch. “I can think of other ways to ruin your reputation,” he remarks, low and rough.
You roll your eyes, although you can’t stop your other hand from curling into the lapel of his suit jacket. “Romantic and horny! Duality of man.”
“I meant what I said, you know.” His eyes soften at you. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me this year. Maybe ever. I have a lot of great people in my life, but only one you.”
“I know. You always mean what you say, and I love that about you.” You lean in to press a quick kiss to his mouth. He chases after you, tipping your chin up with his hand to kiss you deeper. Sadly, it doesn’t last for too long; you’re both aware that your friends and their parents are nearby.
But later, Jay makes sure to kiss you from this year into the next one, and you hope that you never forget what it feels like— fireworks exploding above your head and in your veins, lighting you up from within. Radiant, in the glow of someone who loves and is loved.
girlbossing soooooooo close to the sun (you, yunjin, chaewon, kazuha, and sakura)
yunjin: do u think it’d be weird if i got jake something for valentine’s day
you: yes extremely
sakura: don’t ask me i’m gay
yunjin: ???
yunjin: okay thx guys this was super helpful!
chaewon: i thought you weren’t dating?
yunjin: WE MIGHT AS WELL BE. i’m sick of waiting for him to actually ask me out
you: jokes aside, i think he’s really into you, like genuinely. but his head is so far up his ass he will never make the first move
sakura: boooooo emotionally repressed playboy how cliche
kazuha: omg u should try to do something romantic
yunjin: absolutely not i can’t be a SIMP
sakura: boooooo emotionally repressed maneater how cliche
yunjin: WHATEVER
yunjin: more importantly, what are we doing for galentine’s!!!!
kazuha: spa day i thought?
you: yes but i have to leave a little early :(( sorry ladies the community kitchen is doing a pre-valentine’s day dinner and jay and i are signed up to help
chaewon: i can’t even be mad at you that is SO CUTE
Jay gets sick in the week leading up to Valentine’s day, which puts a spanner in the works of his grand plans for your first Valentine’s together. You tell him that it’s not a big deal and he should just focus on resting and getting better, but that doesn’t stop him from moping about it.
mother is mothering (you, niki, and jungwon)
you: can i just say that this gc name is not helping to put to rest the joke that jay and i are ur parents
you: also i Don’t think u guys know what this phrase means…
you: but anyways what’s up… children
niki: pleaseeeeee fix jay hyung
jungwon: fr we’re desperate
jungwon: he’s been playing sad john mayer songs for like three days straight I CANT LIVE LIKE THIS ANYMORE
niki: he called the coffee shop yesterday to see if we could set up a valentine’s day surprise for u
niki: we can’t, so i’m not ruining the surprise
niki: but he literally had such detailed plans for the surprise like WE R JUST PART-TIMERS
you: omg… my bf is so cute :(
jungwon: that is SO not the point actually that’s like the exact opposite of the point
you: dw i was gonna come over today after the community kitchen’s pre-valentine’s day dinner anyways
jungwon: THANK GOD
niki: YAY can u ask jay to help me with research material for my history paper btw
you: ask him urself?
niki: i’m scared he’s going to rope me into some other crazy plan to make it up to u for ruining ur valentine’s day plans
niki: which sounds like a HIM problem??? why is he getting ME, a CHILD, involved
you: oh so ur a child now but not when u want to sneak into frat parties
jungwon: omg SAY IT LOUDER FOR THE PPL IN THE BACK
you: jungwon i know ur the one who helps him sneak in
jungwon: haha. love u mom :)
you: IM NOT UR MOM
you: btw i’m bringing back extra vegetables from the community kitchen and i expect u to eat them! jay mentioned u were stressed lately and not eating well
jungwon: okay ty… not-mom
It’s almost 10pm by the time you get to the frat house, bundled in your winter coat and weighed down with containers of food. You leave one in the fridge, labeled with a note that says “for jungwon— eat this or niki will forever be taller than you”. You take everything else with you to Jay’s room, pausing at the door when you realize you don’t even know if he’ll be awake or if he’s still sleeping off his illness.
The door swings open before you have the chance to knock, and you’re met with the sight of Jay in a bathrobe, shower caddy in hand. “I must be hallucinating,” he mutters.
You hold back a laugh. “Nope, you’re still in the land of the lucid. I brought you some food, and I figured we could watch something while we eat. Go shower; I’ll set up.”
