joyflws

“What? You wanna try mine?” you ask, lifting your spoon to his lips but he pushes it away with two fingers.

“I still can’t believe you.”

“Seriously?” you giggle.

“Yes, seriously!” he insists as you take the bite yourself. “The audacity.”

Your shoulders bounce as you fight off the laugh threatening to break past your lips.

“I’m being so serious right now, baby.”

“I know,” you whisper, the words barely breathing past your lips as you try not to crack.

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“You absolutely do not,” he counters.

He looks down at you, waiting for your undivided attention. You turn your head, looking up at him, watching the forgotten ice cream on his spoon drip off onto his bare chest.

You lean in, grinning, running your tongue up his warm, tight skin and he scoffs again, pushing your head away.

“Knock that shit off,” he scolds you through a half-laugh. “You don't get to lick me.”

His arm slips away, shifting from you completely, putting space between the two of you. He fixes his hat, muscles flexing with it, the gold chain around his neck flickering in the low light, just a pair of grey Briar sweats and cozy socks on his body.

Your cheeks puff as you trap another laugh behind them when he gives you a jaded look for checking him out after all that.

“What?” His eyes narrow at you, voice still dancing between irate and amused. “You’re laughin’.”

“M’not.”

“You are.”

“I’m literally eating dessert, Graham.”

“You can do both,” he mutters through a mouthful of ice cream himself.

“I don’t think I can.”

“You absolutely can because you’re doing it right fucking now—”

“Calm down,” you laugh when his voice cracks as it tumbles from his lips.

He thumps you on your head with his spoon and you push him away. Garrett leans a little closer, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “I don’t appreciate being mocked.”

“I’m not mocking you, baby.”

“Yes, you are,” he snips. “You're extremely easy to read.”

“Can't a girl ask questions?” you ask, looking back toward the movie.

He mutters under his breath, sliding a rough finger under the strap of your tank top, lifting it, letting it fall with a little snap, stinging comedically versus ever-so-slightly like he hoped it would.

“I have never been so disrespected in my own home,” he mumbles like a tired father.

The laugh slips free before you can stop it. “You’re so dramatic.”

“So dramatic?” he asks, turning his body toward you, sitting up straighter. “So dramatic?”

You have to bite the inside of your cheek so hard it almost hurts just to keep yourself from laughing again. “I just asked what sport would you play if you were more athletic? I didn't mean to make you emotional.”

He pivots toward you slowly, eyebrow cocked, begging the silent question. Emotional… Are you fuckin’ kidding me?

You keep your eyes on the movie for another second before finally glancing over, and he's there for a question you'll hear loud and clear.

“What did you call me now?”

“…Unathletic?”

“No. Emotional.” He chuckles, letting out a long breath through his nose, shaking his head like he’s trying very hard to stay calm as a smile threatens at the corner of his mouth. “You know hockey is like the most athletic sport.”

“Mhmm?” you hum.

“We average like five miles a game.”

“Wowzers,” you giggle.

“My slapshots are over a hundred miles an hour, princess. You can't even drive that fast. And you're gonna sit there and act like that shit isn't athletic?”

Garrett lets out another long groan, dragging a hand over his face before pointing the spoon at you.

“You know what?” He sits forward. “I’m not done.”

You angle toward him, already trying not to smile. “You’re not?”

“I bench three-fifteen.”

“Hot damn.”

“Three-thirty-five on a good day.”

“Oh, thank god—”

“I squat four-fifty.”

“Sensational,” you answer, watching his nostrils flare.

“I’m givin’ you actual stats and you don’t give a fuck—look at this shit, baby,” he huffs, flexing for you, trembling with the effort. He rolls his shoulder, showing off his triceps too.

“Wow…” you murmur, letting your eyes wander over his broad body. “…Big boi.”

“…Did you just call me big boi?” he asks, staring at you another second before his eyebrows lift.

“Good boy?”

Garrett’s lips fall open like that title might have very well crossed the line “…I hate that,” he admits.

“Huh?”

“I hate that I liked that. Stop sweet talkin’ me when I’m pissed at you.”

You blink at him, all innocence again. “…Why are you pissed?”

“Shut up… Fuckin’ brat.”

Your head snaps toward him, acting offended yourself. “Garrett Graham.”

“Garrett Graham,” he mocks you, lifting his voice to a higher octave.

“Don’t be a bitch about it. It was just a question.”

His eyebrows shoot up so fast they practically disappear beneath his curls. “Thin ice.”

“What?”

“That's what you're skatin’ on,” he mutters, his abs tightening with his laugh, the ice cream-slicked spoon gliding along his tongue, looking at you out of the corner of his eye.

Garrett drops his spoon back into the bowl with a dramatic sigh, settling his big body into the couch a little more before he looks over at you.

“Can't even enjoy my sweet treat right now.” He points at you again. “Fuck you.”

“Ughhh,” you scoff, “I’m just messin’ with you, baby.” You reach forward, plucking your phone out of the place you had it resting, thumb tapping with a beep before you toss it to the side.

"…You're joking?"

“‘Bout what?” you ask, your lips curling into a smile.

“‘Bout what, my ass,” he scolds. “You were recording that shit.”

“Well…” You tilt your head, scraping the last bit out of your bowl. “I could lie—” You gasp as his hand closes around your wrist, eating your last bite of ice cream before you can react. “RUDE!”

“ME?” he fires back with the same offense. “You’re rude. And wrong. I’m athletic as fuck. Take it back.”

“I know, baby. I know,” your voice turns impossibly sweet, more sympathetic than not, like you’re trying really hard to believe that just as much as he does, which only fires him up more.

He lets your wrist go and you lean across the little space between you, cupping both of his cheeks in your hands and squishing his face until his lips pucker into an unwilling pout before you kiss him.

He lets you do it too, chuckling through it as you rub your thumbs over the apples of his cheeks.

“I believe you,” you breathe. “So fast.” Your lips pushing against his again. “So talented.”

“Shut up,” he mumbles.

“Six miles a game is so damn impressive, baby.”

“I said five.”

“You’ll get there,” you breathe as his hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you into his lap, his other arm hooking tight around your waist.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters.

He kisses you deep, sugar lingering on his soft lips before his tongue slips in. Garrett’s hand drifts lower, dipping between the waistband of your leggings, squeezing the supple flesh underneath in his big palm.

“Should make you suck my cock right here for teasin’ me, pretty,” he mumbles into your kiss. His hand reaches farther, your panties already soaked when his finger traces along the fabric. “You get wet off tormenting me, or what?”

“Maybe,” you breathe.

“Hmm… I got a question for you, baby,” he mutters, letting the tip of his thick finger dip in your wet hole. He pushes in and out slowly, letting that comment dangle in the air for a moment.

“What?” you ask impatiently.

“You athletic, bunny?”

You chuckle against his lips, your chest pushing a little tighter to his. “Maybe,” you whisper, and a crooked smile slides across his lips.

“Run.”

“…What?” you laugh breathlessly, the man still teasing your pussy with his fingers even after the threat.

“You heard me… You. Better. Run,” the words drip past his lips into yours.

“Garrett.”

“I’ll even give you a ten-second head start, baby.”

“You’re kidding—”

“One.”

“…Garrett.”

“Two.”

You scramble over his lap so fast you stumble a little, feet finally finding the hardwood with a slap, fixing your tank top, tugging up the back of your pants as you scurry toward the steps, but he’s already to seven.

“Eight… Nine…”

Behind you, Garrett’s voice follows at the exact same steady pace, his spoon scraping up the last bit of his ice cream, completely unconcerned by your growing panic as your foot hits the first step.

“Ten…”

You squeal, grabbing the banister to keep yourself from slipping as your socks slide against the polished wood.

By the time you hit the middle of the staircase, you’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe, glancing over your shoulder, your eyes matching his.

Garrett’s long legs eat up the distance, moving like the captain of Briar’s hockey team—fast, ridiculously athletic, and somehow already much closer than you could ever imagine.

Your scream echoes through the stairwell, bouncing off the high ceilings while Garrett’s laugh follows right behind it.

It isn’t even a normal laugh anymore. It’s loud and completely unhinged. Your heart pounds against your ribs, feet scrambling for any extra bit of traction while you practically throw yourself up the stairs two at a time.

You make it maybe three more steps before a pair of strong arms wraps around your waist, tossing you over his shoulder. Your entire world flips upside down, your eyes landing somewhere around the back of his gray sweats.

“Garrett!” you squeal—Crack! His hand lands against your ass with a playful smack.

“You’ve been runnin’ that mouth for thirty minutes,” he pants. “We threw gloves. I caught ya. Not my fault you’re slow as shit.”

He turns his head, chuckling against your skin before he bites teasingly. He isn’t actually angry—you know that much—but he’s absolutely decided you’re not getting away with tormenting him for the better part of half an hour without paying for it somehow.

“You’re in trouble,” he informs you matter-of-factly as he clears the last few stairs. You groan dramatically, going limp over his shoulder.

Your heart races wildly, every laugh stealing what little air you have left as you throw yourself farther up the staircase.

Garrett’s breathing barely changes. His footsteps never slow, never stumble, his strong legs carrying him up the stairs with the same effortless burst that gets him to loose pucks before anybody else on the ice.

And somewhere in between the first step and the last, you realize you probably should’ve picked a less athletic man to bully for the last thirty minutes.

“I’m sorry. Okay?” you giggle.

“Nah,” he chuckles, shouldering his bedroom door open, kicking it shut behind him with the heel of his foot. “Told you to run,” he reminds you, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “Gave you a ten-second head start like a gentleman.”

You smack his ass in mock protest, still breathless from laughing all the way up the stairs but before you can say anything he’s flipping you back over.

Your body lands on the comforter, a surprised gasp tripping past your lips as you press yourself up on your elbows to get a better look, but he’s already climbing over you.

The mattress dips beneath his weight as he catches your face with a single hand, smiling so hard he can barely keep a straight face.

The two of you end up rolling sideways, tangled together in a mess of limbs and discarded clothes.

“Fuck, baby,” he teases, cupping your cheek in his hand as his body presses down on top of yours, watching you struggle to catch your breath. “Breathin’ hard and I don’t even have my fingers in you yet.”

“—You should though,” you whisper, the sweetness in your voice almost breaking him. “Felt so good downstairs.”

“Is that so? Glad you were enjoying yourself, pretty,” he mumbles, and you can just hear the “but” waiting to leave his lips after all of that bullying. “You’re not gettin’ off that easy.”

His mouth parts against yours, tongue sweeping slow and hungry, tasting you as his hand moves away. You moan into him as your hands slide up his chest, finger twisting into his curls, dragging him closer.

Garrett’s hips press forward, grinding slow and heavy between your legs, gold chain swinging at his collarbone, dragging cool against your skin.

His hand slides up your body as his lips toy with your breast, biceps swelling when he tilts down, mouthing at your chest and sucking at the gentle skin of your cleavage. He moans around you when you bring his fingers to your lips.

His eyes flick up to yours—dark and heavy as you slide two into your mouth. The tips press against your tongue and your lips seal tight, cheeks hollowing.

He lets out the filthiest groan as you swirl your tongue—just like you would if it were his cock in your mouth—and you know from the look on his face that he’s remembering that little threat he made downstairs.

“You want it, huh?” he asks as you whimper a soft ‘yes’. “Suck it. Maybe I’ll forgive you.”

“Baby,” you sigh, your lips trembling at the corners when you fight back a smile, forcing your lips into a pout.

“You want me to feel bad for you?” he chuckles, rolling you effortlessly on top. You giggle with delight, your hand slapping against his muscular chest as you steady yourself.

His hand tangles in the back of your hair, pulling you down to his mouth. His lips brush against yours, humming out a pleased sound having you on top like this. “Got twenty more minutes of teasin’ you. Do a good enough job and I’ll make it ten—”

“Football,” you grin.

“What?”

“I would have said football.”

“Keep talkin’,” he warns, his palm reaching up, resting on the top of your head, guiding you down. You laugh breathily, dragging your tongue along the deep ridges of his stomach, pressing kisses as you work lower and lower.

He sinks a little deeper into the pillow, lashes lowering as your fingers wrap around his thick dick, pumping as a line of spit falls from your lips.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “That’s it.” The praise falls from his lips as his hand rests behind his head, propping himself up for a better look as you tap his swollen tip against your tongue.

The thick muscles in his thighs clench with each slap, jaw dropping as your lips wrap around him tight, one hand slipping into your hair.

You moan around his length, taking him deep, watching his eyes roll back. “Christ… Just—Just like that, baby,” he pants, guiding your head, using your mouth to stroke him.

You let him use you—let him fuck your throat—spit slicking your chin as your eyes water and your hands grip his thighs for balance.

The wet sounds fill his room—every moan, every gag, every obscene sound making you more and more desperate.

His big hands rest on the back of your head, eyes pinching shut, fucking up into your mouth from the bottom. Your nails drive into his thighs, throat hot with the effort as his dick swells on your tongue.

You can tell he’s close, his breathing quickening with each passing second—that praise leaving his lips coming out a little more slurred as your soft lips glide up and down his dick.

“Thinkin’ about cummin’ just like this, pretty. What do you think?” he grits through his teeth—a smug smile painting his features.

You mumble around his dick and he grins, pulling you off him, leaving you reaching for air.

He rolls you again, spreading you open, a scream leaving your lips when he slaps your pussy. Your legs clamp together and all he does is shake his head with a grin, clicking his tongue, gripping your thigh to pin it down again.

He drives into you, burying himself to the hilt, your hands finding his hips, trembling at how deep he is.

Your gasp snaps into a moan, back arching off the mattress, when he draws his hips back, the muscles in his chest and stomach flexing tighter when he drags his body. His eyes fall, eyeing his wet cock, the head dropping between his shoulders as he blows out a deep breath.

“Wanted you so bad I barely made you beg,” his words grumble past his lips as his chain swings in your face.

You pull him down by his necklace, crashing your lips to his again. Your teeth scrape his lip, his tongue licking into your mouth. You’re so wet he slides in and out of you with ease, slick sounds echoing between your bodies.

He grinds down, hips circling, making your breath catch. “Yes,” you cry, clenching around him, and he groans—loud and filthy.

“Look at you. Crying on my cock—” he grunts, slamming his hips forward so hard your body jolts, skin smacking against his. “Fuck, pretty girl. You made a goddamn mess for me, huh?”

Sweat drips off his brow, biceps flexing as he squeezes your hip, keeping you flush to him, using the leverage to slam into you harder.

His hands hook behind your thighs, folding you in half, pinning you to the bed as he drives into you. Your nails claw at the sheets, then at his back, then into his hair, pulling at the roots.

“Garrett—Garrett, holy shit—” he dips down to kiss you—his cock sinking impossibly deep.

“You’re right there. C’mon, pretty girl. Stop bein’ a brat and fuckin’ give it to me.”

Your head falls back, mouth open in a silent cry as your body tightens, every muscle trembling as he keeps hitting that exact spot.

“C’mon, baby. Let him hear who makes you cum.”

Your orgasm rips through you hard, a choked sob escaping your lips as you clamp around him, shaking under his weight.

“That’s it,” he whispers against your mouth, still thrusting through the aftershocks. “Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

You’re soaking him, dripping down your thighs, pulsing around him as he keeps fucking you through it, working you toward another.

“Feel that mess you made?” he asks, smugness laced in every word. “Proud of you, baby. So filthy for me. Need you on top.”

He pulls out fast, making you whine at the loss of him. Garrett wraps his hand around his dick, pumping as he watches you climb on top, hovering over him, delicate fingers circling your clit as he licks his bottom lip.

You spread your thighs, sinking on his tip, taking the first few inches, moving up and down teasingly before you take the rest—eyes locked on his, nails digging into his chest.

You ride him hard, your bodies colliding in messy, rhythmic slaps, the sounds of your pleasure filling the room.

Garrett grabs your waist, lifting you just enough to slam back up into you. “You’re gonna cum for me again,” he rasps. “Right fucking now.”

And you do—your belly tightens, the band snaps, and his name tumbles past your lips as your head falls back. Your throat’s ragged from sobbing his name, thighs drenched in sweat and slick, shining under the low light.

“Goddamn, baby… I’m almost there,” he mutters, reaching up to hook a hand around the back of your neck and kiss you, his hips stalling out as a whimper slips from his lips when he sighs that he’s cumming, filling you with his heavy load.

You shut your eyes in exhaustion, his smile sliding against yours as his nose nuzzles yours. His cock throbs inside you still, his heartbeat thudding against yours.

He kisses you again anyway, both of you still breathing hard, forehead resting against yours. His smile lingers, lazy and completely satisfied at how exhausted and fucked-out you look.

“You know…” he murmurs, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “You still haven’t apologized.”

“Yes, I did,” you laugh.

“Mm-mm,” he grunts, pressing a kiss against your forehead.

“Literally said I was sorry,” you pant, drawing in a breath as he waits for you to finish your sentence, not even trying to hide the teasing look on his face.

“For ruinin’ my sweet treat?” he lifts an eyebrow. “No, you fuckin’ didn’t.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.

“This?” he asks, tipping his chin toward your body. “This reaction’s apology enough for callin’ me unathletic, baby.”

His eyes drift over your face, taking in your damp skin, the little wisps of hair stuck to your forehead, the way you’re still trying to catch your breath.

“Stop,” you chuckle, turning your face away a little as he looks up at you like you’re the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

“Look at you… So sweaty,” he teases softly, his voice losing most of its bite as his fingertips tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

Heat climbs into your cheeks, your lip bitten to hold back your smile. “Stop teasing me, Garrett Graham.”

“Coming from you?” he smiles, grabbing your cheeks between his fingers before stealing another slow kiss. “That more than made up for you fuckin’ with me,” he whispers, the words deep—vibrating against your mouth. “…Now delete that fuckin’ video.”

“Absolutely not.”

Garrett’s smile spreads against your lips before he lets out a quiet, defeated chuckle, already knowing exactly what your answer would be. He gives your hip a playful squeeze and shakes his head once.

“Well, fuck,” he sighs. “Round two, princess.”

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⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

The fluorescent lights hum overhead with that specific frequency that makes your skull ache if you pay attention to it. You have not been paying attention to much lately. The past few days have passed in a blur of disconnected moments that your brain stopped trying to organize into linear time.

Your hand hovers over the shelf of instant noodles. Shin Ramen sits in its red package. The package in front of you blurs slightly. You blink. It stays blurred.

The question of when you last ate surfaces without urgency. Yesterday feels like a possibility. The day before seems equally likely. There was toast at some point.

You put the noodles in your basket without remembering the decision to reach for them. They join the other items you have collected. Energy drinks you will not open sit next to bandaids for cuts you do not have. A bag of cheap sugar cookies that taste like cardboard rounds out the selection. The basket weighs almost nothing in your hand. Everything weighs almost nothing these days.

The glass door of the refrigerated section reflects someone you don't quite recognize. Your hair is pulled back in a knot that was never meant to last four days. No makeup covers the greyish tint your skin has taken under these lights. You're wearing one of Seongje's hoodies. The sleeves hang too long and there is a stain on the cuff that might be coffee. The fabric smells like him and cigarette smoke.

He’s never seen you like this.

The thought arrives with unusual clarity, cutting through the static that has replaced most of your thoughts. In the eight months you have been together, he has never seen you barefaced. The version of yourself he knows is maintained and deliberate.

The version currently buying random shit at three in the morning looks like she has been underwater for a week.

You move toward the register on autopilot, body carrying you there without conscious input. The cashier is some college student doing overnight shifts. He glances at your basket and then at your face. Something flickers in his expression that looks like concern.

"You okay?" he asks.

The question takes too long to process. You blink at him and form the word in your mouth before speaking. "Fine."

He does not look convinced but he's not paid enough to push. The scanner beeps as he runs your items across it. Each beep sounds too loud in your skull. Everything is too loud or too quiet lately. 

His voice carries from the next aisle over.

Seongje says something you do not catch. Then laughter follows. Hwangmo is probably with him. The sound makes your stomach drop in a way that almost registers as emotion. That makes it the strongest thing you have felt in seventy-two hours.

Your hand tightens on the basket handle. The cashier continues scanning. The energy drinks beep. The cookies beep. Your brain screams at your body to move faster but everything moves through honey.