Jay blinks rapidly. “Oh my god, you’re really here?” He drops the shower caddy to the floor carelessly, moving forward to hug you before he halts abruptly, inches away from you. “Wait, no, you shouldn’t be here. I don’t want you to get sick, too.”
“It’s been, like, five days. I don’t think you’re contagious anymore,” you argue, sidling past him to drop your stuff into his room.
“Really?” The hopefulness in his voice makes your heart melt.
“Really. I’ll ask Heeseung to ask his special friend to confirm, if that will make you feel better,” you offer.
Jay's eyebrows furrow. “We should probably stop calling her that, but yes, that would make me feel better. Ask while I shower, but seriously, I’m not touching you if she says no.”
You salute him. “On it, captain.” Heeseung’s special friend is the girl who teaches one of the yoga classes at the university gym, and she’s also a nursing student. She has a name, but Heeseung refuses to tell any of you what it is. Truthfully, it wouldn’t be hard to look her up, but you think it’s kind of cute how nervous Heeseung is about whatever liminal space he’s in with her.
you: hey can u ask the love of ur life if it’s okay for me to be with jay rn?
heeseung: first of all DONT CALL HER THAT second of all why tf would she have an opinion on that
you: i wouldn’t have to call her that if u would tell us HER NAME
you: and jay came down w/ that nasty virus like five days ago remember
heeseung: oh my goddddd yeah he wouldn’t stop whining about how his valentine’s day plans were ruined
you: ur special friend is in nursing right? so can u ask her
heeseung: i’m starting to think i should tell u her name just so u stop coming up with new ways to refer to her
you: that’s what I'M saying
heeseung: but yeah sure anything to get jay to stop being so annoying
you: thank uuuuu i’ll leave u some cookies in the kitchen so give some to her okay?
heeseung: omfg u made COOKIES i am so glad jay is dating u
Ten minutes later, Heeseung texts to let you know that you’re probably in the clear. More specifically, he says that his friend says it’s ultimately best practice to stay away from Jay for another couple of days, but she thinks the two of you are so cute and she gets why you’d want to be with him, and you’re outside of the most contagious window now, anyways.
You figure that’s close enough to a yes, which is what you tell Jay when he returns from his shower. He’s at your side in an instant, hugging you like his life depends on it. “I’m sorry,” he whispers eventually.
“What on earth for?”
“Our first Valentine’s is going to be so lame, just because I got sick.” He sighs deeply. “I wanted to make it special for you, especially because you’re always running around helping everyone, and instead you’re here, taking care of me.”
“Jay.” You pull back from his chest to look at him. “Nothing is lame, and nothing is ruined, okay? It’s literally just a day. And you always make me feel special. Being with you is like— ahem.” You cringe at the words that are about to come out of your mouth; Jay is always effusive and free-wheeling with his declarations of affection towards you, but it doesn’t come as easily to you. The way you feel about him makes you want to try, though. “Being with you is like Valentine’s Day every day.”
He smiles gently at you, one dimple carving a crescent into his left cheek. “You deserve it, baby. And even if you didn’t, I’d still want to give that to you.”
The two of you stand like that for a while, swaying underneath the unattractive lighting in Jay’s room. His hair starts to drip onto your shoulder, though, and you remember that you need to go back down to the kitchen to set aside the cookies you promised Heeseung.
“Why does Heeseung get to have some of the cookies you made for me?” Jay pouts.
“Troll bridge toll I felt compelled to pay, all because you wanted a second medical opinion,” you respond dryly.
“I’m supposed to believe you were the first? And I’m telling Heeseung you called him a troll.”
“Keep that up and you won’t be getting any cookies, Park.”
Of course, you feed him a cookie as soon as you’re back in his room. Jay has changed into his pajamas while you were away, and he points to another set he’s laid out for you after he’s done eating the cookie. Once you get changed, you settle on the rug in front of Jay’s bed and start an obscure history documentary together while eating the food you brought him. You warn him that it won’t be as good as what he makes (you are a far better baker than you are a cook). Undeterred, he makes an exaggerated effort to fawn over every dish and praise your skills.
Afterwards, you sit on the edge of his bed and let him lean his head on your lap as you blow dry his hair. “I heard you were being a pain in the ass this week about Valentine’s Day,” you mention.
“That… is a distinct possibility, for sure.”
“Seriously, I think you scared away all of Niki’s coworkers. He wants your help with research for his history paper, by the way. Oh, that reminds me— what’s the name of your group chat with Niki and Jungwon?”
Jay grimaces. “Glucose father slay.”