"That'll be-"

You shove money at him before he finishes, not bothering to wait for change. The plastic bag crinkles as you grab it and turn toward the door. If you can just get outside before he rounds the corner then maybe he won’t see that the girl in his hoodie with greasy hair is supposed to be his girlfriend.

"Yo, isn't that your girl?" Hwangmo's voice carries that specific amusement that means he is about to say something stupid. Every muscle in your body locks. Your back is to them but you can feel the weight of attention shifting in your direction.

"Where?" Seongje sounds closer than you expected.

"Right there. Chick at the register."

You keep walking. The automatic doors are right there. Five more steps separate you from escape.

"Wait."

Four steps remain.

"You guys have the wrong person." Your voice comes out flat and empty. The doors slide open. You are almost through when footsteps sound behind you.

"Turn around."

The words are not a request.

You stop in the doorway. Night air hits your face with sharp cold. The plastic bag cuts into your palm. Behind you Hwangmo is probably grinning. The fluorescent lights are bright enough to see through your closed eyelids.

"I said turn around."

You do.

His eyes land on you and something in his expression shifts. His gaze moves over your face and catalogs the absence of makeup. The circles under your eyes look dark enough to be bruises.

Hwangmo says something. You don’t hear it. Seongje isn’t looking at him.

"When did you eat last?" The question comes out quiet and matter-of-fact. He could be asking what time it is.

You open your mouth and then close it. The answer requires accessing information you do not have. "Today."

"Bullshit." He steps closer. Cigarette smoke clings to his jacket. "When?”

"I don't know."

"You don't know." He moves close enough that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "You don't know when you ate."

"I've been busy."

His eyes drop to the plastic bag in your hand. Energy drinks and cookies, things that are not food in any real sense, look back at him. When he looks at your face again, something cold and controlled has settled into his expression.

"How long has it been since you slept?"

"I sleep."

"How long?”

Your brain tries to count backwards. It gets lost somewhere around yesterday afternoon. The timeline refuses to organize itself. "I don't know. A few hours here and there."

He reaches out and touches your face. His thumb presses gently under your eye where the skin is darkest. You flinch from the shock of being touched after days in a body that stopped feeling like yours. "You look like shit."

"Thanks." The word has no bite to it. It just falls out of your mouth and lands between you.

Hwangmo still stands nearby. Seongje does not glance at him. His attention stays fixed on you with that careful intensity that makes you feel pinned in place.

"You're coming with me."

"I have to go home."

"No, you don't."

"I have-"

"Whatever you have can wait." His hand drops from your face to your wrist. The grip is firm but not painful. "You're coming with me."

You should argue. You should pull away and insist you are fine. You should go back to your apartment and continue the very productive spiral you have been in. The thought of doing any of that requires energy you stopped having days ago.

"Okay," you hear yourself say.

His expression doesn’t change but something in his posture relaxes slightly. He takes the plastic bag from your hand and turns to Hwangmo.

"Go home."

"But-"

"Go. Home."

Hwangmo must see something in his face that makes arguing a bad idea. He shrugs and wanders toward the back of the store. Seongje's hand is still around your wrist. The warmth and solidity of it registers as the first real thing you have felt in days.

"Can you walk or do I need to carry you?"

The question should be humiliating. Instead it just sounds like an assessment of your current functionality.

"I can walk."

"Then walk."

He doesn’t let go of your wrist. He pulls you gently toward the door and out into night air so cold it almost feels like sensation returning to your skin. You follow because the alternative is standing in a convenience store trying to remember what functional human behavior looks like.

His apartment is six blocks away. You have walked this route before as the version of yourself that wore lipstick and laughed at his dark jokes. That version seems very far away now, unreachable.

"You've been avoiding me," he says after the first block.

You stay quiet.

"Three days. No texts. Calls going to voicemail." His voice stays even without accusation. "I thought you were pissed about something."

"Not pissed."

"Then what?"

You don’t have an answer that makes sense. How do you explain the emptiness? How do you describe going through the motions of being alive without any of the actual living parts working? You have been wearing his hoodie for four days straight because it was the only thing that felt like it belonged to something real.

"I don't know," you say finally.

He makes a sound that might be acknowledgment. He does not push for more. He just keeps walking with your wrist held loosely in his hand, like he’s afraid you will disappear if he lets go.

Maybe you would.

His apartment looks the same as it always does. A couch sits against one wall while a low table holds an ashtray and his phone charger. There are no decorations or photos. The functional space could belong to anyone.

A hand on your shoulder guides you to the couch. The pressure feels gentle but firm enough that your body follows without question. You sink into the cushions and watch him move toward the small kitchen area.

"Stay there," he says.

The couch has become the most comfortable place you have sat in days. Your body settles into it like it might never get up again. Going anywhere was not part of your plans anyway.

Water hits metal too loudly in the quiet apartment as he fills a pot from the sink. The pot goes onto the stove and he turns the burner on. Blue flames lick up the sides. A cabinet opens and he pulls out two packets of instant ramen. The cheap kind costs less than a dollar and tastes like salt and MSG.

His movements are efficient and practiced as you watch with detached interest. This is clearly not the first time he has made food at three in the morning. The water begins to boil. Torn packets release noodles into the pot. Seasoning follows. Steam rises and fills the small space with the smell of artificial beef flavor.

A bowl appears in front of you on the low table three minutes later. Noodles sit in their broth and release heat into the air. Chopsticks rest across the top of the bowl.

"Eat," he says.

Your stomach turns at the thought of eating in a way that has nothing to do with nausea. Food has become an abstract concept over the past few days. Your body stopped asking for it.

"I'm not hungry."

"I don't care. Eat anyway."

The chopsticks feel heavy in your hand as you pick them up because arguing seems harder. Some noodles lift from the bowl and broth drips back down. Steam hits your face. The chopsticks lower without any food reaching your mouth.

"What's the problem?" he asks.

"I'm just not hungry right now."

"You haven't eaten in days. You're hungry."

"I don't feel hungry."

A long moment passes while he stares at you. Processing this information seems to lead him toward finding it unacceptable. His jaw tightens slightly. Frustration rather than anger shows in the gesture. "Why?”

The chopsticks go back across the bowl as you set them down. Noodles sink back into the broth. Your brain searches for an explanation that will make sense. 

"I usually shower before I eat dinner," you say. "So I'm not hungry right now."

The logic sounds reasonable in your head. Out loud it sounds less convincing. His expression suggests you have just said something in a language he does not speak.

"You're not hungry because you haven't showered," he repeats slowly.

"I always shower before dinner. It's just a thing."

He stands up from where he has been leaning against the arm of the couch. The new information gets processed. Some conclusion forms that you cannot see.

"Okay," he says. "Then go shower."

"I don't have any clean clothes here."

"I have clothes. Go shower."

Standing up and walking to the bathroom seems like the logical next step. Your body refuses to respond to these commands. The couch cushions might as well have grown roots into your spine.

Ten seconds pass before he reaches down and takes your hand. Steady pressure pulls you up until you are standing. Your legs remember how to hold your weight but only barely.

"Come on," he says.

His hand stays wrapped around yours as he walks toward the bathroom. Following requires less energy than resisting. Water turns on as he reaches into the shower. Steam begins to fill the space.

Temperature adjustment happens while you stand in the doorway and watch. The sound of water hitting tile almost drowns out the ringing in your ears that has been there for days.

Turning back to you, he reaches for the hem of his hoodie that you are wearing. You take a step backward and create distance. His hands stop.

"What are you doing?" you ask, suddenly shy.

"Helping you shower."

"I can shower by myself."

"Can you?"

"Yes."

That same careful assessment from earlier returns to his expression. Showering alone probably exceeds your current capabilities. Standing without swaying takes most of your energy. Coordinating the complex series of actions required to wash your hair feels impossible.

"I'm coming in with you," he says.

"What? No. I can do it myself."

"You've been wearing the same clothes for four days. You can't remember the last time you ate. You look like you're about to pass out. I'm not letting you get in the shower alone."

"That's weird."

"I don't care."

A staring contest begins. Steam continues filling the bathroom. Exhaustion has soaked so deep into your bones that arguing feels like climbing a mountain.

"I've never showered with someone before," you say finally.

"There's a first time for everything."

"This is weird."

"You already said that."

"Because it is."

"Are you getting undressed or am I doing it for you?"

Your gaze drops to the hoodie and sweatpants you cannot remember putting on. His hands move to the hem of the hoodie.

The fabric catches on your hair tie and pulls it loose. Greasy strands fall around your shoulders. The hoodie drops to the floor. Sweatpants follow. Underwear joins the pile. Once you’re completely naked, you feel no embarrassment or self-consciousness like you thought you would. His shirt comes off next, followed by his jeans. Looking at your body does not seem to interest him particularly. Nothing sexual lives in this moment. 

You step into the stall first. Hot water hits your skin and the sensation shocks your system. Heat seeps into your muscles and reminds them that relaxation used to be possible.

He steps in behind you. The shower stall allows maybe six inches of space between your back and his chest. Water hits both of you. Standing under the spray lets you watch it run down the drain.

"Tilt your head back," he says.

Compliance comes easily. Water hits your hair and soaks through to your scalp. His hands follow and work through the tangled mess with unexpected gentleness. A bottle opens somewhere behind you. Then his fingers return with shampoo that smells like mint.

Slow circular motions scrub your scalp. The pressure feels good without hurting. Your eyes close. Water runs down your face. Days of grease and grime get worked through by his fingers. Rinsing removes the shampoo and the bottle opens again. The conditioner works through the ends of your hair where tangles are worst.

"You smell like cigarettes," you say. Your voice sounds strange in the small space. 

"I was smoking earlier."

"You're always smoking."

"Yeah."

The conditioner rinses clean. His hands on your shoulders turn you around until you face him. Water runs between your bodies. Wet hair pushes back from his forehead. A washcloth hangs from a hook and he reaches for it. Body wash pours onto the fabric. He begins washing your arms with the same methodical attention he gave your hair.

"This is really weird," you say.

"You already said that twice."

"I'm saying it again."

Your shoulders receive attention next. Then your back and stomach. The washcloth scrubs away layers of sweat and stale air that have been clinging to your skin. Standing still and letting him work seems like the only option. Your brain has stopped trying to process what is happening. Making sense of anything no longer seems possible so passive observation takes over.

Legs get washed. Then feet. Every part of you receives the same careful attention. When he finishes, the washcloth gets handed to you.

"Your turn," he says.

The washcloth gets handed to you and you take it with hands that barely remember how to grip properly. Body wash pours onto the fabric in an amount that is probably too much. Your hands move to his chest and start scrubbing with all the coordination of someone who has forgotten how arms work.

The washcloth slides across his skin in uneven strokes that miss spots and repeat the same areas. You go over his left shoulder three times while barely touching his right. Your movements lack any kind of rhythm or purpose. This is not helping him get clean and both of you know it.

He stands completely still anyway and lets you work with clumsy hands and unfocused attention. No corrections come from him. He doesn’t guide your wrists to the areas you are missing. Your hand drags the washcloth down his arm and then back up. The water has started to run cool but he does not rush you or take over. He waits.

Eventually your hands slow and then stop moving entirely. The washcloth hangs limply in your grip while you stare at his chest like you have lost track of what you are supposed to be doing.

"Done?" he asks quietly.

The question takes a moment to process before you can answer. "Yeah."

The washcloth drops from your hand and hits the shower floor with a wet slap. He reaches past you and turns the water off in one smooth motion. Sudden silence fills the small space and makes every other sound seem amplified. 

"Feel better?" he asks.

"A little," you say.

"Good. Now you can eat." He steps out of the shower first and grabs a towel from the rack. The fabric wraps around his waist with practiced efficiency. Another towel gets pulled down and held open in both hands. You step out on unsteady feet and he wraps the fabric around you immediately. His hands tuck it in above your chest with quick movements. The towel feels rough and clean against your skin while holding more warmth than you expected.

He leaves you standing there wrapped in his towel. Movement sounds from the other room as drawers open and close. He comes back with a t-shirt that will be too big on you and sweatpants with a drawstring waist.

"Get dressed," he says. "Then we're eating."

The clothes get pulled on with movements that feel disconnected from your brain. The t-shirt hangs off your shoulders and reaches mid-thigh. Sweatpants bunch around your ankles even with the drawstring pulled tight. You shuffle back to the couch where the bowl of ramen still sits on the low table. Steam no longer rises from it. The broth has probably gone lukewarm.

Sitting down takes more effort than it should. Your body folds onto the cushions and you reach for the chopsticks. They still feel heavy. Everything feels heavy.

Seongje settles into the spot next to you with his own bowl. Noodles disappear into his mouth at a steady pace. A small amount lifts to your lips and you chew slowly. The taste registers as salt and something vaguely meat-flavored. Swallowing requires conscious effort.

Another bite follows. Then another. Each one takes time to get from bowl to mouth to stomach. Your jaw moves like it has forgotten the mechanics of chewing. The noodles are soft enough that this does not matter much.

He finishes his bowl in the time it takes you to eat maybe a quarter of yours. The empty dish gets set on the table with a quiet click. Settling back against the couch cushions, he reaches into his pocket. A cigarette pack emerges. The familiar sound of the flame catching fills the quiet.

Smoke curls up toward the ceiling as he takes a drag. The smell of tobacco mixes with the lingering scent of artificial beef broth.

Your hand reaches out without thinking about it. The gesture asks for what your mouth does not bother saying.

He looks at your outstretched hand and then at your face. The cigarette stays between his fingers.

"No," he says.

"Why not?" Your hand stays extended in the space between you.

"Because I said no."

"You're literally smoking right next to me." The smoke still hanging in the air gets a vague gesture from you.

"That's different."

Your hand drops back to your lap with more force than necessary. The chopsticks pick up more noodles but your movements have lost what little coordination they had. "How is that different?"

"You breathing in my secondhand smoke and you smoking directly are not the same thing." He takes another drag and this time turns his head to blow it away from you.

"The distinction seems pretty arbitrary."

"It's not arbitrary."

Another bite goes into your mouth while you stare at the remaining noodles in your bowl. "You smoke around me all the time. What difference does it make if I'm the one holding it?"

"The difference is you're already self-destructive enough without adding nicotine to the list." His voice stays matter-of-fact while the cigarette dangles from his fingers. "This is the last thing you need."

"That's hypocritical." The words come out without heat.

"I don't care."

"You're sitting here smoking while telling me I can't smoke." Another bite lifts to your mouth and the chopsticks shake slightly in your grip.

"Yeah." He takes another drag and blows the smoke away from your face. "I am."

The energy required to argue about this does not exist in your body. Your brain tries to form a rebuttal and gives up halfway through. Whatever. The fight is not worth having. Going back to eating your noodles in mechanical silence seems easier.

Silence settles between you like a physical presence. His cigarette burns down slowly and leaves a trail of ash that he taps into the ashtray. Eating at your glacial pace continues. The bowl is maybe half empty now. Progress exists even if it feels minimal.

He reaches over and taps ash into the ashtray on the table. The movement is practiced and automatic. Smoke continues to curl upward while you continue to chew with your eyes half-closed from exhaustion.

"When did it start?" he says after a while.

The question is vague enough that clarification seems necessary. "When did what start?"

"This." He gestures vaguely at you with the hand holding the cigarette. Smoke trails from the lit end. "The not eating and sleeping. All of it."

Your chopsticks pause halfway to your mouth and hover there while you think, trying to pinpoint when things started going wrong feels impossible. There was no clear beginning, just a gradual slide from functional to whatever this current state is.

"I don't know," you say finally. "A week ago maybe. Could be longer."

"What happened?" He stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray and immediately reaches for another one.

"Nothing happened."

"Something always happens." The lighter flicks and catches. New smoke joins the old.

"Not this time. I just got tired."

"Of what?"

"Everything." The word comes out flat and empty as you set the chopsticks down across your bowl. "All of it, the constant effort of being a person."

He does not respond right away. His eyes stay on you with that careful attention he gives to things he is trying to understand. The weight of his gaze feels heavy enough to press you further into the cushions.

"You should have called me," he says finally.

"I didn't know what to say." Your hands fold in your lap while your thumbs press against each other.

"You don't need to say anything. You just needed to call." 

"I'm done," you say, not sure if you were referring to the noodles, or to the weight of everything on your shoulders.

"You barely ate half." He looks at the bowl and then back at your face.

"It's more than I've eaten in three days."

"Fine. That's enough for now."

Standing up requires pushing yourself off the couch with both hands. Your legs remember how to support your weight but protest the effort with a slight tremor. The bowl gets picked up as you turn toward the kitchen area.

"I'll wash this and then head out," you say.

"Why would you head out?" The question comes immediately. 

"Because I should go home." Your feet are unsteady as you take a step towards the kitchen.

"Why?"

The question stops you mid-step. Going home means going back to your apartment, the unwashed dishes and the pile of laundry. It means going back to the space where the spiral started.

"I just should," you say without turning around.

"That's not a reason." His voice comes from behind you on the couch.

"I can't just stay here." The bowl trembles slightly in your grip.

"Why not?" The leather creaks as he shifts on the couch.

"Because I have things to do." Your knuckles are white where they grip the bowl.

"What things?" His voice stays level but something in it suggests he already knows you are lying. "What do you have to do at four in the morning?"

"I don't want to be a burden," you say. The words come out barely above a whisper.

"You're not." The couch creaks again and footsteps sound behind you.

"I'm literally falling apart in your apartment. That seems like a burden."

"I don't care. You're staying here."

"You can't just decide that,” You argue as you finally turn around to face him.

"I just did." He stands now and looks at you with that immovable expression.

"That's not how this works." Your voice lacks conviction.

"You can barely stand up without swaying. You're not going anywhere."

“I don’t have my stuff,” you say weakly.

“You don’t need stuff. You need sleep.”

“I can sleep at home.”

“No you can’t.” The certainty in his voice allows no room for argument. “You’ll go back to your place and stare at the ceiling for six hours and then come back here looking worse than you do now.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do.”

He is probably right. Going home means another day of going through motions without any actual living happening.

Your mouth opens to protest again but nothing comes out. The exhaustion has finally won. Fighting takes energy you stopped having days ago.

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll take the couch.”

“Get in the bed or I’m carrying you there.” The bowl gets taken from your hands before you can respond. Water runs in the kitchen as he rinses it. Dishes clink together.

He comes back and finds you still standing in the same spot. His hand wraps around your wrist.

“Come on,” he says, leading you to the bedroom.

You climb onto his bed without waiting for further instruction. The mattress gives under your weight.Muscles you did not know were tense begin to release. The pillow smells like him. 

He moves around the room for a moment. A drawer opens and closes. The lamp on the nightstand gets turned on and casts warm light across the space. Then the overhead light goes off and the room becomes softer. 

"Move over," he says.

You shift toward the wall and your body protests the movement. The mattress dips significantly as he climbs in next to you. His weight settles and changes the entire landscape of the bed. The blanket gets pulled up higher over both of you. An arm drapes over your waist with familiar weight. Warmth radiates from his body into yours and seeps through the borrowed t-shirt you are wearing.

“If you kick me I’m going to the couch,” you mumble into the pillow.

“I’m not going to kick you.”

"You say that now." Your words slur slightly with exhaustion.

“Go to sleep.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly. The words barely make it past your lips. “For not letting me leave.”

His arm tightens around your waist slightly. “You’re not going anywhere. Not anymore.”

Sleep pulls at the edges of your consciousness. For the first time in days it feels possible rather than theoretical. Your body starts to let go.

“Don’t disappear again,” he says against your hair. His breath is warm on the back of your neck.

You manage a sound that might be agreement. Your brain has stopped forming coherent words. His warmth and the weight of his arm and the smell of cigarette smoke all blend together into something that feels almost like peace.

You were not the best friend of Dean Di Laurentis, but he was yours.

It was a strange coincidence; sometimes you felt like the other woman, and other times it was like Beau was you in a different form. You weren’t jealous. Dean was your d-man, and you were his goalie.

Beau Maxwell just happened to be his best friend. 

Maybe you were jealous. What’s so wrong about that? You hated it when people ignored you, but admitting it meant growth, and you were going to grow. Reach as far as the stars formed, further than any man had been before. You just had to learn how to get there first. 

“Hey, dude, did you hear about one of the forwards on the Harvard team? He broke his femur on a hike and is out for the rest of the season.” Dean mumbles through a handful of pretzels, crumbs track down the plains of his bare stomach and onto your bedsheets. You're on the floor surrounded by open textbooks and ink-smudged papers. 