You suppress a snort. “That’s… creative, if unsubtle.”
He hums contentedly from the just-right warmth of the hairdryer and the just-right softness of your hands. “We’ll get to have lots of Valentine’s Days together, right?”
"Of course, baby."
When it hits midnight, you’re curled up together in his bed, with his laptop still playing the credits of the history documentary. You enter February 14th like that, tucked under his chin, exactly where you want to be.
On one of the first randomly hot days that pop up in late March before the weather actually gets warmer, you’re holed up in the library, eyes aching after staring at the tiny text in ancient manuscripts for too long and shivering in the temperature-controlled special collections section of the library. While the rest of your friends are out at the college’s golf course enjoying the warm weather at a joint charity tournament, you’re stuck here, beholden to the block in your calendar which says “manuscript time :/”. The rare manuscripts you need for your thesis are only available to be looked at during certain times, but today’s research session has proven to be less than fruitful, given how often your eyes wander to the door to the exit and how empty your notes are.
You can feel yourself dozing off for the umpteenth time when suddenly, warm hands land on top of your shoulders, and a smooth voice murmurs in your ear, “Working hard or hardly working, Cinderella?”
Jay. You turn your head to meet his gaze; crescents of affection reflect back at you. “How’d you get in here?” Appointments are usually required for the rare manuscripts room.
He flashes you a smirk. “Charmed the librarian.”
“Wow, I didn’t know you pulled with the 40-and-up demographic like that.”
“Yeah, I told her I missed my girlfriend so much I’d cry if I couldn’t see her today.” He drops a kiss to your cheek, then maneuvers the chair next to you sideways and backwards so he can sit as close to you as possible. He crosses his arms on top of the back of the chair and rests his chin against his arms to stare at you, soft and beckoning. “You look like you want to leave.”
You sigh and turn fully sideways towards him, letting his long legs bracket yours while your knees push up against the back of his chair. “You look like a reason to leave,” you admit. It comes out breathy in a way that you hadn’t intended, but who can blame you— Jay is dressed for the golf tournament in a navy blue polo and crisp white slacks, and as always, his clothes fit like they were made for him.
In the back of your mind, you make a note to ask where he gets his tailoring done. In the front of your mind, your attention roams from the clean line of his shirt sleeves against his biceps, to the inviting curve of his mouth, to the planes of his chest that peek out behind the top two undone buttons of his shirt. All these months later, looking at him still hasn’t gotten old; truthfully, you don’t think it ever will.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Jay inquires, peering closer at you with a sly grin on his face.
“Like you have to ask,” you grumble, reaching out to pinch his cheek in retaliation for the teasing question.
He grabs your hand before it reaches him and gently bites the tip of your index finger, laughing when you make an offended face and pull your hand back. “C’mon, let’s get out of here, yeah? We should at least make an appearance at the tournament we organized.”
You glance back at the heavy tomes you’ve pulled out today— pages and pages of dense Middle English to get through. Then, you look at Jay, who has chosen that moment to skate his fingertips up and down the top of your right thigh. The decision is almost comically easy to make. “Yeah, fuck this. Let’s go.”
You dutifully return your books and say a polite goodbye to the librarian, who coos at you both. Jay waves your joined hands at her. On your way out to the main section of the library, goosebumps form on your arms from the change in temperature: arctic vortex to plain old frigid, both of which are wholly inhospitable environments for the sleeveless golf dress you’d worn today in hopes of eventually getting to the tournament.
“Cold?” Jay halts you both and sweeps his hands across your shoulders and down to your wrists, frowning at the chill he encounters on your skin. Normally, he’d offer you his jacket or sweater or something, but he just has the shirt on his back today. “This won’t do,” he murmurs, and then he’s pulling you in the direction of the secluded stacks.
It’s dark and shadowy there, with not a single soul occupying any of the carrel desks spaced in between the rows of books. Your heartbeat picks up despite yourself; you think you have a good idea of where this is going. This is also something that hasn’t gotten old yet and likely never will. “You know, I’ve always thought it would be kind of hot to hook up in a library,” you comment.
Jay trips over air, then quickly rights himself and shakes his head as if to clear it before looking at you again. “You would, you nerd,” he says, but it comes out low and contemplative.
As soon as you reach the carrel desk located in the most isolated corner of the stacks, he brings his hands to your waist and lifts you up to sit on top of the desk. Happily, you hook your ankles behind his legs and draw him in to stand between yours. “You can’t tell me you weren’t thinking the same thing.”