“Yeah,” you respond, fiddling around with the tiniest Lego piece of the set, “that’s not good.”

“What? What are you talking about? The forward’s been on your ass for months now.” 

That’s true. Opposing players tend to target you, but you’ve never been that worried about it. After all, you have an entire team there to protect you. Especially Dean. He’s got into more fights on the ice for you than anyone can count. 

“I don’t know, man, just not feeling it today.” Your voice trails off into a whisper; Dean rustles around on the bed behind you. You blink back tears, tears that really don’t mean anything but show up regardless. Things don’t need to have meaning to happen. He kicks the back of your head with his socked foot. 

"Hey." You turn your head, and he’s right there, crawling halfway across the bed just to see you closer. "What's the matter with you?”

You… don’t know. You can’t pinpoint the exact problem; they all blend into one giant heap of confusion. Dean can see it in your clouded eyes, the sheer volume of nothing residing in your exhausted brain. He pities you in moments like these; the quiet times spent alone where everything loud turns quiet. 

“Do you—do you want me to help?”

You pause, eyes flickering between his, searching for an ounce of reconsideration. There’s nothing there but trust. An unaltered acceptance of you and him, together quietly. You nod your head slowly, shuddering once his hand slips into your hair and tugs. He pulls you back until the edge of your skull presses into the mattress; your heart beats in your ears the moment he leans in. His lips were warm, soft to the touch and the gentlest feeling in your chest. You could taste your shared breath and hoped he could too. 

He breaks the kiss and hovers an inch away from your heated face. “Oh, kid. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” 

He doesn’t give you an answer, not a verbal one anyway. Instead he tugs on your hair harder, painful enough to cause a chain-link reaction. A sharp burst of pleasure shoots to your cock. The friction of your shorts and boxers is enough to turn you desperate and whiny. Your mouth falls open as a quiet moan escapes it; Dean swallows it up. 

The smell of him is dizzying and does nothing for your growing bulge. The scents of cinnamon and tobacco, along with a faint lingering smell of sweat, fill the air. You let him lick all over you and bite your tongue and your lips until you taste metal.

“Fuck, Dean,” you whisper, subtly trying to grind the palm of your hand over your crotch. “Please, help me.”

He watches you with lidded eyes and stares expectantly as you clumsily climb up onto the bed and settle in against the headboard. Your eyes tear up again, wet and bleary as you try your best to remain relaxed as Dean perches himself up on his knees between your spread legs. 

“Hmm, that’s what your big fucking problem was? You needed me to help you out?” His hand moves slowly down the apex of your thigh, tugging the edge of your shorts down to reveal the sensitive slither of skin. You writhe at the touch, and his smile only widens. 

Every breath you take is shuddered painfully through your contorted chest. He’s got half of your clothes off now, cock sprung thick between the small amount of space between you. His hand wraps around the length of it, large fingers stretched far enough to circle around your dripping head. He slicks his hand down once, and you choke, the air now knocked out of you.

“Please, Dean, I want you.”

"Yeah, I know you do, baby.” He jerks you harder. "Can't give it to you just yet.” 

You whine again, this time an attempt for him to change his mind. It won’t work. Not at this time of the day, not here in the house. It’s too risky; can’t have any of the other boys walk in as he’s pushed most of the way into your ass. The first time you tried it was months ago, inside the back of his Jeep, parked in a forest two hours away from campus. Nothing was out there except the trees, and maybe a handful of traumatised birds or squirrels. It was good; you’ve been trying to catch a similar high for ages. But Dean? He just won’t bite no matter how eager you get. 

You cum in hot spurts down his wrist. Body shaking, the back of your headboard slams against the wall as you push your way through a cruel orgasm at the even crueller hands of Dean Di Laurentis. 

“So is she alive?” Dean asks as soon as the front door opens, his phone in hand as he records the whole thing. “She’s alive, right?”

“Of course she’s alive, dingus.” Allie rolls her eyes from beside him, snatching the phone from his hand, eliciting an offended, ‘Hey!’ from Dean, which she effectively ignores. “She had a wisdom tooth extraction, not an open heart surgery.”

“I was just asking!”

“Yeah, well, ask smarter questions.” Allie’s face softens as she turns to Tucker, who is half-carrying, half-dragging you towards the couch. “Is she okay?”

“Dean di Laurentis!” You grumble angrily, your voice muffled by the cotton stuffed into your mouth post-surgery. You are obviously still loopy from the anesthetic. “I hate you!” You continue throwing profanities and punches his way, while your boyfriend steers you away from your current archnemesis with great difficulty.

Meanwhile, Dean is laughing his ass off behind a camera, filming the whole thing. They don’t even know whose phone he is currently using.

“Man, don’t rile her up, we just got her to calm down!” Logan—who drove them to and from the clinic—complains, punching Dean’s arm.

“We?” Tucker raises an eyebrow at Logan’s claim. “I calmed her down, while you laughed like a fucking idiot.” He turns to Allie as he gently lays you down on the couch. “Yes, she’s very much okay, she’s just very… emotional.”

“Our poor girl.” Allie frowns, leaning down to brush your hair away from your forehead.

“Allie baby!” You cheer, a dopey grin plastered on your face like you weren't just squaring up with her boyfriend a few seconds ago. “I love you so much! Let's run away and get married! Where's Hannah? Where's the other love of my life? The other half of my heart! She needs to run away with us,” you say solemnly, holding onto Allie's hands tightly.

“Wow. First you beat me up, then you steal my girlfriend. Very inspirational.” Dean snorts from his place behind the couch.

“Respect the hierarchy, bro.” Logan pats his friend's chest sympathetically.

“Fuck off.”

“Is this what kindergarten teachers feel?” Allie asks no one in particular. “I'm so glad I didn't take up education.”

“You can take me up to your room.” You giggle like crazy, wiggling your eyebrows at her—or at least, you think you are wiggling your eyebrows, but everyone's reactions say otherwise—not that you'd notice.

“So my room,” Dean speaks up once again, “I’m sorry, I know you’re under the influence and all, but can you stop stealing my girl?”

“Fuck off, Dean di Laurentis!” You glare at him as ferociously as you can, which makes him snicker, but a warning glare from Allie shuts him up.

“Seriously, what’s with the government name?”

“Stop terrorizing my girl, di Laurentis,” Tucker says as he descends from the stairs after getting you some fresh clothes to wear, and a washcloth to clean you up.

“Wha—?!” Dean sputters, pointing to you lying on the couch, practically half-dead, “She’s terrorizing me!” He mockingly glares at you. “You better get well quickly because we have a score to settle.”

“Dean, don’t make me put you in timeout,” Allie warns from beside you on the couch.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Baby!” You chirp upon hearing your boyfriend’s voice. “Baby, where are you? Come here.”

“I’m coming, gorgeous.” He chuckles softly, and Dean lets out a gagging noise, which he ultimately covers with a cough as Allie glares at him (again).

Allie eagerly takes the warm, damp washcloth from him, and wipes you clean. Tucker settles on the couch, placing your head on his lap gently.

“Hi, you’re here!” Hannah greets you from the stairs with Garrett behind her. “How are you? Everything went well, I hope?”

“Han!” You cheer, nearly hitting Allie and Tucker in the face with your flailing hand as you wave enthusiastically at your second favorite person (she and Allie are tied). “Hannah, my baby! I’m better now that you’re here.” You giggle once again.

“Darling, please calm down,” Tucker murmurs, leaning down to kiss your forehead softly. “They’re not going anywhere, I promise.”

“Sorry,” you mumble sheepishly, the word almost incoherent due to the cotton inside your mouth. Your eyes fill with tears, and all of them immediately jump into action. “I’m sorry!”

“Don’t cry, darling, I’m so sorry,” Tucker strokes your hair soothingly.

“I will put Dean into timeout for you, baby!” Allie says, pointing to the wall. “I will make him face the wall, okay?”

“What the hell did I do now?!” Dean gasps dramatically from the dining table

“Do you want some pizza? I’ll go order some right now.” Logan grabs his phone, but stops dead in his tracks. “Oh, shit, you can’t eat solid food until a few days later or something. Uh, what about some oatmeal?”

“Oh, our poor baby.” Hannah says your name sadly with a pout on her face. She walks over and kisses your cheek. “Please feel better soon. We have loads of stuff to try from that new restaurant downtown.”

“Uh…” Garrett swallows when they all look at him, including you. “Get well soon?” He rolls his eyes when you all groan at him. “What the fuck was I supposed to say? You’ve said everything!”

“Not everything,” you speak, dropping your head back on Tucker’s lap, who catches your head and gently lowers it down. All while he has a small, fond smile on his face. “You didn’t tell me that I can sweep Hannah off of her feet, and we can get married, and we can ride into the sunset together—with Allie, of course.”

“Genuinely, what the fuck?” Garrett laughs. “What the fuck did they give you in there, man?”

“For someone who has cottons stuffed into her mouth, you’re awfully talkative,” Dean says, his voice muffled by the wall in front of him.

“Shut it, Dean di Laurentis.”

“Man, not the government name again!”

“Darling, please just go to sleep.” Tucker attempts to soothe you before you lunge at Dean again. “Ignore him, he’s a meathead. Just go to sleep.”

“Don’t patronize me,” you hiss, glaring up at him. “You’re handsome even when your head is upside down, but don’t patronize me.” You point to his face, your hand swaying weakly in the air. “I’m going to sleep, but it’s not because you told me to. Okay?”

“Okay, baby, I understand.”

“Okay, I’m going to sleep.” You close your eyes. “Goodnight, Allie. Goodnight, Hannah. Goodnight, T. Fuck everyone else.”

“Wow, okay. Watch me never let you see Allie again after this.”

Crossing your arms over your chest as your teeth chattered, you looked around, unintentionally scanning the crowd for her.

“Babe, I don’t mean to judge but what is going on here?”

You spun around to find Allie stepping up beside you. her roommate, Hannah, was a few paces back. Even at three in the morning, Allie managed to look effortlessly beautiful, wrapped tightly in her blanket with her dark curls tossed in a messy bun.

“Don’t look at me,” you whined, instantly wanting to hide your face in your hands as if that would cover up your outfit. “It was dark and I’m only like 70% awake right now.”

“You do look like you got dressed in the dark,” Allie teased, a wicked sparkle in her eyes as she looked you up and down.

“You’re mean,” you said back, playfully.

“Hey, I didn’t say you didn’t look cute... because you do.”

Your heart did a sudden flip in your chest. You’d been crushing on her from the day you moved to the dorms, but you could never tell if she meant for her words to sound as flirty as they did.

Before you could form a coherent reply, Allie opened up her massive blanket, gesturing you in. the moment you stepped in, she wrapped it securely around you both. You were flush against her side, enveloped in her warmth and a faint sweet scent.

“Better?” She murmured.

You tried to keep your breathing steady, leaning down into her side just enough to stop your shivering. “Much better. Thanks Allie.”

“Anytime,” Allie smiled. “Besides, someone has to shield the other students’ eyes until they let us back inside.”

“Wow,” you deadpanned. “I’m leaving.”

Before you could even pretend to move, Allie tightened the blanket around the two of you.

“Mmm, I don’t think so,” she said with a grin. “I’m way too cozy here.”

💭: this was indeed so cute for her, tried desperately to remain within wc here! if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc, it means a lot xx

Requested By: @the-fandom-abyss

“Dad haha, you can stop interrogating him now!” Your face flushed as you sweetly try to tell your dad to shut up. Beau almost opened his mouth to protest and boost about your guys relationship some more—putting a finger to his lip and silently shaking your head ‘no’ which just causes him to laugh. You smile and giggle quietly before dropping your finger down to interwine with his fingers.

“Better take care of my daughters heart just like you make sure to not loose that golden shoulder. Got it, Justin Herbert?” You heard your dad spit out in a serious tone which made it all the more funny, “Honey! He just arrived! Let’s not scare him off.” Your mom chimes in with her beautiful bubbly tone. God, you couldn’t wait to get out of that car.

After the first few days, your parents having the chance to take the time to spent time with you guys. Daily dinners outside on the patio right by the beach, inviting you to tag along on your parents routine morning hikes, and the best part—showing beau your childhood bedroom and all their favorite baby photos of you. You enjoyed every minute of the cringy jokes from your older parents and adorable bonding moments together.

There wasn’t a day you guys weren’t out and just adventuring around your town. Your beach house led directly onto the walk of the beach and then going the other way, takes you straight into town. You took advantage of how you live right on the beach, taking morning, and nightly walks together. Never taking a second together for granted.

The old mediterranean beige buildings for every store and building, marina style street-carvings along the walls and even pavements. Everyone knew everyone in towns like these.

For example, the seaside coffee shop you’ve been going too since you were young, the manager remembering you and your kindness. The day you brought in beau, the manager found you both a great match and, “Better take care of her! She’s the marinas princess round’ here.” She said, handing you both your iced coffees.

Beau spent time surfing with you, or more like, learning. He was an amazing learner thanks to his athleticism and also would fully focus on what your directions, positioning, and what too look out for while in the water. It was so cute the way he repeated after you, making sure to remember every dynamic of the surboard in the water with the waves.

You loved the way he would get frustrated, a little nervous during hasty waves, and even protective of you when you werent close to him, looking out for if you drift to offer his own board. He even admired you, the way you carried your wieght, rode the wave for a bit before sliding off, and just how gorgeous you were. He loved to tease himself after his little mistakes or completely bails from his surfboard.

Everyday was the chance of a new adventure, for your summer together in Cali. You took him to the local farmers market to get ingredients to cook dinner later, renting a bike to ride down to coastal bike trails, and don’t get it twisted—beau was a huge romantic.

The other night you had gone out to intimate dinner with your parents and while you were gone, beau got to work. He immediately grabbed the picnic basket in your room, creating different trays full of fruit, crackers & cheese, your favorite chocolates, hot chips, with cute macarons he grabbed secretly from the farmers market. Once he had everything he wanted inside the basket, carrying a picnic blanket, and multiple individual candles he planned to stick in the sand.

Your parents had told you that beau was waiting for you on the beach. You looked at them confused which just made them laugh at you as you begin to question them a bunch, “Oh! Just run along!” Your mom cheers, laughing. “C’mon! dont keep him waiting.” Your dad joins in, grabbing your moms hand as they walk inside your home.

You began to do a small jog in the sand, your long skirt going with the wind. As your wision cleared perfectly, getting closer to framing your boyfriend into your eyes, the outline of yellow sparkles surrounding him as he laid on a patterned blanket. The sparkles were lit candles meant tk light up the both of you, “Today is the sunset special. Care to join me?” beau slys, reaching out for your hand which you delightfully take. Beau genuinely was a great man and the best boyfriend.

The best part of having beau home with you was waking up next to him. Intertwined bodies as your legs hook and cross into each other, his arm wrapped your waist, and your head on his chest. Your favorite morning melody was the beating of his tranquil heart, the feeling of his super toned abdomen under your hands as they rub the brown birthmark that lies under his belly button was cloudful. If you could sleep in beaus arms as a job, you both would be mega fuckin’ rich by now.

You were the type sometimes wake up a little earlier than him because you werent always the deepest sleeper which is perfectly fine for you because you’ll just kiss beau’s pretty face and soft lips until he wakes up. You were still groggy as you began pressing the softest pecks on his pec, rubbing your face along him upward, and pressing kisses that lingered longer as you got closer to his neck. Once you reached his neck, your kisses got slower but more open, wanting to feel his skin on your lips. Then, you reached creeped closer to his sweet spot.

The feeling of your lips pressing against the plush skin right under his ear, next to the pulse of his neck. Your lips brush against him, which made him twist and turn a bit. You began pressing slightly harder before opening to suck on beau’s skin as he slowly began to wake up. Your soft sucks gained some sleepy noises from him, his hands moving to in your hair to massage your scalp, and then slowly, the soft sound of your lazy suckling lips woke him up.

Beau was half asleep but he was forsure awake now, “mm’baby-hm, what’d to wake up s’veryday to you … mm’fuck—to this.” he grogs out, slight drool coming down his lip which you licked up softly, not caring.

“Spoil me. Love me. Hold me all the time. Great sex. Baby, I could list it all.” You whisper into his ear, as his hands continues to massage the back of your scalp. Your hands frame beau’a face, rubbing his cheek as your eyes met his finally open ones. “Goodmorning, sunshine.” He hums with a drooped smile.

Your mini morning conversations with beau always consist of planning for the day ahead, singing musicals along the way, buying you whatever you want, and always ending the night with desperate housewives as its your favorite show of all time. Even if you had to deal with beau getting mad at the characters and calling them out for their ridiculousness.

“I’m hungry for something that isn’t you for once.” You push your pointer finger into his six pack, teasing him as you bat your lashes, “Ouch.” He fakes, putting his right hand on his chest, before moving your finger from his chest to pull you closer. You shared a few last kisses before heading downstairs to cook breakfast.

𓆉⋆｡˚⋆ 𓈒𓏸.° 𓆝 ⋆. 𓇼

Beau cooked breakfast sandwiches with all the goodies you had in your fridge for the both of you while you just sat there, lookin’ pretty, and admiring him. You both sat together on your isle bar behind the kitchen, “This is really good baby! Fhank Hou!” You thank him with a small mouthful of the bite you were still chewing. You took a sip of your cranberry juice as you played footsies with beau, slight pushing each other away before rubbing your feet together.

You heard the faint noise of heels clicking from down the stairs of your home, becoming clearer as the clicks stepped closer. it was your mom ans she made her way to the kitchen to pour herself a coffee to go. “And what is the lovely couple munchin’ on for breakfast today?” Your mom beams at the both of you, closing the lid tightly on her coffee cup, “Good ol’ breakfast sandwich. Beau made it!” You always loved to show off your man whenever you got the chance.

You loved the way he would get shy for a minute, flush the smallest bit of pink, and crinkle his eyes as he laughs at the joke your mom made.

Your mom walks around the isle to give you both a hug goodbye as she was heading out for work. When leanning in to give beau a nice hug that was long enough for her to notice the small deep purple love-bruise on his neck. Your mom looked in between the two of you, knowing, and slightly disgusted, “Next time honey, don’t bite him somewhere so obvious. Nobody wants to see that.” She quickly looked over at beau after keeping her eyes on you, who literally looked like he was going to faint.

His hand flys up to try to cover up the mark, the small tan on his face glowing pale. He felt like voice got caught in his throat, taking a big gulp, “I-Guess Im'-ah bad at subtlety." He sounded almost constipated when he tried to play if off which it made is funnier than it was supposed to be. You couldn't help but burst out, "It's impossible, huh?" You joked back as your mom didn't know whether to be amused or plain disgusted. She was a bit of both, "The two of you are ridiculous." Your mom cringes sweetly, kissing your forehead to leave after.

Now, it was later in the afternoon and you guys were taking a drive on the PCH. The golden light seeping through your boyfriend's Mustang top down, wind flying through your hair, feeling free and a sweet melancholy taste of a no more perfect moment to be in. Your feet rest out the open window while beau drives with one hand, the other finds yours, and thumbs the side softly. The stereo plays a fuzzy 90s guitar riff. Beau takes moments to glance at you, smile as he admires, and lean over to kiss the back of your hand.

His loop smile as your eyes shine into him, the sun reflecting into them as y'all cruise, "S'perfect, like a mermaid." He says, turning his view back onto the open road. You couldn't help but let out a snort, "Oh really?" You giggle out, "I mean, baby, you do live on the beach. So, My mermaid." He said in an adorable obvious tone.

You leaned cross the armrest, kissing his lips which he melted into without taking his eyes off the road. You couldn't stop the smile against his lips at the fact that, even when driving, he would never refuse a kiss from you.

A turnout on a cliff side road; waves crashing far below, some cliffs rising into mist. It was small and solemn, "We have to stop here, baby! it's beautiful." You exclaim happily, pointing out slightly so he can pull in. He killed the engine and you both climb out. Beau walked around the front of the car to meet your side, where you were leaning on his car, and your tush sat just a bit on top of the passenger door.

He wrapped his jacket around your shoulders as you both stand close together, bodies close with your hip to his thigh as he places his head on top of yours. Just watching the ocean.