“I just wanted to kiss you for a bit, so you could warm up,” Jay insists. He leans in closer, until your chests are pressed up against each other. “But now that we’re here…”
“Now that we’re here,” you agree. Then you’re tilting forward to kiss him, and the tension in your body from a long morning at the library dissipates into the heat of his mouth and the softness of his hair.
Jay kisses you long and luxuriously, like he was born to do nothing but stand around and kiss you. “You did so well with planning the tournament,” he tells you in between kisses, smothering the words against your mouth.
“You did, too,” you reply, dispensing the compliment in airy gasps against his ear as he moves down to your neck, feathering open-mouthed kisses against the skin there. A whimper escapes from your throat when he bites down at the juncture of your neck and your clavicle, transforming into a breathy moan as he soothes over the sting with his tongue. His name slips out of your mouth in a dragged-out whine: “Jongseong.”
He shudders against you. “Warn a guy before you do that, will you? I don’t actually want to come in my pants in the library.”
You giggle, tugging his head back so you can look at him. You’re met with shiny lips, slow-blinking eyes that drag up and down your body, and tousled hair, messed up from Jay’s meticulous styling by your wandering hands. Temptation, personified. “Fuck,” you breathe out. “What if I do?”
“You’re not wearing pants,” Jay points out cheekily. His demeanor switches to sultry in an instant when he presses down on your bottom lip with his thumb, and he groans when your tongue darts out over it. “God, you’re so hot. C’mere, doll, let me sort you out.”
Twenty minutes later, you’re slipping out of the back door of the library and into the parking lot. You shoot off a quick text to Yunjin, asking her to hold down the fort for a little while longer at the tournament, and then Jay is tugging you into the backseat of his car with an urgency that makes your heart pound. Now, you get to sort him out, and it’s so much better than staring at old books.
yunjin: what is taking so long i sent jay to get u like 45 minutes ago
you: sorry be there in a bit love you babe!
yunjin: woooooooooow remember when i said i would never betray u for dick
yunjin: guess u DO NOT FEEL THE SAME
yunjin: ah well have fun don’t do anything i wouldn’t ;)
to all the boys i’ve fake-dated before (you, sunghoon, yeonjun, chan, vernon, mark, and 5 others)
you: were any of you fuckers going to tell me that jay’s birthday is TOMORROW?!
you: help!!!!! what do i get for him!!!!!
sunghoon: believe me that man wakes up every day thanking god that ur his gf. u don’t need to get him anything
you: as much as i appreciate the reporting of his simp behavior, i am IN A PANIC his birthday is in 12 hours why the fuck didn’t anyone say anything sooner?!?!
vernon: i’m gifting him a new speaker for the basement
chan: bro you’re getting that gift for ALL of us bc you BROKE the speaker in the basement
vernon: and jay is one of the many recipients of that gift!
you: FOCUS on me and MY problem please
mark: yooooo u could write him a song? i still owe u a favor so i’d be down to help
you: and make him listen to me perform it? i’m trying to keep this relationship going, not obliterate it
yeonjun: mans has one single move in his arsenal
mark: HEY it worked out pretty well for me
yeonjun: only bc u had like a million ppl helping u
sunghoon: i got jay tickets to that japanese singer he likes
you: FUCK that’s such a good idea why didn’t i think of that
sunghoon: bc u didn’t know his birthday was coming up
you: thanks genius
sunghoon: but anyways jay never makes a big deal out of his birthday
sunghoon: it’s mostly like a sentimental thing for his parents bc they tried for so long to have him
vernon: strictly speaking, they were trying to have ANY of the sperm inseminate ANY of the eggs so like it didn’t have to be him specifically
mark: dude wtf
chan: i’m sure jay will love whatever you get for him! maybe you could paint or draw something for him?
you: okay yes yes i can bang something out real quick in the studio
vernon: that’s what she said
yeonjun: this is why ur still single
you: the sperm and egg comment didn’t give it away?
vernon: guys stop ganging up on me wtf
you: okay thank you ONLY to chan the rest of you were useless
you: chan u could start a business. like a gift-giving idea business
mark: like santa claus but without the actual gifts?
yeonjun: ghost santa claus
chan: none of you should ever be allowed to start a business
It’s 5am by the time you’re finished in the studio, and you know your sleep cycle is going to be all sorts of messed up for the next few days, but it’s a small price to pay so you can slide into Jay’s bed and mold yourself against his body, knowing that your painting of the scene of your first date is leaning safely against the wall across from you.