The music the waves make as they crash against the cliffside and boulders that stick up out the water. The seagulls flying across the messily sculpted clouds while eagles occasionally hawk. The suns rays created the waves to have its own shimmery makeup as the mixture create a bright highlight that reflects up onto the white paint of beau’s car.

He pulled you into a slow and soft kiss, the wind tugging the both of you as it grew stronger, then peaceful. You both pulled away, staring into each others eyes, “Oh maxwell, i love you ya’know that?” you poke at his cheek, “Shoot me if i ever forget it.” He wraps his arms completely around you, scooping you in.

You guys were the smallest thing up on that turnout. “This is exactly why we drove.” you hum happily. “Worth every mile.” beau mutters against your head, kissing the back of it.

You guys got back on the road as the shining sun dulled down, not wanting to be out on open roads when its pitch black. Beau played the shared playlist you guys created that holds all your favorites. He cranked that bad boy up once heard you singing the lyrics to your favorite song and snapping your fingers to the melody, even shimming your shoulders. He looked at you like treasure, just infatuated with every part that makes you who you are.

He began to sing along with you, both singing way off-key. You love the moments he takes to squeeze your thigh slightly, just dancing in each other’s presence. Throughout, your feet went from out the window to into his lap as he drove, one hand massaging your heel as the other stayed strict on the wheel.

You saw the dusk-lit road had been empty for a while, so—you unbuckled your seatbelt which beau immediately whipped his head, “baby—” He began but didn’t finish as you carefully climbed into his lap as he drove.

Beau now had one hand on your waist, squeezing the thick of your hip. He kisses your forehead and you began kissing his lips slowly, softly, scooting down some more so he could get a clearer view of the road; never pulling away. it was a small risky makeout of soft lingering kisses. The moment he got off the exit and stopping at a red light.

The kisses pressed harder, tongues swirling for just a few seconds before hearing a honk from a car behined you. A fit of giggles rang throughout the car, hastily moving back into your passengers and buckling up, before you get beau arrested, and ticketed.

“Gonna stop and get gas cause’ we still have a bit till we get back to your town.” As he pulls into the gas station that was on his left.

𓆉⋆｡˚⋆ 𓈒𓏸.° 𓆝 ⋆. 𓇼

“Y’know what i want?” you ask your boyfriend in a playful tone, “Tell me, princess.” he questions as he hums to the tune of frank ocean, drawing shapes on your plush thigh. You turn to the window and watch the endless arrays of different truck-stops, motels, seafood markets, and restaurants that beam ‘mariscos’. You took a minute to answer him, “There!” You shout, “I want us to go there!” You point out to the huge upcoming sign that was shaped as a beachshell and lit up in blaring aquamarine and pink neon lights.

Seashell Del Mar Inn

The neon sign read high and above the motel which was white with accents of baby-pink doors for every motel room on each level with teal metal railings to match the stairs, and an baby-blue roof. What made you wanna go there so bad? There huge ass pool that had a mini waterfall fountain built into it that was glowing bright green with the dark night.

“Baby I’m up for all your adventures, but why stay at a hotel, when we have your house?” He was clueless to the real mission of tonight. “Who said anything about stayinf over? Baby, im talking ‘bout the pool!” Beau stopped at the red light that was right infront of the hotel, showing you a great view of the pool.

“Fuck it baby, whatever you say.” he says with lick of his lip, turning the corner to loop around the hotel building and park behind it. You both walked around to where the opening of the motel parking lot was, getting through with one leg over the other.

you passed through the cars and finally got to the wide area which had a pink bar fence that only divided one thing. The pool. Bear grabbed your hand to keep you close as he could tell you were way too excited, skipping off as you quietly yelled about how cute everything was. It looked like something straight out of H2O.

Beau looked around to see where the cameras were facing, most were faced towards the rooms, and check inn. There was one camera that was in the pool area but beau was surprised if the receptionist was even awake, it’s only an hour away from midnight and the roads only manifested a car every while.

“C’mon baby, ill give you a boost over the pool entrance so you can unlock it.” Beau guides you and leads you the whole way through, putting your foot in his hands as you gain leverage to hop. “Good girl.” He praises with a smirk as you open the gate which he immediately pulls you into a kiss.

“I didn’t know breaking and entering could make you so sexy.” Beau teases you, his tongue flicking the top of your lip before pressing a kiss on them. You move from his embrace, slowly backtracking before spinning around sweetly, throwing off your shirt which revealed your lavander lacy bralette.

You looked back at beau whom was watching every move you make, not dearing to take his eyes off you for a second. You give him an innocent look, stopping right at the steps of the pool and feets away from him as you take your shorts off, revealing your matching cheeky underwear. Beau was enchanted by every inch of you. Literally luring him in like a siren.

With a step into the pool, one foot infront of the other as you step down; sinking yourself slowly as you feel out the water. you push yourself off the steps, softly shootinf yourself through the water as your hands wave through, feeling the coldness on your fingertips.

You swam your way towards beau who was crouched right by the ledge just inches away from you, memorizing the beautiful sight you are.

“you gonna let me swim all alone?” You reach your hands out of the water and pulling on him by his shirt, staining it clear. You couldn’t help but bat your lashes at him as he just looked too fucking good and you wanted him in here or you were gonna drag him in, clothed.

He luckily was quick to throw off his jeans and shirt. He jumped into the pool like the headass he can be sometimes, splashing your face and the area around. You laughed as you tried to avoid the water. You were waiting for beau to come up to the surface but then you saw him linger around under water before loosing sight of him.

Then, you felt someone tickle your feet which immediately made your whole body jolt and begin to flare your hands as they just splashed everywhere. Beau came up once he thought your tickle attack had been enough and you also almost kicked him right in the nose. “eeehh! Beauu!!” you squeal, throwing yourself around him which he immediately locks your legs around his waist.

You enjoyed the way beau was so strong, like strong enough to throw you in the air, launching you softly to land back in the water just how you had asked. Beau never understood why you loved to go flying like that, but your excuse never gets old with him. He actually loves it when you tell him, “It’s like having a waterpark at home!”

“I want to spend the rest of my summers with you if it means committing misdemeanors together.” He whispers against your hair as he holds you as you guys are under the waterfall now, hiding within its mini like man-made cave with its fake rock walls. “Good, get used to it.” You tease him, playing with the wet curls of his hair.

The tension heavied quickly, tingling the both of your senses as your the gaze shared between the two of you just deepened and mixed with love—and lust, now. Your eyes bounced between hip perfect cupid lips and his brown bear eyes.

You pressed your chest up against his bare one, squishing your covered tits slightly together as they push up. Beaus hands caress your hips before dropping to grip the curve of your ass, squeezing softly causing you to let out a light gasp before diving your lips into his. Your lips battle against each other passionately, hands cupping his face as his own groped your sweet ass, tongues licking each other’s lips teasingly, and the slight taste of chlorine mixing with your shared saliva.

Beau’s tongue sneaks his way into your mouth, stretching to taste every crevice of you before sucking on your tongue through every press, biting your lip slightly as he gives himself this moment to breathe. You both felt your lips tug in a smile yall couldn’t avoid.

Beau went back to kissing you—lingering, long, and wet open mouth kisses that led down from your cheek to the front of your ear, teasing the skin on the rim with his tongue which causes you to shudder. You felt his tongue tease and dance around the damp, yet susceptible skin of your neck.

You squirmed as your arousal grew, your hips tickingly at the buildng anticipation that eagered to run up your body like hot eletric-waves. You let out a soft moan as you tilt your head back just enough to give him all the access he craved. You felt the rough kisses turn into loving yet deep suctions of his lips, tongue running on the crimsoned skin that will subside to mark a mix of a beautiful deep purple red that shows your all beaus.

The back of beaus hand goes to the back of your neck, holding you in place as you almost slipped from his embrace, scooping you back up into his balance while leaving a trail of self-made artwork from your boyfriend. Like you were his canvas and his tongue was all the paint you needed.

You felt wet fingers playing around with the back hooks of your bralette, beau looking up at you, “Think those girls miss me. they deserve s’kisses too, right babygirl?” You couldn’t help but moan out as you felt his fully erected cock within his boxers, strained to the side, and tight. You could feel the tip press the rough of your lace against your clit under the water. The weird cool yet pressured feeling bubbled your stomach in automatic pleasure, grinding your core down onto him.

Beau’s hands unclasp your bralette, letting it fall of your shoulders naturally, and helping him shrug it completely off at the end to reveal your delicate and perfect tits.

Beau will always drool at the sight of the way your nipples are the best part of your soft and sweet titties, watching the way he would wrap his mouth around your areola, tongue running, and swirling to watch it harden after the cool air kisses it with its own mist. His other hand massaged, palming your areola softly as you let out small hums against his neck, moaning how good he was to you in his ear.

“feels s’fuckin’ good, b-beau baby-mmh’,” you felt his grip your ass harder, pushing you against the tip of his member as his head enjoyed indulging himself between both your titties, taking the time to massage them, leave them kisses in a circle, highlighting the perk of your tits, even trailing pecks under, and on your ribcage.

“Perfect tits my love, s’all for me, say it baby.”

His other hand that was on the back of your neck went to roughly cup your cheek, thumb playing, and folding your bottom lip—giving you permission, almost. “Yes! I la—love it! s’yours baby, s’yours!” you let out in a hushed cry, growing desperate for more than just some bumpin’ and grindin’.

“Just fuck me right here, please baby.” you whine with your mind drunk off beau and horniness. Beau laughed softly, giving your boobs one last kiss to each before helping you clasp your bralette back on.

“No not here, i wanna make sure i can hear my mermaid crying out for me.”

࣪𓏲ּ ᥫ᭡ REBLOGS & COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED₊ ⊹ ˑ

TAGLIST 🜲 @lunalovemore @pinknjm

A/N: tsss was soo self indulgent & beau is the perfect boyfriend to do night getaways ! he would take care of u & guide u while also letting u be free ?? tf

You'd gone to a six-story club last night (yes, this is a real place) and you'd partied until three am.

You KNEW he was horribly hungover, and yet, when you looked over, he looked perfectly fine, like a damn J Crew model.

"You look like you want to murder me," Beau smirked. "What's up?"

"You're so handsome it's sickening." You muttered under your breath. "Tell me your secret."