Unfortunately, the swift arrival of sunrise and birds chirping outside of Jay’s window leave you unable to fall asleep (not to mention the energy drink you’d chugged at 2am). You give up on it quickly, comforted by the fact that you don’t have any classes today and can afford to sleep in when your body eventually gives out on you.
Staring at Jay is not an unenjoyable way to pass the time, so that’s what you do. Sleep smoothes out all the muscles in his face, but the sharp angles of the underlying bone structure turn him into marble; idly, you wonder how many sculptors would kill to be able to craft something this beautiful, this timeless and exquisite. You’ve tried to sketch or paint Jay multiple times yourself, and you’re still trying (that senior portfolio is going to be the death of you), but to date, you’ve been left unsatisfied. Something about Jay is just too expressive, too lively, too attentive; you haven’t been able to nail down the exact way he moves through the world, much less the way he looks at you like nothing else exists. There’s so much love to give in those steady hands, and so many meanings to divine in those familiar eyes—
Oh.
Jay’s eyes have flipped open, displaying his least endearing habit: sleeping with his eyes open. It unnerves you to no end, even though it makes him look kind of silly, so you have to flip around with a small grin on your face. “You’re lucky I love you so much,” you whisper, mostly to yourself.
His arm tightens around your waist. “Tell me something I don’t know.” The words come out slightly slurred, and the movement of his lips against the back of your neck makes you shiver.
You flip back around to meet his now closed eyes. “You’re awake?” Jay usually sleeps like the dead.
“I’m trying really hard not to be,” he drawls. Eyes still closed, he tugs you closer to press his lips to your forehead. “Go to sleep, doll.”
You hum tunelessly and fidget with the pendant of his necklace. “Happy birthday, Jongseong.” You can feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin, but you’re quick to nip that in the bud. “Or should I say… traitor? Why didn’t you tell me your birthday was coming up? I had to find out from Jungwon.”
“Typical mama’s boy.”
You giggle, even as you admonish him with: “Seriously, that joke needs to die. One of Riki’s coworkers actually thinks I’m his mom, and I just have a really good Botox supplier.”
Jay’s chest rumbles in amusement underneath your ear. Afterwards, it’s quiet for a long moment before he finally opens his eyes to peer blearily at you. “Are you upset I didn’t tell you about my birthday?”
You give him a tiny shrug. “Just curious, I guess. Plenty of people don’t like to celebrate their birthdays. Sunghoon said it’s usually more of a thing for your parents than it is for you.”
“Yeah, that’s about right.” Jay rubs his thumb over your cheek. “I’m spending the day with them, actually. We go to the same place for brunch every year, and then we just kind of walk around until dinner, which I’ve been cooking for the past couple of years.”
You smile automatically at the thought of his parents. They adore you, and the feeling is mutual— how could it not be?
Jay’s thumb halts its movements as something occurs to him. “Well, hey, do you wanna come with us?”
Quickly, you shake your head. You can spot Jay’s Mr. Nice Guy gestures from a mile away. “Nah, you should keep up your tradition with your parents. We’re still getting lunch with them this weekend, right? So I’ll get to see them soon, anyways.”
“My mom said she loves the insoles you sent her, by the way.”
“Right? Super comfortable. I can stay on my feet in the studio all day in those.” Just then, you’re hit by a yawn. “I guess I did the equivalent of a full day last night.”
Suddenly, Jay sits up straight, making you whine about the loss of coziness. “Wait, yeah, why are you here so early? Not that I don’t love waking up next to you, because I really do, but you weren’t here last night, and… oh my god.” He cuts himself off when he spots the painting against his wall.
You sit up as well. “Don’t freak out,” you begin. “I had fun making it, okay? And I don’t have class today so I can sleep alllllll day and if you’re not tired after dinner we can hang out afterwards, and seriously, Jay, light of my life, apple of my eye, etcetera, etcetera— let me do something nice for you without you feeling guilty about it, okay?” You draw in a deep breath. “I know I’m, like, afflicted with a chronic need to be helpful, but c’mon. Pot, kettle.” You point to yourself and then to him. “I love that you’re humble and kind and you know how lucky you are, but there’s nothing… to prove. You hear me? Just because you’ve had a good life doesn’t mean you have to give 110% of yourself to everyone else to deserve it. Please don’t make yourself feel bad because you get to take something from me for once instead of giving.” At the end of your rant, you blink in surprise at yourself. “Sorry, I don’t know when that turned into a lecture. All I’m saying is that you told me once that you’d want to give me Valentine’s Day every day, even if I didn’t deserve it, and I want to give that to you, too.”