He winked dramatically. "It helps to have the most gorgeous woman in the world by your side."

"Oh." You scoffed. "I didn't know that Tom Holland and Zendaya broke up."

"Way to dodge my compliment, babe. Y'know-" He leaned forward like he was about to tell you the darkest secret ever. "Even though I know that you're seconds away from puking, you look breathtaking. They should put you in the Louvre."

"Wow." That compliment had gotten to you. "You really want to kiss me, don't you?"

He shrugged. "I mean, I guess if you're offering-"

"That reminds me." You picked up your phone, waving it animatedly. "We have to add this outfit to the TikTok."

Ah yes. The highly anticipated fit check video from your abroad trip. You'd seen it while doing research for your upcoming vacation, immediately sending it to Beau.

You'd added on to the video almost every single day you'd been here. (You could always go through and delete your least favorite ones.)

"Let's do this thing." Beau stood up, extending his hand for you to hold. "Where do you want me?"

"Just stand there and look handsome, hot stuff."

"So many compliments in one sentence." He grinned. "I don't know how to react."

"Can't a girl gush over her disgustingly handsome, devastatingly perfect boyfriend?"

"I-" His cheeks turned the lightest shade of pink, and you smirked. "You totally can-"

"Cool." You nodded. "You know the drill, start from out of frame."

"One second."

"Alright." Your brow raised ever so slightly. "You okay over there?"

"Just-" He huffed, pulling you into his hold. "Come here."

"What-" Your lips were attacked, attacked with the softest, most passionate kiss you could get from someone as equally hungover as yourself. Your eyes fluttered shut as his arms grasped at your waist, his touch sending fireworks off in your heart. "Beau-"

"I love you." He pulled back ever so slightly. "So much."

"I love you so much, too." You giggled. "Should we-"

"Yep." He nodded. "Yeah, sorry, got a little carried away there."

"I'll allow it this one time." You tried your very best to seem serious. "We have a TikTok to make, Maxwell. There's no time to waste."

"Yes, ma'am." He nodded once more. "Won't happen again."

...

taglist: @msliz @cosmosnkaz @maybanksgff @cultish-corner @alwaysclassyeagle @prisciliamunoz @afterhoursangell @rues-daya @macbaetwo @k-alen @juliannaella @obsidianvalkyriecrest @prisciliamunoz @leilareads58 @th3realslimb1tch @snowtargaryen @purplerainx1 @danis-angels @gublerstylesobrien1238 @leilani-nichole @boombopbam @simplysabrina @archxve @tubby23 @ladyriverasafespace @hrollingcookie @anyasthoughts @ilovesharry

The heavy bass of the Yves Saint Laurent after-party vibrated through the floorboards, a dark, pulsing rhythm that matched the anxious thumping in your chest. The venue was a masterclass in high-fashion opulence, dim lighting, sleek black marble, and a crowd consisting entirely of A-listers, designers, and executives.

You stood near the edge of the VIP lounge with Danielle, a glass of champagne in your hand that you were mostly just holding for appearances.

"The runway was incredible tonight," Danielle said, leaning in so you could hear her over the music. "The sharp tailoring on the coats? Absolute perfection."

"It really was," you replied, smiling warmly at her. "But honestly, congratulations to you. I watched your new music video the second it dropped yesterday. Your comeback is absolutely incredible, Danielle. The choreography, the vocals.. I mean you completely outdid yourselves. It's already breaking records."

Danielle beamed, her cheeks flushing with genuine pride. "Thank you so much! We worked so hard on the concept this time. The schedule was brutal, but seeing the fan response makes it all worth it."

Your smile faded slightly as Danielle’s eyes flicked past your shoulder, her expression shifting into something softer, more concerned. "Speaking of artists... your man hasn't taken his eyes off you since we got here."

You didn't need to look to know who she was talking about. James was sitting across the lounge, surrounded by a group of international creators, but his attention was entirely anchored to you. It was a heavy, suffocating gaze, intense, burning, and dangerously transparent.

"We're on the low, Danielle. You know this," you muttered under your breath, keeping your face carefully neutral. "It's just an arrangement. It can't be anything more. I have a job to keep."

"An arrangement doesn't look at someone like they're the only source of oxygen in a crowded room," Danielle warned gently. "You're playing with fire, and you know how fast a scandal can burn a career down."

Before you could reply, a tall, striking runway model drifted into your circle. His name was introduced, but it instantly blurred out of your mind the moment he spoke. He leaned in a little too close, a smooth smile on his face as he launched into a flirtatious compliment about your outfit, entirely ignoring the professional boundary you tried to maintain. You kept your responses polite but distant, laughing off his charm.

Across the room, the temperature dropped.

James watched the model linger. His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking under his skin. He looked utterly miserable, the internal conflict tearing him apart. He grabbed a fresh glass of whiskey from a passing tray and downed it in one agonizingly heavy swallow. Then another, and another. The ambiguous nature of your relationship, the fact that he had confessed his love to you multiple times, only to be rejected so you could protect his career, was eating him alive. Tonight, watching someone else freely approach you while he had to play the distant client was the breaking point.

Ten minutes later, Danielle gripped your wrist, her knuckles white. "Hey. Look at him. You need to intervene right now."

You turned. James Chao was standing near a group of major agency executives, his posture loose and unstable. His eyes were glassy, a reckless, bitter smile playing on his lips, though his expression was laced with absolute misery.

"Contracts?" He laughed, his voice carrying dangerously over a sudden lull in the music. "What's a contract when the person running your life won't even look at you? We're together every night anyway, aren't we? Just ask my manager, she will.."

The executives laughed, assuming it was a joke from a tired star, but the sheer panic that surged through your veins made your blood run cold. He was seconds away from destroying everything.

You excused yourself with a tight smile, strode across the floor, and grabbed him by the forearm with a grip of absolute steel. "We're leaving. Now," you hissed.

He didn't fight you. He just stumbled after you, looking completely defeated and broken as you practically dragged him out the back exit, through the flashing lights of paparazzi who thankfully didn't catch on, and into the waiting car.

The ride back to the hotel was a suffocating silence, broken only by James’s heavy, alcohol-scented breathing. He leaned his head against the cold glass of the window, looking thoroughly miserable, tears of frustration brimming in his glassy eyes. The moment the suite door clicked shut behind you, the dam broke.

"Are you completely out of your mind?!" you shouted, throwing your bag onto the couch. Your hands were shaking with a mix of fury and pure terror. "You almost ruined everything! Do you have any idea what happens if an executive takes you seriously? Your career is done. My life is ruined!"

James leaned against the wall, his eyes dark, the alcohol making his movements slow but deliberate, his face twisted in deep emotional pain. "Is that all you care about?" he barked back, his voice raw and cracking. "The job? The contracts? I'm sick of the distance. I'm sick of pretending I don't know you when there's a camera around!"

"I do it to protect you!" you yelled, stepping into his space, your chest heaving.

"I don't want to be protected!" he fired back, stepping forward so quickly you were backed against the wall.

The air between you was thick with unresolved tension, anger, and a desperate, agonizing longing. James stared down at you, his breathing ragged, his gaze dropping to your lips. Before you could speak another word, he leaned down and caught your mouth in a fierce, angry kiss.

It was chaotic, fueled by the adrenaline of the night and the frustration of months of forced distance. For a second, you lost yourself in it, your hands gripping his jacket, pulling him closer as the boundaries you fought so hard to maintain crumbled.

But sanity reasserted itself. With a sharp gasp, you pushed against his chest, breaking the kiss and forcing him back a step.

"Stop," you breathed, pressing a hand against your lips. "Stop. You're drunk, James. You're going to regret this in the morning."

He looked at you, his eyes intensely focused despite the alcohol, the desperate sincerity and profound misery in his expression cutting right through your defenses. "I won't," he muttered, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "You know I won’t. I never do."

But the anger inside you was still burning, mixed with the need to snap him out of his reckless state. You grabbed his arm again, hauling him into the bathroom. Before he could protest, you shoved him into the empty bathtub and cranked the shower handle straight to the coldest setting.

The freezing water hit him instantly. James gasped, sputtering as the icy spray drenched his designer clothes (you couldn’t care less at the moment) and plastered his light blond hair to his forehead.

"Sober the fuck up," you said coldly, turning on your heel and walking out, slamming the bathroom door behind you.

You paced the living room, your heart hammering against your ribs. The reality of the kiss, the terror of the party, and the sheer exhaustion of loving someone you weren't supposed to have weighed heavily on your shoulders.

A few minutes later, the sound of the running water stopped.

The bathroom door opened, and heavy, wet footsteps padded across the carpet. James stumbled into the living room. He was completely drenched, shivering violently, and pale. The brutal shock of the cold water had cut through the worst of the alcohol, leaving him entirely conscious of what he had done at the party.

He looked at you, the defiance and the anger completely gone, replaced by a devastating wave of realization and absolute misery.

Without a single word, his knees buckled. He sank straight onto the floor right in front of you, his wet clothes pooling around him, his head bowed in absolute defeat, looking completely broken.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice trembling violently from the cold and the sheer weight of his regret. He reached out, his damp hands hovering near your shoes, too terrified of your anger to touch you. "I'm so sorry. I almost ruined it. I'm sorry."

The fierce manager persona you wore like armor completely cracked. Looking down at him, stripped of the idol persona, vulnerable, miserable, and freezing on the floor, the anger melted into a painful, aching tenderness.

"Yufan," you breathed, using his real name for the first time all night, letting the truth of your feelings slip through the cracks.

Hearing his real name, he looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with a desperate plea. You sank down to his level on the floor, ignoring the dampness spreading to your own clothes.

"Why do you keep pushing me away?" Yufan asked, his voice a cracked whisper as he looked at you. "Seeing that guy near you tonight... it made me feel like I’m completely invisible to you. Like what we have doesn't even matter."

"It matters more than you think," you admitted, your own voice breaking as you finally let the walls down. "That's exactly why I push you away. If anyone finds out, everything you worked so hard for, your group’s music, your career, your dreams.. You know it can disappear overnight. I can't be the reason you lose everything, Yufan. I love you and your talent too much to let myself destroy it."

He stared at you, the realization of your sacrifice finally sinking past his own misery. "I don't care about the career if I have to pretend you're a stranger," he said softly, moving closer. "I just want you."