Jay’s eyes flick between you and the painting and back to you, staring at you like he’s never seen you before. He’s speechless for so long that you count to 33 in your head in Mississippis that are definitely longer than one second. Finally, he crushes you to his chest in a hug that has your arms flailing around him with the force of it. “I feel like you just crawled into my head,” he says against your ear.
You make a face that he can’t see. “Didn’t need that visual in my head, but okay, baby.”
“I mean… I’m just feeling very perceived; that’s all. And I don’t really have anything else to say except that I love you so much, and thank you, and you’re my favorite person in the world.” He sniffles, and then preempts you with a, “Shut up.”
“Noooooo, I made you cry,” you coo at him, leaning back in his hold to swipe under his eyes with your thumbs. As you continue to fuss over him and he pretends to bite at your fingers, he hopes you know just how much he’s affected by your words and just how much you mean to him. Golden boy Park Jongseong, the prodigal son, the miracle child— he doesn’t think it could fairly be called a burden, because how could it be a burden to be so lucky, to be so loved, to have never truly suffered? But somehow, you get it. Maybe because you’re cut from the same self-sacrificing cloth, or maybe because you just understand him at an atomic level, but you get it. You get that he has dedicated his life to deserving his life in the first place; you get that he tries so hard, all the time, because he wants to be worthy of what he’s been given; you get that he gives, and gives, and gives, and he never wants to take, because he feels like he hasn’t done enough to pay back the gifts with which he was born, let alone take anything else from this world. And here you are, giving him your heart on his birthday— a day he doesn't think is anything special except for the joy it gives his parents— because you love him. Because you're just glad that you were born in the same timeline. He has never dared to ask for a gift like this.
Pathetically, all that he can get out is a simple, “I love the painting, by the way.” He nudges your nose with his. “I’m going to have it framed for our place after we graduate.”
“Our place?”
“Oh, yeah.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “I guess this is me asking. Do you want to live with me next year? Wherever it is that we end up. It would be, you know, economical.”
“Right, because we totally didn’t just have a conversation about your hang-ups with being born with a silver spoon in your mouth. And mine, too, I guess.”
Jay tsks at you. “Okay, or maybe I just want to wake up next to you every day. And make you food when you forget to eat, and listen to your horrible true crime podcasts while we clean up around the place, and hold your hair when you get sick because you forgot to take your Lactaid, and make sweet, sweet love to you every night—”
“Okay, okay, stop!” You’re laughing uncontrollably now, putting your hands up to stop Jay and the obnoxious kissy-face he’s making from coming any closer to you. “I didn’t need that much convincing, although I’m not sure how effective your convincing is when you’re just listing my bad habits, Mr. I-Sleep-With-My-Eyes-Open.”
“Yeah, but aren’t I lucky that you love me so much?” Jay smirks at you before tackling you down into his bed.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” you repeat to him. Sunlight slants in through the window behind his head, haloing him in a light so ethereal that you could be convinced the sun shines just for him. Like this, your words fade away from you, until all you’re left with is a quiet, heartfelt, “Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, I’ll live with you after we graduate.” Softly, you stroke through the hair at his nape. “Stop wondering, by the way.”
Jay’s eyebrows furrow. “Wondering what?”
You reach up to smooth away the crease in his brow. “Wondering if you’re allowed to be this happy. I just told you, like, a million times. You are. The heavens have decreed that Park Jongseong shall be happy for as long as he lives, and a long time after that.” Dramatically, you tap each of his shoulders, as if you’re knighting him. “It is thus decided.”
Jay swoops down and plants a chaste peck on your lips. “Well, since it’s thus decided. Let me add something to that decree, though: I’m going to make you happy for as long as I live, and a long time after that,” he promises.
And you know he will.
(London is overcast and dreary when you touch down at Heathrow; typical, for a mid-September day. You and Jay still carry tans from a summer of island-hopping around Asia and the Mediterranean, but you’re sure those will fade soon. Still, there’s nothing you can complain about when Jay’s arm is snug around your waist and he looks like a dream in a light wool coat and admittedly unnecessary sunglasses.
You tease him about the sunglasses all the way to the doorstep of your new, shared apartment. But then he kisses you across the threshold and whispers about how much he loves you and how excited he is to be with you for the rest of his life, and you are so, so happy. Unbelievably happy. Beautifully happy.
Happy, forevermore. This, the heavens have decreed.)
